Free Read for Christmas: Che Gelida Manina--an unlooked-for love story

Che Gelida Manina (What a cold hand) is an beautiful aria from Puccini's opera La Bohème, in which Rodolfo introduces himself to Mimi as they sit on the steps of their cold rooming house. This story is about opening your heart to new love.

Rodolfo sings Che Gelida Manina to Mimi

M. S. Spencer© 2014

 

Che Gelida Manina

                                                By M. S. Spencer

 

"I don't want to stay here, Amelia."

"But Mother, you love Sarasota! You love the sun, the people, the beach. Why this sudden desire to move to Morocco?"

"It's always been a dream of mine." Grace knew her daughter wouldn't buy it, but didn't want to tell her how desperately she needed to get away from Florida. Since Jack died nine months before on Christmas Eve, she couldn't bear to go to the Gulf…or listen to his favorite opera, La Bohème…or even light candles at dinner.  Jack had been the most romantic man in the world and the love of her life. Now that he was gone, all desire for romance had gone with him. It was only because of her promise to him to stay through one last Christmas that she had remained.  I'll keep my promise, but I'll be out of here by Boxing Day.

"Well, it makes no sense." Amelia switched gears. "Just yesterday Brad was saying you should come up here to Portland—"

"Not on your life. I may be a doting grandmother but I don't think I could handle twin toddlers twenty-four-seven."

The woman at the other end of the phone sniffed. "Hmmph. Well, we don't want you alone on Christmas Eve, Mother. Brad would be happy to book a flight for you."

"You know I can't, dear."

"Oh, bother the promise. Dad would understand."

Grace thought of Jack's last whispered request. "No, he wouldn't."

"Okay, okay." Amelia paused. "Did you sign up for Friends.com yet?"

"No, and stop badgering me."

"All I ask is that you think about it. It's about time you got out of the house. The site's supposed to have a ninety-percent success rate in matching people."

"I doubt that. Gotta go, dear." Grace hung up and stared at the website on her computer screen. She hesitated, then clicked "Your Friends.com Profile." She wrote quickly and furiously, tossing her thoughts out before she lost her nerve.

   Recently widowed woman, 60, seeking companion for excursions—bird watching and sightseeing. Not interested in romance or personal confidences. No moonlit beach walkers please. No candlelight dinners. Love of opera a deal-breaker.

She typed in her credit card number and clicked 'Submit,' then returned to her profile and reread it.  "Oh dear, that sounds awfully negative…"

Her finger hovered over the 'Delete Post' button when a message popped up. "Edward Harper has emailed you." She opened it.

Widower, 62, happy to oblige. Coffee today?

Next to the message was a man's photograph. She studied it, trying to plumb its secrets—a broad face, the planes of the cheeks flat and tanned. Little crinkles of skin at each temple hinted at a quiet sense of humor. His bright hazel eyes under a thatch of brown hair smiled at her, as if willing her to say hello.  She pressed 'Reply' and typed in, "Yes."

An hour later she sat in a booth in the Gray Dolphin Café, wondering if she'd recognize him. A tall man came through the automatic doors and strode resolutely toward her. "Are you Grace?"

I can deny it. I can get up and walk out right now. The eyes held her. Cheerful, calm, intelligent. "Yes. Won't you join me?"

He slid onto the seat and ordered coffee for the two of them. Grace, used to dealing with the world on her own, found it refreshing. He had a way of making her feel comfortable and pampered at the same time. Two hours later they parted at the café door.

She didn't hear from him that day, or the next, or the next. Exactly one week later, an email popped up. "Coffee today?"

Fingers scampering quickly over the keys, she typed, "Yes."

They met at the café, but Edward drew her outside. "How about a walk through Robinson Preserve? I brought binoculars. And coffee."

"Sure."

Two hours later he left her at the café entrance. She almost asked if he'd like to see her again, but didn't.

Precisely a week later, he called. "Coffee?"

This time she was ready. "Would you care to go to Spanish Point with me? It's an historic site."

"Certainly—I was going to suggest something similar. I'll pick you up at the café."

And so it went for two months. The two of them met every Wednesday and toured local sights like Marie Selby Gardens, Ringling's Ca D'zan, and Ybor City. Edward proved a perfect escort—knowledgeable, funny, interested in everything. Grace's life came to revolve around the weekly dates. She'd find herself thinking about him every day, wondering more and more often how he felt about her. After all, he never asked her personal questions. If she inquired about his past, he would demur. "We are but fellow travelers. That was the deal, wasn't it?"

