Songs of Christmas Read online

  The Cape Light Novels

  CAPE LIGHT

  HOME SONG

  A GATHERING PLACE

  A NEW LEAF

  A CHRISTMAS PROMISE

  THE CHRISTMAS ANGEL

  A CHRISTMAS TO REMEMBER

  A CHRISTMAS VISITOR

  A CHRISTMAS STAR

  A WISH FOR CHRISTMAS

  ON CHRISTMAS EVE

  CHRISTMAS TREASURES

  A SEASON OF ANGELS

  SONGS OF CHRISTMAS

  The Angel Island Novels

  THE INN AT ANGEL ISLAND

  THE WEDDING PROMISE

  A WANDERING HEART

  THE WAY HOME

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  Copyright © 2013 by The Thomas Kinkade Company and Parachute Publishing, LLC.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62666-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Spencer, Katherine, (date– )

  Thomas Kinkade’s Cape Light : Songs of Christmas / Katherine Spencer.

  pages cm. — (Cape light ; 2)

  ISBN 978-0-425-25569-8 (hardback)

  1. Cape Light (Imaginary place)—Fiction. 2. Christmas stories. 3. Christian fiction. I. Kinkade, Thomas, 1958–2012. II. Title. III. Title: Cape light. IV. Title: Songs of Christmas.

  PS3553.A489115T46 2013

  813'.54—dc23

  2013017985

  FIRST EDITION: November 2013

  Cover image: Victorian Christmas by Thomas Kinkade copyright © 1991 Thomas Kinkade.

  Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  Also by Katherine Spencer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Dear Reader

  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

  To singers and musicians everywhere—

  many in my own life—

  who so generously share their gifts

  and bring so much joy to others

  Dear Reader

  Christmas Eve was a magical time for me as a child. My parents always hosted a huge Christmas Eve party for our entire family. We had many traditions, including a very long dinner, with many courses, served at a very long table.

  Of course, the constant question from the children was: When can we open the presents? Finally, when it seemed no one could stand it anymore—or eat any more—all the guests would be herded into the living room to sit near the Christmas tree, which by then was surrounded with so many gifts, all beautifully wrapped and labeled, that you had to step around the packages to find a chair.

  The kids held their breath and tried to sit still and be good. Someone—my grandfather usually—was going to step up and play Santa, calling out the names now, right?

  Wrong. First we had to sing Christmas carols. Little booklets were passed around by my mother, who seemed to take special pleasure in the delay.

  It is very interesting that now I hardly remember the annual flurry of tearing off wrapping paper and bows that followed the singing. I do remember the songs, all of them, and how our family had a special way of shouting out the “Ho-ho-ho!” in “Jingle Bells.” And sang “O Come All Ye Faithful” with such slow, sweet sincerity—although quite off-key.

  My mother saved those Christmas carol booklets, and though not all have survived, with the aid of copying machines, we still have a full set, which we take out every Christmas and pass around to our guests . . . to the delight of the adults and the frustration of the younger set.

  But I trust that someday they, too, will cherish the memory of singing along with their family, songs of faith and good cheer, the essence and ever-lasting spirit of Christmas that cannot be ordered online or bought in any store.

  I hope this story will remind you of the songs and traditions you and yours enjoy at this season and your own cherished Christmas memories.

  Katherine Spencer

  Chapter One

  THE SCENT OF ROASTING TURKEY AND ALL THE TRIMMINGS filled every corner of the crowded kitchen behind Willoughby’s Fine Foods & Catering. It filled Amanda’s head, too, like a heavy, rich perfume.

  Amanda loved the smell, which announced the holiday as nothing else could. But on this particular Thanksgiving morning, she wasn’t roused by the lovely aroma while cuddling under a quilt or two. She was already hard at work in her stepmother’s catering shop, and had been there since very early that morning.

  Even here, the delicious smell conjured up so many memories—family and friends gathered around a big table, dishes passing from hand to hand. Her father carefully carving. Her sisters and cousins all vying for a chance to break the wishbone, until a concerned adult inevitably stepped in to pick the two lucky opponents. Amanda could still remember the excitement of being chosen.

  A mountain of wishes would be inspired by all the turkeys cooked in the big commercial ovens here today, now being packed for delivery. Amanda knew what she would wish for—just a chance to make a living playing her cello.

  She had tried hard to do just that for the past few months in New York City, sharing an apartment with friends after finishing a graduate degree at the prestigious Juilliard School. But things had not worked out as she had hoped.

  So here she was, back in Cape Light, living at home with her parents and her little sister, Betty. Working in her stepmother’s shop, packing about a million pies to go out with the dinner orders.

