A Christmas Promise Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Christmas Promise

  A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2004 by Thomas Kinkade, The Thomas Kinkade Company

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1496-1

  A BERKLEY BOOK®

  Berkley Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: November, 2005

  Contents

  DEAR FRIENDS

  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

  DEAR FRIENDS

  When I was a child, Christmas was my favorite holiday. The sweet smell of gingerbread cookies baking in the oven, the joyful bells jingling on our front door, the presents piled high under the tree—these were the things I remember fondly from my childhood. Christmas, more than any other holiday, rang with the promise of wonderful things to come.

  Christmas continues to be my favorite time of year. During this joyous season, I love to sit by the fireside and reflect on the true meaning of the holiday. Beneath the tinsel and wrapping paper and all the colorful lights, there lies a simple message of God’s love for us all.

  When I paint my Christmas scenes, I try to capture the beauty of the season and all of its promise. Homes with candlelight shining through the windows, welcoming all who pass by, this glowing light is so poignant—a symbol of warmth and love and rays of hope that shine through the dark of winter.

  So come with me this Christmas to Cape Light, a small coastal New England town, and we will visit the glowing homes along the shore. Cape Light is a place where the people celebrate their joys and help each other through their sorrows. Like all towns, Cape Light has people with open hearts and others whose hearts have yet to open. . . .

  Let’s visit with a young woman named Leigh Baxter, an outsider who comes to Cape Light desperately in need of a haven, and a minister named James Cameron who wonders if he has lost his calling. Let’s look in on Sam and Jessica Morgan who, in the midst of holiday celebrations, are facing challenges that will shake their relationship to its core. Let us see how Cape Light bestows on them the true gifts of the season. These are, of course, love and forgiveness and faith, the very gifts that God gave to us on this most joyous of days.

  Welcome to Cape Light, where it is my hope that these same gifts will find their way into your heart.

  —Thomas Kinkade

  CHAPTER ONE

  JAMES CAMERON STEPPED FROM THE CHURCH INTO THE frigid night air. Snowflakes drifted down on his cheeks and hair, melting wet and cold as they landed. He stopped short and took a sharp breath. Then, reaching out, he caught a few and watched as they magically disappeared.

  Reverend Ben Lewis lagged a few steps behind, locking the heavy wooden door. “Been a while since you’ve seen the white stuff, James?”

  “More than two years, I guess. It’s funny how you forget.”

  “I forget myself. The first snowfall always catches me by surprise.”

  Standing side by side, the two men looked out at the village green, already covered by a thick, silvery blanket; the snow-covered branches, hanging heavy and low. Just past the green, the village harbor stretched empty and mysterious as snow drifted down to the dark shifting water. The sight was mesmerizing, and neither man spoke for a long moment.

  “It looks like a painting,” James said.

  “Yes . . . doesn’t it? And we know who the artist is without checking the corner for His signature.” Ben grinned at his friend and pulled his car keys from a pocket. “Let me give you a lift. You can pick up your car tomorrow.”

  “That’s all right. I’m not going far.”

  Ben wondered if he should say something more then stopped himself. He knew the visiting minister hadn’t driven in weather like this for a long time, at least two years by his own admission. But he also knew how James valued his independence. He resisted all coddling, despite the fact that he was still recuperating from the illness that had demanded a leave from his mission work in Nicaragua.

  He’ll be all right, Ben reasoned. He’ll have to drive in snow sooner or later and probably worse than this flurry once the winter goes into full gear.

  “It doesn’t usually snow this early up here, does it?” James asked.

  “Two weeks before Thanksgiving? No, this is unusual,” Ben admitted, though he held back from saying that he was afraid that the mid-November snowfall might betoken a severe winter.

  Huddled in their parkas, Ben and James tromped across the green and started up their cars.

  James turned the ignition key, sending up a quick prayer as the engine coughed and sputtered before finally turning over. A well-intentioned gift from a church member, the gray hatchback was hardly the newest model in town. But it had good tires and brakes and, so far, a reliable battery. The radio got three stations if you slapped the dashboard. James was grateful for it.

  The snow was still soft enough to whisk off with windshield wipers. James found a brush in his trunk and cleared off the rear window. He glanced down the street and saw Ben doing the same. Finally, Ben pulled his car out. He waved through the window, then turned at the first corner he came to, and headed for the parsonage, which was walking distance from the village.

  James drove up Main Street, past the shops and restaurants, toward the Beach Road. It was Friday evening, just past ten, but Cape Light had never been a place known for its nightlife, and the snowfall seemed to have made Main Street even more deserted than usual at this time of night. One café near the green, the Beanery, was still open. Farther down, the movie theater marquee was still bright. Since it was Friday night, there was a late show, James recalled. But the rest of the street looked empty and still, the dark storefront windows reflecting a glow from the old-fashioned street lamps that lined the sidewalks.