Whenever his reticence grated on her, she would reread her Friends.com profile.  You asked for this, Grace. In fact, you insisted upon it. Then she would pour herself a drink and watch another re-run of Love Boat.

As the weeks passed, Grace sank deeper and deeper into a funk. Edward was careful to keep his distance—the occasional touch on the hand or squeeze of the elbow meant only that he wanted to draw her attention to something. She began to covet the delicate brush of his fingers across her skin. Sometimes she would even bump into him, pretending to be absorbed in a painting or view.

She had said goodbye to him one Wednesday, facing the emptiness of the week ahead. Sitting in her car, it suddenly struck her as unfair. Is this all he can give? One afternoon a week for the rest of my life? She checked her face in the rear view mirror. Wrinkles spiraled through the once blooming cheeks. Her hair had begun the gradual but depressing transformation to pure white, and her once cobalt blue eyes had faded to the cerulean of a misty morning sky. She started the engine. "I've got to do something."

But as the days dragged by, she did nothing. Time and again she would click on Edward's address, only to hesitate.  I'm not ready.

That Sunday Amelia called.  "I hope you'll reconsider and come for Christmas, Mother."

Christmas. Christ. In her preoccupation with Edward, she had lost track of the date. In three weeks her vow to Jack would be discharged. What difference would it make if I left a few days early? Unexpectedly, Edward's smiling face flashed before her. Yearning vied with terror, threatening to rip her heart apart.  I'm not ready. I need to get out of here. She finally managed, "Perhaps I will."

"Wonderful! Come a week early—that way we'll have plenty of time to catch up."

"All right."

As her departure approached, Grace put off informing Edward. I know him. He'll nod silently. He won't even ask if I need a ride to the airport. She stifled the stab of pain.

The day before she was to leave, she finally confessed. His eyes, for once, did not smile, but he said nothing. She waved him off at the café and went home to finish packing. As she locked the suitcase, cold reality sluiced like ice water down her back. I guess this is it. She looked around the cozy bungalow Edward had never entered. And yet he seemed so much a part of it, of her life now. The longing she'd felt for him—longing that she refused to acknowledge—exploded into desire. I want him. I want to hold him. And I want to talk—really talk—pour out all my thoughts and my childhood dreams, my needs, my fears.

To silence the pleas, she did something she hadn't done since Jack died—she took the shell path to the water. The beach was empty and she walked until her feet hurt—a mile, two miles, three. As she walked, the sun began to descend in one of those glorious Florida sunsets that make you wonder if you've landed on another planet. The white powdery sand crunched between her toes.  How I've missed this! Maybe I was wrong to cut myself off from the things I loved.

By the time she arrived back at the shell path it was nearly dark. She turned for one last look at the moon and stars. A beach chair sat forlornly on the shore, waves lapping at its legs. Something fluttered from it. Oh, right, I left my towel there.

As she approached, a silvery tenor began to croon Jack's favorite aria from La Bohème. In it, Rodolfo sings to his new love Mimi, 'Che gelida manina—What a cold little hand you have!'

She rounded on the chair. "Edward?"

He sat up. "Grace?"

She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted to kiss his lips, his forehead, his hands. Instead, she stood quietly, her arms at her sides. "Edward, what are you doing here? I thought you hated the beach."

His eyes bored into her. "Not me. You. You didn't want romance. You didn't want to hold my hand, or light a candle, or hear my music. I respected your wishes."

She ached to cry out, "I was wrong! Edward, I want to be with you!" but fear clogged her throat. I'm not ready. All she could manage was, "Yes."

His lips twisted. "Yes." Then he stood up and walked away across the sand. Grace watched helplessly as the second love of her life left her.

She went to bed, but the hours ticked by as she lay awake, by turns angry and despondent. The next morning she called Amelia. "I've decided to stay here for Christmas."

"Mother? Why? You'll be so lonely!"

"No! No, I'll be fine. I have a promise to keep."

She checked the calendar. Four days to go to Christmas Eve. She had to find Edward before she left. I can't leave without telling him about Jack—without explaining my aversion to romance. She turned on the laptop and typed his name in the search box.

The first list turned up three dozen Edward Harpers, ten of whom lived in the Sarasota area. She spent two days tracking them down, leaving messages at the most promising leads. Then she sat down to wait.

Christmas Eve arrived without any word from Edward. Her suitcase stood ready by the door. As the light faded, she went outside to her patio. La Bohème played softly from inside. I can't lose him. Why didn't I tell him? What was I afraid of? The pain? You fool, the pain found you anyway. At least she had the beach and the music back. Only one more thing to do. She rose, found some matches, and lit the Christmas candle. As she watched the flame flicker in the evening breeze, she savored an uneasy peace. Perhaps it's for the best. I'll leave tomorrow and forget all about him.

