A wish for winter, p.1
A Wish for Winter, page 1
Select praise for the novels of Viola Shipman
“A beautifully written story about second chances. Fans of women’s fiction won’t be able to put this down.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Secret of Snow
“Viola Shipman knows relationships. The Clover Girls will sometimes make you smile and other times cry, but like a true friendship, it is a novel you will forever savor and treasure.”
—Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author
“Viola Shipman has written a love song to long-lost friends, an ode to the summers that define us and the people who make us who we are. The minute I finished The Clover Girls, I ordered copies for all my friends. It’s that good.”
—Kristy Woodson Harvey, New York Times bestselling author
“Reading Viola Shipman’s novels is like talking with your best friend and wanting never to hang up the phone. The Clover Girls is [Shipman’s] most beautiful novel yet, and [the] most important.”
—Nancy Thayer, New York Times bestselling author
“Oh, the joy! The Clover Girls may be [Shipman’s] best yet, taking readers on a heartwarming trip down memory lane… Ideal for summer… A redemptive tale, celebrating the power of friendship while focusing on what matters most. Perfect for the beach!”
—New York Journal of Books
“Every now and then a new voice in fiction arrives to completely charm, entertain and remind us what matters. Viola Shipman is that voice and The Summer Cottage is that absolutely irresistible and necessary novel… [It] brings us the astounding importance of home and underscores the importance of a loving family and of having a generous heart. Grab a glass of sweet tea and enjoy!”
—Dorothea Benton Frank, New York Times bestselling author
“Shipman’s evocative novel is a love letter to Michigan summers, past and present, and to the value of lifelong friendships. A blissful summer read sure to please the author’s many fans, and fans of writers like Elin Hilderbrand or Kristin Hannah.”
—Library Journal on The Heirloom Garden
Viola Shipman is the pen name of Wade Rouse, the USA TODAY bestselling author of thirteen books, including The Secret of Snow and The Clover Girls. Rouse chose his grandma’s name, Viola Shipman, as a pseudonym to honor the woman whose heirlooms inspire his fiction. He lives in Michigan and California, and hosts Wine & Words with Wade, a literary happy hour, every Thursday.
www.ViolaShipman.com
Viola Shipman
A Wish for Winter
Table of Contents
A Wish for Winter
A Sugarplum Christmas
A Wish for Winter
A winter wish for my readers:
May your darkest days always be filled with light
May your home always be filled with family and love
May your holidays always be filled with memories new and old
May your coldest days be filled with warmth
May a great book always be sitting near a roaring fire
And may you always remember how unique, beautiful and loved you are.
Thank you for your continued love and support!
Contents
Poem
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
A Personal Letter to Readers
Acknowledgments
A Wish for Winter - Reader’s Guide
Questions for Discussion
1st PRIZE
PETOSKEY ELEMENTARY SCHOOL
CHRISTMAS POETRY CONTEST
“The Single Kringle”
By Susan Norcross
4th Grade
My parents and grandparents told me
One day I would know
Because I’ll meet a man whose beard
Would be white as snow.
His eyes would twinkle,
And his laugh would boom,
He’d make me feel like
The only gift in the room.
He will love me for me
Be generous and kind
And always let me
Read my books and speak my mind.
He may not have reindeer
Nor live at the North Pole
But he’ll be filled with love
And have a good soul.
They said to love myself first
But to know a puzzle can still miss a piece
That hints at a picture
But never is complete.
They told me to believe
Especially in December
For that is the time
We celebrate and remember.
We light trees and bake cookies
Buy gifts for sister and brother
But the only gift that matters
Is the gift of each other.
That’s the beauty of Christmas
And magic of St. Nick
We must remain as hopeful as kids
So our hearts don’t become bricks.
Santa Claus is pure love
But he, too, once was single
He knew he was blessed
When he found his Mrs. Kringle.
I’ll know the exact moment, too,
Because my heart will glisten like the bay
Bells will ring
And I’ll hear Santa’s sleigh.
People say Santa isn’t real
But he was a man named St. Nicholas
To think otherwise
Is purely ridiculous.
We must believe in angels
Because faith is no game
There is purpose beyond us
Otherwise life is a shame.
How does one make
A wish come true?
By believing in others
But also believing in you.
So, until my day comes
I’ll remain happy and bright
And I will believe in my Kringle
With all of my might.
prologue
Every family has a holiday tradition.
Some families bake sugar cookies and cut them out in the shapes of bells and reindeer, icing them a mile high and decorating them with colored candies and glittery sprinkles.