  Amanda was happy to do her task in a quiet corner while the rest of the shop’s staff dashed around in a frantic but strangely coordinated ballet, putting finishing touches on the many side dishes, packing containers, and assembling each order. Her stepmother, Molly, in her usual firm but cheerful way, sailed right in, orchestrating the chaos.

  “We’re doing great, guys. Do we need to make more gravy? I thought that second pot would do it . . .”

  Amanda focused on her job as the staff debated the gravy question, as well as a few others.

  Finally, Molly flung open the back door, and a gust of cold air swept through the small, hot space. Everyone paused to take a deep, refreshing b
reath.

  Molly glanced at her watch. “Nine fifty a.m., right on schedule. You’re the best, all of you.” She checked a clipboard as she looked over the packed orders that now stood side by side on the long steel table, the countertops, and even the floor. “Let’s load the first van. Sonia can leave with Brian. The route is near your house, Sonia. You can drop off Brian and take the van home when you’re done.”

  “Sounds good. I should get there just in time to take my own bird out of the oven.” Sonia, the most senior worker in the shop, grabbed a large box and carried it out to the nearest of the two vans that were parked by the back door. Brian, a kitchen helper who was just out of high school, followed with another box.

  “I can help.” Amanda came forward and grabbed another box.

  “Pink tickets go with Sonia, yellow tickets with us,” Molly instructed.

  Amanda nodded and checked the ticket on the box she was holding. She also hid her reaction to the news that she and Molly were going to drive around town making deliveries, too. They had arrived at the shop in pitch darkness, and Amanda was still half-asleep now. It had been hard getting out of bed at such an early hour, especially since she had stayed up way past midnight with her stepsisters, Lauren and Jill, who had just gotten home for the holiday. The three sisters hadn’t seen one another for months and had tons of catching up to do.

  But Molly needed her here this morning, no question. Molly’s catering partner, Betty Bowman, was in Chicago, visiting her son and daughter-in-law and her new granddaughter. Molly had been all in favor of Betty’s trip, nearly pushing her best friend out the door last weekend. But she had also told Amanda they would have to pick up the slack. That’s what it took when you ran your own business.

  These past few weeks, Amanda had become reacquainted with her stepmother’s steadfast “whatever it takes” attitude, a trait she had come to admire, even envy. Though when Amanda had first met Molly, over ten years ago, she had found many things about her personality more than a little intimidating. Amanda had never met anyone like her.

  Amanda’s mother had died when she was only eleven; she and her father had moved to Cape Light from Worcester three years later. She had always been shy, and the deep loss caused her to withdraw even more. Even her father had trouble reaching her. But Molly—and her two daughters, Lauren and Jill—had swept into their lives like a force of nature, surrounding both of them with hope and love. Amanda was just coming to see what a gift that had been.

  While Molly could be impatient and overly blunt at times, she was also amazingly warm, funny, and forgiving. Amanda knew she would always be pretty much the opposite of her stepmother, but she wouldn’t change a thing about her.

  She wasn’t sure when it had happened, but at some point in her adolescence—not too long after Molly and her father had married—Amanda stopped thinking of Molly as a “step” anything and just called her “Mom” . . . and had made a special place in her heart for her, too.

  If only she had inherited some of Molly’s genetic material.

  Maybe with a bit more of Molly’s grit, she wouldn’t have been so easily chewed up and spit out by city life and the fierce competition in her field. She would have managed to stick it out until she made a breakthrough. She wouldn’t have been so easily defeated.

  But I can’t look at it that way, she reminded herself. Listening to these doubting voices in my head won’t get me anywhere. Molly and her father kept reminding her of that. It was her father who finally persuaded her to come home.

  “You just need to get a second wind, honey, to regroup and make a new plan. Come home for the holidays. You can still go to auditions and interviews. And you’ll have more time to practice without all the pressure of paying the rent for a few months. Come back and let us help you. That’s what we’re here for.”

  Amanda knew her father meant well, but coming home to a small town in Massachusetts did feel like a big step backward. She had loved living in New York, having her own apartment, and supporting herself. Even if it meant taking lots of jobs that had nothing to do with music, like temping in an office or waiting tables. But when both of her roommates suddenly needed to move out and Amanda was stuck with the entire rent and utility bills, and a good job she’d been counting on—as a musical accompanist for a well-known dance troupe—failed to come through, she knew it was time to take her parents’ advice, give notice on the lease, pack up, and go home.

  “One down, one to go.” Molly waved cheerfully at Sonia as she drove the first van out of the lot. Amanda waved, too, then followed Molly back into the kitchen.

  “We must have made half the turkeys in town today, Mom.”

  Molly laughed. “If not half, then very close. Hope we can fit the rest in our van.” Molly surveyed the boxes that were left. “I really don’t want to come back for a second load.”