Someone moved from the darkness into the light. She sprang up to find bright hazel eyes smiling into hers. He touched her hand and sang softly, "Che gelida manina. What a cold little hand you have, my dear. May I warm it?"

She gave it to him, then led him down the path to the beach.

 

Don't Look Up--a quick Christmas mystery read from M. S. Spencer

 How about a quick Christmas read?

Snowy Chicago under the L

 Don’t Look Up

M. S. Spencer

“More coffee?” The waitress stood at Bella’s elbow, so close that the young woman had to duck her head to avoid being struck by the pot.

“Um, sure.” Bella held up her mug. She hummed along with the Christmas music playing in the background and gazed around at the empty restaurant. “I guess everyone’s home ‘cause of the snow, huh?”

“Cream? Sugar?”

 Bella looked up into a face that had seen its share of recessions. The woman’s nose stood out sharply against a pasty face framed in unnatural blonde curls. Her white uniform had a splotch of ketchup on the lapel. She didn’t smile. I guess she doesn’t want to be here on Christmas Eve either.

“Pie?”

Bella checked the counter, on which revolved a dusty Lazy Susan. “What kinds do you have?”

The woman moved her gum from one side of her mouth to the other. “Strawberry-rhubarb. Boston cream.”

“I’ll have a slice of each, please.” It’s Christmas, after all. I didn’t get the fruitcake from Aunt Felicia this year, so why not splurge? She was never going to lose those five pounds anyway. Now I’ve hit thirty, I might as well get used to this. At least she still had curves in the right places…and a full head of auburn curls. She patted them to make sure they were still there.

The waitress came back with a plate. While she hovered, a can of whipped cream in her hand, the rumbling sound at the edge of Bella’s consciousness grew to unmistakable proportions. The cup on the table shook and the waitress rocked from foot to foot to keep her balance.

Bella caught the cup before it pitched over the edge. “What the heck was that?”

The waitress looked at the wall clock. “That’s the five-ten express.” She gave a half grin. “I’m so used to it now I don’t even notice it.”

Bella was about to say something when they heard a loud scream from outside the restaurant. The waitress spun around and Bella craned her neck around the woman to look through the front door. A man lay on the sidewalk outside, a garbage can on its side next to him. It rolled into the street. A crowd gathered quickly.

Bella got up so she could see better. The waitress went back behind the counter and replaced the coffee pot on the hot plate. She seemed uninterested in the events transpiring outside. Bella went to the door.

The man was clearly dead. He lay sprawled on his face, legs akimbo, blood seeping from the back of his head, staining the snow. The people surrounding the body pushed the other garbage bins aside, clearing an area around him. Bella peered up. The café was in a row of stores under the L—the famous Chicago elevated railway.

Sirens blared. Bella watched from inside while an ambulance pulled up and EMTs jumped out. Minutes later, they were gone. The crowd dispersed, and Bella went back to her table.

“Dead?”

She jumped. It was the first word the waitress had spoken since the accident. “Um, yes. Do you suppose he fell from the L?”

She shrugged. “Nah—too many barriers. Prolly jumped.”

“What makes you say that?”

She shrugged again. “That time o’ year.”

Bella paid and walked the block home thoughtfully. Jumped. It made sense. The Christmas season usually saw a spate of suicides in Chicago. She shivered.

Christmas Day dawned. Bella made her usual calls to her mother in Miami and to her sister in Houston. Then she walked down to Leo’s news stand and bought the paper. At home, hot tea at her side, she turned—as usual—to the real estate listings. I have got to find another place soon! Her building had been sold and the new owners were turning the apartments into condominiums. Bella’s nest egg didn’t extend to a mortgage or even a down payment. She scanned the rentals. Wait! There’s one just up the street from me. A two-bedroom on the top floor. A walkup, but the rent was reasonable. And I could still walk to the shop. She circled the item.

She’d have to wait until the next day to call. Meanwhile, with nothing to do, she thought she’d drop by the shop. Better see if the Christmas lights are still working. It seemed that every day more bulbs died. She got her coat and slogged through the melting slush to the little souvenir shop she managed. Sure enough, all the red lights had gone out. She went to the back room to find the extra string. The front door jingled. “We’re closed!”

“Oh, sorry. I just need some help?”