Other families decorate their trees with heirloom ornaments, telling the stories of where each Shiny Brite originated. Some drench their entire house and yard with lights à la Clark Griswold, while others go caroling or head to midnight mass on Christmas Eve.
The Norcross family dressed as Mr. and Mrs. Claus.
Starting the day after Thanksgiving, my parents and grandparents became—and I mean this quite literally—the Clauses.
23andMe may have said our family came from somewhere in Europe, but we knew better. We came from the North Pole. Our blood was made of eggnog, our souls shone as bright as foil wrapping paper and our hearts were filled with Christmas spirit.
In fact, one of my ancestors—my great-great-grandfather—was known as Captain Santa. He operated a three-masted schooner—the sails lit by oil lamps made to look like holiday lights, the masts festooned with garland, the boat a floating forest—that famously sank during the holidays. It had been weighted down by a load of Northern Michigan evergreens bound for Chicago. His nickname had been bestowed on him by Chicago’s newspapers for his generosity in giving the trees to families in need.
The foundation of my family tree has also been hope.
We were so Santa that my grandfather and father had been bestowed the name Nicholas. We were so Kringle that the very first time my mother and grandmother met the loves of their lives both men were dressed as Santa.
They may not have known what they looked like underneath the hat and beard, but they could see his good soul clearly.
My parents and grandparents rotated December days dressing as Mr. and Mrs. Claus, one set going from school to school and hotel to hotel while the other managed our bookstore. I was always the cheery elf in candy cane–striped stockings, a curled cap and a green dress with peppermint buttons, holding a tiny plastic hammer.
I would watch children from all over Northern Michigan crawl upon my dad and grampa’s laps and whisper what they’d like for Christmas.
Every holiday, my family would gather to watch Miracle on 34th Street. It was our tradition.
And every night the week before Christmas, when a Claus would tuck me into bed, he or she would whisper, “There’s a Single Kringle out there just waiting for you. It’s destiny in our family. And one day you will find your Santa, and every day for the rest of your life—no matter the day of the year—will be as magical as Christmas day.”
And then a Claus would ask, “What is your Christmas wish, Susan?”
I would prattle off a list of toys or dresses, never realizing until too late none of those wishes really mattered.
Today, as an adult, I shut my eyes every night the week leading up to Christmas and before I go to bed silently ask myself, What is your Christmas wish, Susan?
And I whisper to myself, “All I wish is for Christmas to be the way it used to.”
chapter 1
This is not my Christmas wish.
“You drive a Smart car?”
“I do. Fits into any parking spot in Chicago. Come on. Get in.”
I bend and contort, banging my head as I enter. I’m a tall girl, so getting into a car this small is like trying to break down a refrigerator box and stuff it into a recycling container. Moreover, I’m squeezed into a brand-new dress that Holly sent me from Chicago. It’s very short, holiday gold and a touch too low-cut for my usual standards.
You gotta show the girls while you have a chance, Holly told me.
This is my best friend Holly’s holiday wish.
Every year, I grant Holly one wish: she asks me to participate with her in Chicago’s famed Santa Run in hopes that I will find a man dressed as Kris Kringle just like my mother and grandmother. Every year is an epic failure. So much so that I have recently sworn off dating. But since this is our fortieth Christmas on earth, Holly begged for an extra wish, which I reluctantly granted: a date with Cletus Bothwhistle.
Holly worked with Cletus on a social media launch in Chicago, and he was the trademark attorney. She said he loved the holidays, had family in nearby Gaylord, Michigan, about forty-five minutes due south and inland of Petoskey. His sister had recently had a baby, and Cletus was a doting new uncle. Holly told my grandparents this tidbit, and they all saw this as a sign of a good, caring man. Not to mention, Cletus was sporting a Santa cap in a Christmas party picture that Holly sent to seal the deal. Between the good-willed—albeit constant—prodding of Holly and my grandparents, I simply gave up. Overwhelmed with the bookstore at the holidays, my willpower was shot.
“I’ve never met anyone who lives in a pink house,” Cletus says staring at my old Victorian.
“It’s historic,” I say. “Always been pink. Locals call it The Pink Lady.”
“Looks like a Barbie Dreamhouse.” Cletus leans into the door. “You’re my Barbie, and I’m your dream.”
I should not have had him pick me up at my house. I usually have my blind dates pick me up at the bookstore. It just seems safer. My grandparents and staff can suss them out first, let me know if there needs to be a “bookstore emergency.” It’s a number one rule of mine. Never let them know where you live.
