Merry Christmas, Marcie by Sydell I. Voeller

Author:Sydell I. Voeller
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sweet contemporary romance, christmas holiday romance, falling in love at christmas time, teen holiday romance, teenage crush on circus performer, trapeze artist with the circus, washington state touring circus, young girl meets the boy of her dreams at circus, young love blooms at christmas
Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.

Chapter Seven

Having spent the last of my money on Gram's Christmas gift, I couldn't afford to buy a new dress for the dance.

Dolefully, I brought out my old forest-green semiformal with the dropped back—the one I'd worn last year when I'd gone to the dance with Sean. Memories surfaced. But as quickly as they'd emerged, I pushed them back down. At least Ivan had never seen this dress before, I told myself. And Ivan was the only guy who mattered now.

All week at school, in spite of the buzz of anticipation preceding our holiday break, the days dragged by. Would Friday ever come? I even practiced my viola a little each day, hoping to help fill up the hours.

In the meantime I had my pigeon to occupy my thoughts and attention. I named him Horace. Somehow it seemed fitting and I guess he liked it, too, because he always bobbed eagerly over to me whenever I approached his cage, calling his name.

After I'd returned to the clinic Monday afternoon and explained all about the young pigeon to Doc Hanslowe—a squab, as he had corrected me—he'd willingly loaned me an extra bird cage from the storage room.

I then brought it home, filled the bottom with a few inches of clean, dry sand and placed it under my bedroom window where the pigeon could enjoy plenty of natural light.

The daily feeding ritual was a delight, not a chore by any means. I learned that whenever Horace was hungry, he would squeak and turn in circles. In addition to the grit and whole-grain bread I gave him that first night, he was soon eating popcorn, canary seed, peas, barley, and corn. Beans, however, proved a big zero. He wouldn't even go near them.

On Thursday evening as I was getting ready for bed, I heard Mom's soft rap at my door.

"Marcie, are you still up? I've something to show you."

"Okay, Mom, I'll be right there." I glanced at Jan curled up in the other bed, reading on her electronic reader—a romance, no doubt—and opened the door.

Grinning broadly, Mom beckoned me to follow her into the spare bedroom.

"What's up, Mom?"

"What do you think of this?" she asked, reaching into the walk-in closet.

In her hands she held a burgundy velvet dress with an intricate white rosebud border edging the curved neckline.

"It's beautiful! Where'd you get it?"

"I just finished making it. I used the pattern you bought last fall—the one you never got around to using."

My gaze fell on Mom's portable sewing machine on the card table and the ironing board standing in the corner of the room. I hadn't heard as much as a hum from the sewing marine all evening.

"You mean you made that for my date with Ivan tomorrow night?"

Unexpectedly moved, I threw my arms around her slender frame, noticing how fragile she felt.

"I love it! It's perfect! Thank you." It was the first dress she'd made me in years. Maybe since I'd become a teenage, I'd somehow conveyed the message that I was too grown-up for her home-sewn outfits.

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