Damn, another panhandler. They seemed to be on every corner these days. He probably makes more money than I do. She reluctantly went to the front. A young man stood just inside, his hat in his hand. The top of his head just brushed the overhead light, and when said light shone on his face, Bella sucked in a breath. The green eyes that flashed at her were like pure emeralds, winking out from under the thatch of thick, chocolaty hair. He gave her a tentative smile that caught in her throat. Ulp.

“Hi. Sorry to barge in like this but I saw your shop light on. Everyone else is closed.”

She started to say, “Well, I am too,” but hesitated. “What do you need?”

He shuffled forward.  “I’m looking for someone. I just arrived from Denver. I don’t have his address, but I have a photo.” Before she could demur, he held it out. “This is my father. See—he’s standing in front of that elevated railway—” He pointed outside.

She contemplated the man in the picture. He wore a camel’s hair coat and an old-fashioned fedora. “Why is it torn in half?”

“It came that way. We’re not sure why.”

Bella took a second look. “Yes, that’s the L. This was taken near the Clark and Division station. It’s just a couple of blocks east of here.”

“Ah, then I’m close.” He put the picture away and turned toward the door.

Bella couldn’t resist. “Why are you searching for him?”

He turned back. “He disappeared a month ago. A week ago, I got this photo in the mail.” His mouth twisted. “I had Christmas off and thought I’d see if I could track him down.”

Bella wondered if that was such a good idea but didn’t think it was her place to say so. The young man was staring at her. “Um, well, good luck.”

He nodded, then said, “Would you…er…like to get a cup of coffee somewhere? I haven’t had anything to eat since last night. I don’t know my way around, and maybe you could…” He petered out.

She looked deep into the verdant pools of his eyes and said, “Sure. I know a café a couple of blocks from here.”

“Sounds great. My name’s Simon, by the way. Simon Forrest.”

“Bella Peete. I’ll just get my coat.” Firmly setting aside all the warnings her mother had ever given her about strangers, she followed Simon out.

The café where she’d had the pie was closed. “Oh I forgot it’s Christmas. Darn.”

“Hmm. Well, there’s a restaurant in my hotel. It’s not far. Would you care to join me?”

It’s Christmas. I’ve nothing to do. I’m hungry. It’s cold. She regarded him. And he’s the most handsome man I have ever seen. “thank you.”

They spent the afternoon together. Simon told stories of Colorado, where he grew up. He listened attentively to Bella’s tales of years of academic life, lost luggage and lost jobs. “After two degrees and no university jobs available, I tried my hand at the travel business. Let’s just say we didn’t mesh. I lost everything.”

“So you came back to Chicago?”

“Uh huh. I was born here. I’m working at the souvenir shop while I…” She stopped. No point in lying. “While I wait for inspiration. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Instead of commiserating as she expected—or disapproving, as she was used to—Simon touched her hand. “I believe you could do anything you put your mind to.”

The rest of the conversation was a blur.

Every day that week Simon would pick Bella up at five and they would explore the city. Simon didn’t seem in a hurry to find his father, and Bella didn’t press the issue. Instead she floated, blissfully happy and disinclined to examine her feelings.

She did remember to call about the apartment, and set up an appointment for Friday at 5 p.m. She had the day off, and Simon said he’d come with her to inspect the place. “I need to scope out the neighborhood anyway. After all, I did come here to see if I can find some trace of my father.”

When they reached the address, Bella looked up. “Why it’s above the café I told you about.” She read the sign. “Still closed. I wonder if it’s because of the jumper.”

“Jumper?”

“Yes. I was in here Christmas Eve and a man jumped from the roof and landed right here at the entrance.”

“Ouch.”

The landlord pulled up in a cab. “You Bella Peete?”

“Yes.”

He jingled his keys. “I’m Mr. Gordon. I’ll take you up.”

“Is the old tenant still there?”

“Uh uh. Gone.”

Bella looked at Simon, suddenly apprehensive. “Did he…did he die?”

“He? No, there was only one person on the lease, and she left Christmas Day.”

Whew. She didn’t fancy moving into the apartment of a person who committed suicide. “Let’s have a look.”

The dingy corridor held three doors. “There’s one more apartment on this floor besides yours.”

“What’s that third door lead to?”

“The roof.”

“Is that where the man jumped from?”

“Jumped?” The landlord looked shocked. “What man?”

“I heard a man committed suicide here.”

He shook his head. “Only people in this building are two families downstairs and old Mrs. Tate across the hall.”

“Huh.” Maybe he did fall from the L. Bella made a mental note to check the internet. What with work and Simon, she hadn’t gotten around to perusing the news reports on the tragedy.