  Main Street had been plowed and sanded, but when he reached the Beach Road he found it slower going. The winding, two-lane route was bordered by trees and narrowed by drifts of snow on either side. James felt his small car swerve as he navigated a tight bend and slowed to a near crawl.

  I’d better be careful. I don’t want to miss the turn. It’s hard enough to find that road in broad daylight. . . .

  James had been staying with Vera Plante since September, when he’d arrived in town. A widow living on a small fixed income, Vera made ends meet by renting rooms in her large Victorian-style house. James wouldn’t describe it as
a boardinghouse, but it wasn’t quite a bed-and-breakfast either. Vera did serve her houseguests—as she preferred to call her paying customers—breakfast and dinner a few days a week, though her schedule was random and her cooking skills questionable. While the house was often full in the summer, James was the only guest at present. He could see that Vera really didn’t like sharing her home with strangers and did so only out of necessity. She hid this reluctance under an air of particularity, and he sometimes wondered if even he, a minister and the very model of an ideal boarder, met her high standards.

  He spotted a turn coming up on the right but didn’t recognize any landmarks. He slowed down, straining to read the sign. Evergreen Way. No, that wasn’t it. He wanted Meadowlark Lane. Funny how the snow changed the way things looked, he thought.

  James leaned forward, peering at the road through the frost-covered windshield. Chunks of ice clung to the wipers now, streaking the glass and obscuring his view with a frost coating. He reached down and turned up the defroster, but the windshield quickly fogged over and he realized he’d turned the wrong dial. He swiped at the fog with his hand, smearing the glass all over, which helped for a moment then seemed to make matters even worse.

  “Now I’ve done it. . . . Cover your ears, Lord. I’m about to say something really outrageous. . . .”

  Then the road took a sudden dip and James put both hands back on the wheel, steering into the turn as he felt the car swerve over an ice patch.

  The red taillights of another vehicle suddenly appeared straight ahead. Too close, he realized. He hit the brakes but it was too late. His car skidded forward. He pulled the steering wheel hard to one side, trying to avoid impact, but his brakes had locked. Seconds later, the front fender of the hatchback plowed into the other car’s trunk with a dreadful crunch.

  “Dear God . . . help me, please,” James managed through gritted teeth. Finally, his car slowed and stopped, stuck in a high ridge of snow at the edge of the road.

  The other vehicle lurched forward, swerving off the road, then down the snow-covered shoulder. It rolled on slowly for a few feet, finally coming to a stop against a line of bushes and deer fencing.

  James felt his seat belt pull taut against his shoulder, pinning him to his seat, and suddenly opened his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he had shut them. His hands still gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. I’m not dead was his first thought. Thank you, his second.

  He took a deep breath. A spot on top of his leg, just above his knee, throbbed with pain, and he reasoned he must have slammed it into the underside of the dashboard. Other than that, it seemed he was unharmed.

  What about the other driver or passengers? He swallowed hard, opened his door, then stumbled through the snow to the other car. Its door hung open and he saw that the other driver was a woman. The air bag had opened and now drooped deflated across her lap.

  “Are you all right?”

  She stared at him, her large brown eyes reflecting his own sense of shock. “I think so. . . .”

  “Are you alone?” Finally reaching the car, he peered in through the door.

  She nodded then stared down with a sudden change in her expression that made him afraid she might faint or be sick.

  He crouched by the open car door. “Don’t try to get up. Take a few deep breaths.”

  She stared straight ahead then did as he advised. The overhead light in her car revealed wisps of curly brown hair framing a pale face.

  “At least I hit something soft and not a tree,” she said after a moment.

  That was something to be thankful for, he thought.

  “My windshield fogged and by the time I saw you, it was too late,” he began to explain. “I couldn’t stop.”

  “It wasn’t your fault. It’s the snow. You couldn’t help that.”

  That was true, James thought. But it was still good of her to say so. A lot people would be ranting at him right now. Especially considering the condition of her car, which was crunched in accordion-style in the rear and buried hood deep in front.

  “Sit tight. I’m going to call the police and get some help.”

  “The police? Do you really think you have to? Can’t we just call a tow truck or something?”

  He glanced at her, surprised by her reaction. Beneath her reasonable tone he sensed a certain note of anxiety.

  “I mean, we both seem to be fine,” she added, “and we’ll probably be sitting out here in the cold forever if we have to wait until someone comes.”

  All that was true. He knew that many people settled their little fender benders without making official reports. But he wasn’t the type to go around the law.

