He made her laugh.
Earlier she’d tried to cover her amusement with sarcasm, but lately Will had a cute way of getting back at her. She felt like a kid again, rather than the dignified woman she’d considered herself to be.
“You’re on,” she said. “If I love it here, I owe you something big. A seven-course dinner or…” She faltered, realizing she was having a good time.
“I’ll make that decision when I collect,” he said with a wink over his shoulder.
Above the roar of the engine, he hollered back his usual witty comments, his youthful spirit so evident as they soared across the snow. Youthful, yet he had depth, too, Christine had noticed. She watched the tenderness he had for her grandmother, and Christine couldn’t help but notice how he studied her. She didn’t think he’d figured her out yet, but he would.
GAIL GAYMER MARTIN
lives in Michigan with her husband, Bob, her dearest friend and greatest supporter. She feels blessed to be writing stories that touch people’s hearts and share God’s mercy and forgiveness. Friends often tease her that they’re afraid to share life experiences with her. They have asked, “Will this be in your next novel?” Sometimes it is.
Gail is multipublished in nonfiction and over thirty works of fiction. Her novels have received numerous awards: a Booksellers Best in 2005, a Holt Medallion in 2001 and 2003, the Texas Winter Rose 2003, the American Christian Romance Writers 2002 Book of the Year Award and the Romantic Times BOOKclub Reviewers Choice as best Love Inspired novel of 2002. At present, over one million copies of her books are in print.
When not behind her computer, Gail enjoys a busy life—traveling, presenting writers’ workshops, speaking at churches, business groups, libraries and civic centers. She is a soloist and member of her church’s choir, as well as a ringer in their handbell and hand-chime choirs. She also sings with the Detroit Lutheran Singers.
She enjoys hearing from her readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 7600063, Lathrup Village, MI 48076 or at [email protected]. Visit her Web site at www.gailmartin.com.
With Christmas in His Heart
Gail Gaymer Martin
In his heart a man plans his course,
but the Lord determines his steps.
—Proverbs 16:9
Acknowledgments
A huge thank-you to Kay Hoppenrath, a year-round resident of Mackinac Island, who kindly provided me with so much wonderful information about the island life, especially in winter, so that my story could be real. Though I tried to be accurate, I occasionally took a novelist’s prerogative. Mackinac Island has given me and all visitors wonderful memories. It is a special place that takes me back in time to a world we don’t know anymore. What a blessing. Also, thanks to bookseller Tamara Tomac, who found Kay as a willing ear for my questions.
To Shelly Gaponik, my niece, who helped me with my snowmobile lingo. Hopefully I got it right.
Thanks to physician Mel Hodde and writer friends Marta Perry and Carol Steward, who provided me with accurate stroke information.
As always to my husband, Bob, who is my right arm and my dearest friend and who provided me with stained-glass information.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Christine Powers clung to the railing of the ferry, chilled to the bone yet hot under the collar, a cliché her father often used.
Her father. Her parents. How could she begrudge them an anniversary cruise? Yet while they swayed in the tropic breezes, she had been trapped into this freezing trip to Mackinac Island to care for her grandmother.
Important projects were piled on her desk back in Southfield. Her clients’ deadlines had been pushed back as much as they could be so she could make the trip that had rankled her from the moment her father had asked.
She loved her grandmother. She loved her parents. But she also loved her career, and putting it in jeopardy hadn’t sat well with her.
The ferry bumped against the pier, giving her a jolt, and Christine watched a crew member toss a line to a dockhand. Her gaze moved up the long wooden pier to the island town. Through the swirling snowflakes she could see Fort Mackinac sitting proudly on a hill, its white concrete walls providing a barricade when, hundreds of years earlier, many nations entered the Michigan waters to take over the island.
In the summer, Christine loved Mackinac Island. She loved its history and landscape and the uniqueness that captured tourists from all over. But she didn’t love it now—not when she felt mired in the midst of too many projects that needed completion. She had advertising copy to edit, two ad campaigns to finalize and a new client to impress. The Dorset account would make her shine in the eyes of her firm.
A ragged sigh escaped, leaving a billow of white breath hanging on the air. She lifted her shoulders and grasped her carry-on bag, determined to get through the next few days.
When she heard the clang of the gangway, she maneuvered through the expansive benches toward the front of the boat to disembark. As she neared, she surveyed the prow, where she hoped to see her other bag, but the area stood bare.
A crewman flagged her forward, and she stepped onto the slippery ramp, clutching the railing until her feet hit the pier.
“Careful,” a crewman called.
She muttered a thank-you and had taken two steps forward when her foot slipped on the icy planking. She skidded, her arms flailing while her carry-on bag landed on the pier. A hand grasped her arm to steady her, and the crew member who’d warned her gave her a knowing grin.
She managed a smile—better than screaming—and retrieved her bag. She took guarded steps toward the ferry exit, where she eyed a workman unloading the luggage. She looked through the feathery flakes, praying hers was there and not left back in Mackinaw City.
If she weren’t so stressed, the snowfall would be appealing. The soft flakes drifted past her, twirling on the frigid breeze that streamed off the straits. Why would anyone want to live on an island so isolated in the winter? By the beginning of January their only escape would be by air until the ice bridge was ready.
A shiver ran through her as she stepped beneath the enclosure and reached the ferry’s cargo. Her worry eased when she spotted her suitcase. She set down her small bag and tugged at her luggage beneath the other baggage.
“Let me help.”
Her focus shifted to the stranger who’d stepped beside her. She jumped at his closeness, then was thrown off guard by his wide grin.