They toured the apartment. The dirty windows shed little light, and the place was chock full of furniture that could have been collected from a landfill. The landlord shook his head. “Sheesh. Ms. Smith said she’d cleaned this place out before she left.” He looked at Bella. “I guess it comes As-Is.”

As Bella was in the kitchen, despairing of the ancient stove, the dishes on the counter began to rattle. A flower pot fell from the window sill with a crash. “What the hell?”

The landlord checked his watch. “Oh, that’s the 5:15 express.” His eyes flickered. “Really, it’s the only train that makes the building shake. It’s because it goes by so fast.” He picked up a coat. “Look at this. She even left her clothes. I promise I’ll clear this stuff out before you move in.”

Simon, who was wandering around the rooms, came back in as the landlord hung the coat up. “Wait a minute!” He took the coat and read the inside label. “This belongs to my father.” He felt in the pockets and held a photo up. Before Bella could take it a key turned in the lock. A woman entered. Mr. Gordon said, “What are you doing back here, Harriet? Coming to get your stuff?”

The woman looked at the photo in Simon’s hand. She snatched at it. It floated to the ground. Bella grabbed it before the woman could. She looked from it to the woman at the door. “Wait a minute. This is you.”

“Well of course it is.”

Simon intervened. “How do you know my father?”

She turned furtive. “Oh, we…uh…dated a couple of times. He left this coat here…uh…weeks ago.”

Simon said sharply, “When was the last time you saw him?”

She straightened. “Like I said, weeks ago. What’s this all about?”

“Arthur Brandt disappeared from Denver a month ago.”

Bella watched the woman. Something…

She shrugged. “I guess he’s good at that. He left without a word sometime in November.”

That’s it! “You’re the waitress from the café.”

The woman turned on her. “So? Now, can I get out’a here?”

“Just a moment.” The landlord held up a hand. “You’ve got to clear this apartment out or I won’t give you your deposit back.”

Simon had been studying the photo. “Excuse me.” He went into the kitchen.

Harriet watched him go, then swung around to Mr. Gordon. “Sure, sure. Look, I gotta go. I’ll come back tomorrow and get my stuff. Okay?” She backed toward the door.

Simon came out. “Surely you’re not leaving us?”

Harriet looked puzzled. “What do you care?”

“Because, dear lady, we have to wait for the police.”

Bella’s jaw dropped. The landlord’s jaw dropped. Harriet’s face went rigid. “I don’t think so. Whatever your problem is, you deal with it. Nothin’ to do with me.”

“I think it does.” To Bella’s shock, Simon produced a small Beretta. “I think we wait.”

Suer enough, five minutes later there was a knock on the door. “Police.”

Simon let them in. “She’s all yours, officers.”

“Harriet Middleton, alias Harriet Smith, we’re arresting you for the murder of Arthur Brandt.” He handcuffed her.

Harriet struggled only a minute, then quieted once the officer started reading her her rights. As the policemen led her to the door, she looked over her shoulder. The grin on her face was macabre. “You don’t know the half of it.”

The three left behind stood a minute, then the landlord hastily shooed them out. “We’ll sign the lease tomorrow, shall we? I need to get back to the office.” He plunged down the stairs.

Simon started to leave, but Bella held him back. “You want to tell me what just happened?”

“Harriet Middleton murdered Arthur Brandt. I thought that was obvious.”

“That bit was. Where do you come in?”

“Never mind that. I’m still trying to figure out how she did it.” He started searching drawers. “From what you told me, she was serving you inside the café when he fell.”

“That’s right.”

“So she couldn’t have pushed him.”

“Right.”

“He fell on the garbage can.”

“Right.”

“Okay, so far. Now, he was lying on his face. That’s the part that bothers me. When you fall you usually twist around and end up landing on your back.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.” He rubbed his chin. “Let’s go downstairs.”

Bella was glad to get out of the apartment. Simon stopped at the café door and looked up. “Here’s where he fell? Did you see him fall?”

“No. I remember the express passed and then there was a scream. When I looked out, he was lying there.”

“And the garbage can was knocked over.”

“Right.”

He pointed at a line of bins. “Which one?”

“I’ve no idea.”

He produced a flashlight and went over each can carefully. She resisted the urge to ask him why he carried one. He’s got a lot of secrets.

“We haven’t had any snow or rain in the last week, right?”

“Nope.”

He tapped a lid. “Then there should still be blood where he landed on it.”

“There isn’t any?”

He shook his head. “Not on any of them.” She took the opportunity to sit on the stoop while he pondered. Suddenly, he brightened. “Aha! Here, help me.” He started overturning the cans one by one. “There.” He pointed.