  “That’s all right; I’ll deal with it. You’re really supposed to report an accident.”

  She sat back again and took a breath. “Yes, of course. I just wanted to spare you the bother, that’s all.”

  James watched her face as he took out his cell phone and dialed 911. He had a feeling that calling in the police made her nervous. Maybe she had parking tickets or some other reason to feel anxious about her driving record. People were funny that way. Lots of people who were perfectly law abiding got totally unglued by the mere sight of a uniformed policeman.

  She certainly didn’t look like a person who had something to hide. Her features were delicate and even, her smooth skin bare of makeup except for a worn dash of lipstick. She wore small pearl earrings and a thin gold watch but no wedding ring, he noticed.

  He knew that you couldn’t judge a person by his or her appearance. Still, he got a feeling about her just from the way she’d spoken to him, saying the accident wasn’t his fault. He tended to trust his impressions. As a minister he was trained to be perceptive, and he’d always had an innate sense of the human heart; all of which made him a good judge of character. But not infallible, he reminded himself.

  The 911 operator came on quickly and James explained the situation, estimating their location. “An officer is in the area. He’s on his way,” the emergency dispatcher said.

  James ended the call and turned back to the other driver. She’d pulled on a pair of leather gloves and a stylish wool hat and now sat rubbing her hands together. “Someone will be here in a few minutes,” he told her. “The heater is still working in my car. Why don’t we wait there?”

  “All right.” The woman nodded and turned slowly in her seat, preparing to get out of the car. James offered his hand, seeing how the car was sunk so deeply in the snow.

  She glanced at him a moment then grabbed his hand and levered herself forward. As she pushed the deflated air bag aside and swung her legs around, James felt his mouth drop open but couldn’t stop his reaction.

  She was pregnant.

  About six months, or maybe more, from the looks of her rounded belly underneath a wraparound wool coat.

  “You’re . . . expecting?”

  She blinked at him and glanced down at her stomach. “Seems so.” Her flat, faintly amused tone made him feel embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry to sound shocked . . . but you should have told me. Are you sure you’re all right? Maybe I should call an ambulance.”

  Once again, he noticed a wary look in her eyes, but when she spoke her voice was level and calm. “The air bag worked perfectly. I didn’t feel a thing. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  She did seem fine and he fervently hoped that was true. Still he felt concerned. “Are you sure? I could come with you if you’re concerned about going to the hospital alone.”

  “Is the hospital far?”

  “Well . . . yes. About an hour or so south of here, in Southport.”

  “Oh . . . that is far. And I would be sitting in some waiting room for hours, I’m sure, since it’s not really an emergency. . . .” She stared out at the snow for a moment then turned to him again. “I think I’ll just try to see a doctor tomorrow. I’m sure I’m okay, honestly.”

  Her brown eyes were wide. Her tone, quiet and persuasive. Still, he worried. If th
e collision had injured the baby, he’d never forgive himself. But he couldn’t force her to go. Perhaps she didn’t have insurance and was worried about the cost and that was why she was so reluctant.

  “All right. Let me help you to the car at least.” He took her arm and helped her through the snow.

  Maybe a police officer would persuade her to go to the hospital, James thought. And what was an extremely pregnant woman doing traveling alone on a night like this? That didn’t seem right either. But then again, the heavy snow had been a surprise; the forecast had only called for flurries.

  When they reached his car he opened the passenger-side door for her. “Have a seat. I’ll get the heater going.”

  She climbed in and he shut the door. Then he got in the driver side and turned the keys, which were still in the ignition. Luckily the car started easily. He turned up the heater and flicked on the emergency flashers. The car had ended up far to one side of the road, out of the way of anyone passing; waiting inside seemed safe. The road was so empty tonight. Nobody had come by yet, he noticed. Most people in this town would stop to help if they saw two stranded cars, even if they didn’t know you. Unusual, but that’s just they way they were in Cape Light.

  “By the way, my name is James Cameron. Reverend Cameron, actually.” James turned to his companion and stuck out his hand. She looked surprised by his title then smiled slightly and shook his hand. People were often surprised when he told them what he did for a living. He wasn’t sure what they expected a minister to look like, but it certainly wasn’t him.

  “How do you do, Reverend. I’m Leigh Baxter.”

  James smiled at her briefly. His usual response would be “nice to meet you” but that seemed inappropriate under the circumstances. Instead, he asked if she was warm enough.

  She nodded and he didn’t know what else to say. An awkward silence hung between them, and James glanced at his watch. He felt bad for wrecking this woman’s car, no matter that it was more the fault of the weather. And she being pregnant to boot.