Read Online A Magical Christmas by Heather Graham - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Graham
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as if a sudden breeze would roll her onto the floor. Well, she didn’t wantto touch him. And she didn’t want to be touched by him. It was surprising that she didn’t throw a pillow and blanket out on the sofa.
But then the kids would have seen that. And somehow Julie was always the one who came out smelling like a rose to the kids.
He stripped down to his briefs and crawled into bed.
His side of it. No sense touching her.
“Congratulations on selling the house,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she said curtly. Then she made a point of yawning. Fine. He didn’t have anything else to say anyway.
He was shocked, minutes later, when she spoke.
“I made that reservation.”
“What?”
“I made the reservation for Christmas. For that place. Oak River Plantation.”
Jon lay very still. He exhaled after a long moment, his feeling of absolute hopelessness fading. In fact, something close to warmth filled him.
He loved his wife.
He didn’t even want to love her anymore, but he did.
He loved his wife.
“That’s great,” he heard himself say.
“That’s just Christmas,” she responded firmly.He rolled over, touching her shoulder, trying to talk to something other than her back.
But she cringed. Cringed, just at his slightest touch.
He swore, loudly, angrily.
And he left his bed.
The hell with her, and the kids. The damned couch was starting to look mighty fine.
Chapter Four
Christmas Eve
1862
T he greatest sin seemed to be that it was such a beautiful day.
A beautiful day in which to die.
The captain stood upon the hastily erected scaffold on the rise by one of the oaks in front of his own property. It was a good oak, a strong oak. The men would be taken along the scaffolding one by one, and hanged from that oak.
He listened while the chaplain droned on. He felt both the courage and the fear of the men lined up by his side, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the anguish in the faces arrayed before him, both the faces of friend and foe, for even their enemies were heartsick at their duty.
Not one of his men was blindfolded, nor as yet were they bound. No execution had ever been carried out with greater dignity, perhaps because the executioners were nearly as shaken as those about to die.He could see the noose, hanging over a strong limb of the old oak tree. The rope didn’t touch him; it was many feet away. And still, he could feel it as if it already chafed against his neck.
Life.
Just minutes now remaining…
Snow lay on the ground. A light snow, a new-fallen snow. Clean and clear and pure. A soft crystal blanket of ethereal beauty. The sun shone upon that snow, dazzling in its brightness. The sky was blue, breathtakingly blue. Not a cloud marred the perfection of it. The air was cool and crisp; the day not the kind of cold that was uncomfortable, just chilly enough to wake a man up with each breath, and let him know that he did breathe, that he was alive.
The sheer beauty of the day, the touch of sun and sky and snow upon his senses, told him that life itself was precious. And now that he was about to lose it, he wondered if he had ever thought to be thankful for it. Yet he could leave life behind, the blueness of the sky, the crystal beauty of the hills and valleys that rolled so gently in their winter blankets. He could close his eyes and say that he had seen the beauty, and he could let it go.
If he could just see her face one more time again.
Life was precious; love was the gift that made it worth living against all odds. He didn’t hear thewords that the chaplain was saying, but he thought in his heart that it was a sad time indeed to die, for Christmas had been the hope and the promise of life everlasting, the greatest gift of love. Oh, God, if he could just see her face…
Talk with her, laugh with her, one last time. Hold fast and tight, knowing then that the little things were just petty things, that love was strong, love was what mattered. If he could just see his
But then the kids would have seen that. And somehow Julie was always the one who came out smelling like a rose to the kids.
He stripped down to his briefs and crawled into bed.
His side of it. No sense touching her.
“Congratulations on selling the house,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she said curtly. Then she made a point of yawning. Fine. He didn’t have anything else to say anyway.
He was shocked, minutes later, when she spoke.
“I made that reservation.”
“What?”
“I made the reservation for Christmas. For that place. Oak River Plantation.”
Jon lay very still. He exhaled after a long moment, his feeling of absolute hopelessness fading. In fact, something close to warmth filled him.
He loved his wife.
He didn’t even want to love her anymore, but he did.
He loved his wife.
“That’s great,” he heard himself say.
“That’s just Christmas,” she responded firmly.He rolled over, touching her shoulder, trying to talk to something other than her back.
But she cringed. Cringed, just at his slightest touch.
He swore, loudly, angrily.
And he left his bed.
The hell with her, and the kids. The damned couch was starting to look mighty fine.
Chapter Four
Christmas Eve
1862
T he greatest sin seemed to be that it was such a beautiful day.
A beautiful day in which to die.
The captain stood upon the hastily erected scaffold on the rise by one of the oaks in front of his own property. It was a good oak, a strong oak. The men would be taken along the scaffolding one by one, and hanged from that oak.
He listened while the chaplain droned on. He felt both the courage and the fear of the men lined up by his side, and when he opened his eyes, he could see the anguish in the faces arrayed before him, both the faces of friend and foe, for even their enemies were heartsick at their duty.
Not one of his men was blindfolded, nor as yet were they bound. No execution had ever been carried out with greater dignity, perhaps because the executioners were nearly as shaken as those about to die.He could see the noose, hanging over a strong limb of the old oak tree. The rope didn’t touch him; it was many feet away. And still, he could feel it as if it already chafed against his neck.
Life.
Just minutes now remaining…
Snow lay on the ground. A light snow, a new-fallen snow. Clean and clear and pure. A soft crystal blanket of ethereal beauty. The sun shone upon that snow, dazzling in its brightness. The sky was blue, breathtakingly blue. Not a cloud marred the perfection of it. The air was cool and crisp; the day not the kind of cold that was uncomfortable, just chilly enough to wake a man up with each breath, and let him know that he did breathe, that he was alive.
The sheer beauty of the day, the touch of sun and sky and snow upon his senses, told him that life itself was precious. And now that he was about to lose it, he wondered if he had ever thought to be thankful for it. Yet he could leave life behind, the blueness of the sky, the crystal beauty of the hills and valleys that rolled so gently in their winter blankets. He could close his eyes and say that he had seen the beauty, and he could let it go.
If he could just see her face one more time again.
Life was precious; love was the gift that made it worth living against all odds. He didn’t hear thewords that the chaplain was saying, but he thought in his heart that it was a sad time indeed to die, for Christmas had been the hope and the promise of life everlasting, the greatest gift of love. Oh, God, if he could just see her face…
Talk with her, laugh with her, one last time. Hold fast and tight, knowing then that the little things were just petty things, that love was strong, love was what mattered. If he could just see his
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