Bella saw a dark blotch on the bottom of the last one. “Is that blood?”

“Bet my bottom dollar it is.”

“I don’t understand. How did it get there?”

“When the can landed on Arthur’s head. It was thrown from the roof. Arthur didn’t fall; he was hit while he stood on the sidewalk.”

Truth dawned. “So someone pushed the can off the roof and it killed him. It must have been an accident then.”

Simon sat down next to her. “I don’t think so. I think it was deliberate. Otherwise the person would have come forward.”

Bella was beginning to feel cold. She said crossly, “Well that means Harriet didn’t kill him. She was inside with me.”

Just then a train passed over their heads. Simon rubbed his chin. “You’re cold. Let’s go back to your apartment.” She didn’t protest.

He led her into her kitchen and picked up a vase. “Do you mind if I break this?”

She choked. “Yes, I do! That belonged to my mother.”

He put it down. “Well, what can I break?”

She was too curious to object, so she handed him the hideous bowl her Aunt Felicia had given her instead of the requested fruitcake. “This.”

He set the bowl on the table, then nudged it until it was halfway over the edge. Then he suddenly jumped up and down several times. Bella watched the bowl inch toward oblivion, finally crashing to the floor. Simon crowed, “And that’s how she did it! Come on, let’s go tell the police.”

The police were suitably impressed. The lieutenant in charge of the case listened attentively. “That was some great detective work you did there, Mr. Forrest. You don’t happen to have a background in law enforcement, do you?”

Simon glanced quickly at Bella. “Yes. I’m a private investigator.” He took a card out of his wallet and showed it to the policeman. “I was hired to find Arthur Brandt. He must have realized he was in danger and mailed his ex-wife a photo of him with Harriet.”

Bella added, “But before he sent it off, she found it and tore off the part that showed her.”

“Thankfully, the background enabled me to trace him to this neighborhood.” Simon pursed his lips. “The only thing we couldn’t figure out is why she killed him. He has no money. I mean, he’s got an insurance policy, but that only covers his wife.”

“Is it a lot? Does it name her specifically?”

“It’s for $500,000. As I recall it merely says “spouse.”

The lieutenant rose and shook Simon’s hand. “Well, you’ve assisted us in catching a wanted criminal.”

“Oh?”

“Harriet Middleton is a suspect in four murders. She seduces older men, marries them, then knocks them off for the insurance money. She’s wanted in five states. A regular black widow.”

Bella thought back to the sour face of the waitress in the café. “I guess it didn’t make her very happy.”

She waited until they were alone to light into Simon. “Well?”

He didn’t ask her what she meant. “I didn’t want you entangled in a potentially dangerous situation.” He touched her cheek. “Especially when I was falling in love with you.”

Since Bella agreed totally with everything Simon had just said, she settled for a kiss.

The End

 

 

 

Great stories; Great Cause: Wild Rose Authors Anthology Fundraiser for Australia Fires

The greatest anthology ever! From the authors of The Wild Rose Press.

February 14 is not just for Valentines—it’s also the release date for Australia Burns: Show Australia Some Love.

This is a three-volume book of stories by more than forty authors at the Wild Rose Press. Romance, thrillers, mystery—whatever you like, in one easy package. The best part is this: we are donating all proceeds to the Australia Red Cross, to be distributed as needed to help rebuild, rehabilitate, and help the thousands of people and animals affected by the horrible fires sweeping across Australia.

Here’s the Wild Rose Press link showing all three books: 

https://www.thewildrosepress.com/australia-burns

My contribution is Che Gelida Manina: a Story of Second Chances. It will be in the second volume.

Here’s the blurb:

Since Jack died, Grace has lost all desire for romance, but she’s lonely and joins a dating site, stipulating companionship only. Edward answers her post, agreeing to the terms. He is true to his word, but Grace soon finds herself wanting more. Can she convince him she’s changed her mind? Will he feel the same?

Australia Burns: Show Australia Some Love will be available at all online stores. Please help us raise funds to help in this tragedy. It is now available on Amazon and The Wild Rose Press.

NOTE: If you buy the print from the Wild Rose Press it will bring in more money to send. https://www.thewildrosepress.com/product/australia-burns-volume-one

Think of it this way: instead of a T shirt or commemorative mug, you get forty wonderful stories to enjoy and you’re supporting relief efforts in devastated Australia.

Buy Links:

https://www.thewildrosepress.com/product/australia-burns-volume-one

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0848W2HQT

Che Gelida Manina: A Christmas Story

For your reading pleasure at Christmas:

Che Gelida Manina: a Story of Second Chances

                                                By M. S. Spencer

"I don't want to stay here, Amelia."