  Amanda didn’t want to either, but she always tried to do whatever was asked without complaint, just like any other employee. It wasn’t easy being the boss’s daughter.

  They had just started loading the second van when Amanda heard knocking on the front door of the shop. The sound stopped for a moment, then started up again, even louder.

  Molly heard it, too. “Can’t they see we’re closed today? I taped a big sign right in the middle of the door last night. Would someone please tell that person to come back tomorrow?”

  “I’ll go.” Amanda quickly walked through the kitchen and the swinging door that opened into the shop.

  She saw a man outside, peering through the panes of glass on the shop door. His hands cupped his eyes for a better view. When he spotted her coming to his rescue, he stepped backed and smiled.

  Whoa, cute one, she thought. He was about her age, maybe a few years older. Despite the cold, he wore just a thick sweater and a tweed blazer with a pair of worn jeans. He smiled even wider when she unlocked the door, and the words “We’re closed” got stuck in her throat. A breeze tossed his wavy brown hair. His sparkling blue eyes and charming smile were more than distracting.

  Amanda was suddenly conscious of her unflattering uniform, lopsided ponytail, and the fact that she had rolled out of bed before dawn and had barely washed her face.

  Great. First good-looking guy I’ve seen around here in weeks, and I look like I’ve been slaving in a medieval kitchen . . . And I must smell like a roast turkey.

  She ducked her head and opened the door a crack. “I’m sorry, the shop is closed today. We’re only here to fill the catering orders. There’s a sign . . .” She checked the door but realized the sign was missing. Then she noticed it had fluttered to the ground. “Oh, here it is . . . See?” She picked up the sheet of paper and held it out for him to read.

  “Oh, right. Sorry to bother you. But all I need is a pie. A pumpkin pie? Or maybe apple? A small pecan? There must be one spare, leftover pie back there . . . somewhere?”

  He peered over her shoulder as if he suspected piles of pies were stashed behind the kitchen door. Amanda didn’t know what to say. She actually knew that this was true. There were piles of pies back there, and probably at least one spare.

  She also knew Molly had told her to shoo him away. But his imploring expression was now as distracting as his smile had been moments before.

  Before she could answer, the door to the kitchen opened and Molly appeared. “Amanda? Are you all right out here?”

  Amanda turned to her stepmother. “This customer just needs a pie. There are a few extra, aren’t there?”

  “Any kind would do,” he jumped in. “I promised I’d get it here. Otherwise, my mother would have baked it herself.” Amanda wasn’t surprised. A lot of people said that about Molly’s food, especially the bakery items. The shop made everything from scratch with the same recipes and ingredients Molly used at home. “She had so much to do to make dinner, I didn’t want her to have to bake, too.”

  Thoughtful and considerate of his mother, as well? That did seem too good to be true. Amanda wondered if he was making all this up. She
glanced at Molly to gauge her reaction. Her stepmother had an infallible baloney detector and could smell a story a mile off.

  Molly squinted at him, then finally waved her hand. “Oh, get him a pie, Amanda. For goodness’ sake. How about pumpkin? I’m sure we have a few extra in that category.”

  “Pumpkin would be perfect.”

  “Okay. I’ll be right back.” Amanda followed Molly to the kitchen and found a pumpkin pie that was already boxed. “It’s twelve dollars, right?”

  Molly was flipping through a thick sheaf of orders. “The register is closed. Just give it to him. After that sweet story about his mom and all . . .” She looked up and rolled her eyes, but Amanda could tell she’d been won over. “It is Thanksgiving.”

  “Whatever you say.” Molly was so generous. She never missed a chance to share the shop’s abundance and her own good fortune.

  Amanda pushed through the swinging door again and spotted her customer standing just where she had left him. He met her glance as she walked over, smiling mostly with his eyes.

  Amanda presented the box. “Here you are. One pumpkin pie.”

  “I appreciate this very much. What do I owe you?” He balanced the box in one hand and reached for his wallet with the other.

  “No charge. My step . . . I mean, the owner,” she quickly corrected herself, “said not to worry about it.”

  “Are you sure? I’d be happy to pay you double,” he added with another disarming smile. “Honestly.”

  Amanda shook her head. “It’s fine. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanks. Same to you. You already made my day happy.”

  He looked down at her a moment as if he wanted to say something more. Then he just smiled, pulled open the door, and walked out.

  For goodness’ sake . . . it was only a pie. But Amanda couldn’t help feeling a little glow. She latched the door, then watched him walk quickly across the street, holding the box with both hands. She was in the kitchen mostly, rarely working out in the shop. Did attractive guys swoop in here all the time? She would have to ask Molly to be assigned to the counter more often.