“You in?” Cletus asks.
He shuts the door before I can even respond, and when I reach for my seat belt, I realize my hair is caught in the car door. I open it as he walks around the other side, and I free my long blonde hair—which I’ve just spent an hour curling—as he gets in on the other side.
His car door slams.
Well, slam would be a generous term. It sounds like the top on a new bottle of ketchup just popped.
“Surprise!”
I turn toward Cletus.
At some point between shutting the door on my hair and walking around the car, he’s put on a Santa hat. I stare at him, realizing now that his pictures on Facebook were obviously old.
Really old.
I remember now that he was wearing a Nehru collar in the photo Holly sent me.
It’s not that he’s a troll or anything, it’s just that he looks closer to sixty than forty, he doesn’t look to be an avid exerciser and it’s been years since Holly has seen him in person.
Stop it, Susan, I think. Give him a chance. You never give anyone a chance anymore.
“Everyone in town says you’re the lady who’s going to marry a Santa! Ho ho ho! Here I am!”
“My reputation precedes me,” I say.
“So, tell me about Susan Norcross,” he says as he drives.
“Well, I am a just-turned forty-year-old bookstore owner who loves books, authors and reading. I’m an avid runner. And as you mentioned, I am famous—no, strike that—infamous around my hometown of Petoskey, Michigan, for being the woman whose mother and grandmother both married men who the first time they met happened to be dressed as Santa Claus. I think everyone, including Holly, wants lightning to strike thrice.”
“I once got hit by lightning,” he says. “On the golf course. I used to caddy during the summers in Gaylord. Everyone says that’s why I’m extra bright.”
I laugh, assuming he’s kidding.
“I’m not kidding,” he says.
For some reason, when Cletus is not talking, he is sucking air through his teeth, as if he just ate a pound of ground pepper and is trying to clean them.
I just want to be struck by lightning right now.
“I can’t believe I’m on a date with the Single Kringle,” he says.
“You can call me Susan,” I say with a laugh. “It’s easier.”
“Susan it is,” he says, continuing to free something from his teeth.
“Why don’t we turn on some holiday music?” I suggest.
“Great idea!”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s a surprise,” he says, his voice chipper. “Can’t give away the ending.”
My heart lifts. As a bookstore owner, I love readers who don’t walk in and jump to the end of a book.
“I agree,” I say.
He heads the car toward Traverse City. The tiny car is buffeted around as we hit the road by the bay. Gale-force winds rock us back and forth, and I grip the passenger side of the car as we occasionally fishtail on the snowy road.
You cannot have a small car in Michigan in the winter. Yes, you can drive a convertible around for a few months in the summer, but a small car can’t handle the nonstop pummeling of Michigan’s winter weather. It’s the equivalent of taking a syringe to Lake Michigan and trying to drain all the water out of it.
It just ain’t gonna get the job done.
I chitchat to distract myself, peppering him—pardon the pun—with lots of questions as I do readers who come into my bookstore.
Finally, Cletus pulls into the parking of the restaurant chain, That’s A Mice Pizza.
“Is there something wrong with your car?” I ask. This can’t be our destination.
“Surprise!”
“Surprise what?”
“We’re here! I wanted to do something unexpected for our first date.”
That’s A Mice Pizza is a pizza parlor-arcade for children. That’s actually being generous. It’s an amusement park that serves cardboard cheese.
We’re greeted by a costumed mouse who ushers us to the front.
“We have reservations,” Cletus says excitedly. “Two for Bothwhistle.”
A girl in bad goth makeup looks at me and says, “Wow, you look really nice.”
I cock my head at her compliment, my first tonight. “Thank you so much.”
“But your dress is probably going to get dirty or, like, ruined,” she says. “I mean...”
She stops and points a black fingernail into the restaurant.
It’s chaos.
Children are running around screaming, bashing each other over the head with rubber bats and stuffed animals, chucking ice at one another and sneezing as if sneezing were just invented.
I emit a single, tiny, mournful squeak, but Cletus says to the girl, “And we had a bag of tokens, too.” He looks at me. “I can’t give these to you, though, until dinner’s over.”
We are seated smack-dab in the middle of four kids’ parties. Two are birthday parties, one is a Christmas party and one Hanukkah party. It’s like being seated in the eye of a hurricane. I take a seat in a plastic chair, and I instantly feel sets of eyes on me and my dress. I take the napkin off the table and drape it over my cleavage.