"But Mother, you love Sarasota! You love the sun, the people, the beach. Why this sudden desire to move to Morocco?"

"It's always been a dream of mine." Grace knew her daughter wouldn't buy it, but didn't want to tell her how desperately she needed to get away from Florida. Since Jack died nine months before on Christmas Eve, she couldn't bear to go to the Gulf…or listen to his favorite opera, La Bohème…or even light candles at dinner.  Jack had been the most romantic man in the world and the love of her life. Now that he was gone, all desire for romance had gone with him. It was only because of her promise to him to stay through one last Christmas that she had remained.  I'll keep my promise, but I'll be out of here by Boxing Day.

"Well, it makes no sense." Amelia switched gears. "Just yesterday Brad was saying you should come up here to Portland—"

"Not on your life. I may be a doting grandmother but I don't think I could handle twin toddlers twenty-four-seven."

The woman at the other end of the phone sniffed. "Hmmph. Well, we don't want you alone on Christmas Eve, Mother. Brad would be happy to book a flight for you."

"You know I can't, dear."

"Oh, bother the promise. Dad would understand."

Grace thought of Jack's last whispered request. "No, he wouldn't."

"Okay, okay." Amelia paused. "Did you sign up for Friends.com yet?"

"No, and stop badgering me."

"All I ask is that you think about it. It's about time you got out of the house. The site's supposed to have a ninety-percent success rate in matching people."

"I doubt that. Gotta go, dear." Grace hung up and stared at the website on her computer screen. She hesitated, then clicked "Your Friends.com Profile." She wrote quickly and furiously, tossing her thoughts out before she lost her nerve.

   Recently widowed woman, 60, seeking companion for excursions—bird watching and sightseeing. Not interested in romance or personal confidences. No moonlit beach walkers please. No candlelight dinners. Love of opera a deal-breaker.

She typed in her credit card number and clicked 'Submit,' then returned to her profile and reread it.  "Oh dear, that sounds awfully negative…"

Her finger hovered over the 'Delete Post' button when a message popped up. "Edward Harper has emailed you." She opened it.

Widower, 62, happy to oblige. Coffee today?

Next to the message was a man's photograph. She studied it, trying to plumb its secrets—a broad face, the planes of the cheeks flat and tanned. Little crinkles of skin at each temple hinted at a quiet sense of humor. His bright hazel eyes under a thatch of brown hair smiled at her, as if willing her to say hello.  She pressed 'Reply' and typed in, "Yes."

An hour later she sat in a booth in the Gray Dolphin Café, wondering if she'd recognize him. A tall man came through the automatic doors and strode resolutely toward her. "Are you Grace?"

I can deny it. I can get up and walk out right now. The eyes held her. Cheerful, calm, intelligent. "Yes. Won't you join me?"

He slid onto the seat and ordered coffee for the two of them. Grace, used to dealing with the world on her own, found it refreshing. He had a way of making her feel comfortable and pampered at the same time. Two hours later they parted at the café door.

She didn't hear from him that day, or the next, or the next. Exactly one week later, an email popped up. "Coffee today?"

Fingers scampering quickly over the keys, she typed, "Yes."

They met at the café, but Edward drew her outside. "How about a walk through Robinson Preserve? I brought binoculars. And coffee."

"Sure."

Two hours later he left her at the café entrance. She almost asked if he'd like to see her again, but didn't.

Precisely a week later, he called. "Coffee?"

This time she was ready. "Would you care to go to Spanish Point with me? It's an historic site."

"Certainly—I was going to suggest something similar. I'll pick you up at the café."

And so it went for two months. The two of them met every Wednesday and toured local sights like Marie Selby Gardens, Ringling's Cà d'Zan, and Ybor City. Edward proved a perfect escort—knowledgeable, funny, interested in everything. Grace's life came to revolve around the weekly dates. She'd find herself thinking about him every day, wondering more and more often how he felt about her. After all, he never asked her personal questions. If she inquired about his past, he would demur. "We are but fellow travelers. That was the deal, wasn't it?"

Whenever his reticence grated on her, she would reread her Friends.com profile.  You asked for this, Grace. In fact, you insisted upon it. Then she would pour herself a drink and watch another re-run of Love Boat.

As the weeks passed, Grace sank deeper and deeper into a funk. Edward was careful to keep his distance—the occasional touch on the hand or squeeze of the elbow meant only that he wanted to draw her attention to something. She began to covet the delicate brush of his fingers across her skin. Sometimes she would even bump into him, pretending to be absorbed in a painting or view.

She had said goodbye to him one Wednesday, facing the emptiness of the week ahead. Sitting in her car, it suddenly struck her as unfair. Is this all he can give? One afternoon a week for the rest of my life? She checked her face in the rear view mirror. Wrinkles spiraled through the once blooming cheeks. Her hair had begun the gradual but depressing transformation to pure white, and her once cobalt blue eyes had faded to the cerulean of a misty morning sky. She started the engine. "I've got to do something."

But as the days dragged by, she did nothing. Time and again she would click on Edward's address, only to hesitate.  I'm not ready.

That Sunday Amelia called.  "I hope you'll reconsider and come for Christmas, Mother."

Christmas. Christ. In her preoccupation with Edward, she had lost track of the date. In three weeks her vow to Jack would be discharged. What difference would it make if I left a few days early? Unexpectedly, Edward's smiling face flashed before her. Yearning vied with terror, threatening to rip her heart apart.  I'm not ready. I need to get out of here. She finally managed, "Perhaps I will."

"Wonderful! Come a week early—that way we'll have plenty of time to catch up."

"All right."

As her departure approached, Grace put off informing Edward. I know him. He'll nod silently. He won't even ask if I need a ride to the airport. She stifled the stab of pain.

The day before she was to leave, she finally confessed. His eyes, for once, did not smile, but he said nothing. She waved him off at the café and went home to finish packing. As she locked the suitcase, cold reality sluiced like ice water down her back. I guess this is it. She looked around the cozy bungalow Edward had never entered. And yet he seemed so much a part of it, of her life now. The longing she'd felt for him—longing that she refused to acknowledge—exploded into desire. I want him. I want to hold him. And I want to talk—really talk—pour out all my thoughts and my childhood dreams, my needs, my fears.

To silence the pleas, she did something she hadn't done since Jack died—she took the shell path to the water. The beach was empty and she walked until her feet hurt—a mile, two miles, three. As she walked, the sun began to descend in one of those glorious Florida sunsets that make you wonder if you've landed on another planet. The white powdery sand crunched between her toes.  How I've missed this! Maybe I was wrong to cut myself off from the things I loved.

By the time she arrived back at the shell path it was nearly dark. She turned for one last look at the moon and stars. A beach chair sat forlornly on the shore, waves lapping at its legs. Something fluttered from it. Oh, right, I left my towel there.

As she approached, a silvery tenor began to croon Jack's favorite aria from La Bohème. In it, Rodolfo sings to his new love Mimi, 'Che gelida manina—What a cold little hand you have!'

She rounded on the chair. "Edward?"

He sat up. "Grace?"

She wanted to run into his arms. She wanted to kiss his lips, his forehead, his hands. Instead, she stood quietly, her arms at her sides. "Edward, what are you doing here? I thought you hated the beach."

His eyes bored into her. "Not me. You. You didn't want romance. You didn't want to hold my hand, or light a candle, or hear my music. I respected your wishes."

She ached to cry out, "I was wrong! Edward, I want to be with you!" but fear clogged her throat. I'm not ready. All she could manage was, "Yes."

His lips twisted. "Yes." Then he stood up and walked away across the sand. Grace watched helplessly as the second love of her life left her.

She went to bed, but the hours ticked by as she lay awake, by turns angry and despondent. The next morning she called Amelia. "I've decided to stay here for Christmas."

"Mother? Why? You'll be so lonely!"

"No! No, I'll be fine. I have a promise to keep."

She checked the calendar. Four days to go to Christmas Eve. She had to find Edward before she left. I can't leave without telling him about Jack—without explaining my aversion to romance. She turned on the laptop and typed his name in the search box.

The first list turned up three dozen Edward Harpers, ten of whom lived in the Sarasota area. She spent two days tracking them down, leaving messages at the most promising leads. Then she sat down to wait.

Christmas Eve arrived without any word from Edward. Her suitcase stood ready by the door. As the light faded, she went outside to her patio. La Bohème played softly from inside. I can't lose him. Why didn't I tell him? What was I afraid of? The pain? You fool, the pain found you anyway. At least she had the beach and the music back. Only one more thing to do. She rose, found some matches, and lit the Christmas candle. As she watched the flame flicker in the evening breeze, she savored an uneasy peace. Perhaps it's for the best. I'll leave tomorrow and forget all about him.

Someone moved from the darkness into the light. She sprang up to find bright hazel eyes smiling into hers. He touched her hand and sang softly, "Che gelida manina. What a cold little hand you have, my dear. May I warm it?"

She gave it to him, then led him down the path to the beach.