A Gift to Forget by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes memories are best forgotten.

***

(Source)

The parcel sat on her table, next to the previous day’s one. Small, wrapped in faded paper, she hadn’t had the heart to unwrap them. She remembered clearly the last time someone had given her any kind of parcel: it had been at work, and White Elephant gifts didn’t exactly fall into the same category. Plus, that had been years ago, long before she’d moved.

Heat curled around her shoulders, warding off the chill that still seemed to seep into her toes. The wind battled against her windows and the teacup in her hands only seemed to warm her palms.

“Another foot of snow is expected tonight, promising a white Christmas!” The weatherman was far too cheerful about this prospect. The urge to stick her tongue out at the television set was only curbed by the distraction of her oven timer sounding.

While the weather might have been frightful, her cookies smelled divine. Not that she wanted to eat all two dozen, but seeing as she knew no one in town, she figured it was a small sacrifice for some holiday cheer.

Tea, milk, Love, Actually streaming, and for a few minutes, she forgot about the storm. About the lack of any friendly faces at her new job (walking in on a business where everyone had been together for at least a decade didn’t bode well for the new person). Or about the small parcels on her table.

She really should open them. See what on earth someone had left, so carefully, on her doorstep. But, looking over at them, they made her smile. Maybe tomorrow. At least then there’d be something to look forward to.

Two movies later (A Christmas Story, and Christmas Vacation—both just for laughs), and she had a crick in her neck from the couch. With shambling steps, she made her way to her bed, turned her heating blanket to ‘high’ and fell sound asleep.

Sunlight streaming through the blinds woke her. How was it that no matter how she arranged them, somehow the light always hit her in the eyes? Curtains—she was buying some the next time she remembered.

Laying in bed, she stared up at the ceiling, it’s bright white stripped by light. Against the far wall, she’d set a couple paintings her friend had done for her, back before she’d moved. Today, she told herself, today she would hang those finally.

Remembering there were cookies for breakfast, she wrapped a blanket around herself—the sunshine meant another drop in temperatures, though she couldn’t quite figure out how that was possible.

Downstairs, cookies and hot chocolate made for a pleasant breakfast. She stared out the window at the pristine expanse of white that stretched from her front door, across the street, and to the neighbors. The sun caught on the crystals, reflecting a sea of tiny diamonds.

Staring out the window, absently pondering the potential book she’d read later on, she noticed that the expanse of snow wasn’t exactly pristine. A set of footprints marred it, running from the house across the street in her direction.

Moving toward her own front door, she stared out at the tracks, following them across the street to her own door.

Was this the answer to who left the little packages?

Steeling herself against the chill, she opened the door just enough to peek out onto her stoop. Sure enough, another small package sat there, this time with a bright bow adorning the top.

There weren’t cameras, were there? No one in this little town would be so crewel, would they? But the single set of prints didn’t seem to lend itself to that.

Had she seen whoever lived in the little house across the street? The place had been shrouded in shrubbery when she moved to town, but the winter cold now revealed a tiny blue house with bright white shutters tucked back from the street. A wisp of smoke emerged from the the roof and the sunshine reflected off the windows. Had she ever noticed anyone inside?

The bite of the cold seeped through her PJs and she shut the door, peering down at the lumpy little package in her hands. The paper was the same type—vintage and a bit wrinkly, like unsteady hands had applied the tape.

The three of them on her plain wooden table made a cheerful pile, something she hadn’t enjoyed since her parents left, a few years back. Just the sight of it made her grin. A little part of her didn’t want to open them, fearing that by doing so some bit of the magic they held would escape, like the smoke from her neighbor’s chimney.

With a fresh supply of cookies, she settled at her table, her speakers blaring a little Trans-Siberian Orchestra (might as well). The wrapping paper was a lot thicker than what she was used to, making the modern stuff seem like tissue paper. Taking care to not rip anything, she eased the first small gift from its wrapping.

Shaking her head, a thrill ran up her back. The second and third gifts went much the same. Together, on the table, she stared at them for at least an hour.

And she knew what she needed to do. She threw on some warm clothes, and gathered up a few supplies from around the house. It didn’t take more than five minutes to put it all together, and she even found a length of ribbon to tie her makeshift gift together.

It wasn’t hard to follow the gift-giver’s footsteps across the street. A few courageous people had driven past, too, making the street a little easier to navigate. But she still got snow down her boots as she walked across the snowy lawn, up to the front door, hidden behind the bare branches of what had been lilacs.

There was no bell, so she knocked, the wooden door a crisp white she fleetingly hoped she wouldn’t accidentally smudge.

The woman who answered had a face that she’d once heard described as “apple doll”—whatever that meant. Her eyes met hers from behind spectacles, startlingly dark and intense despite the web of wrinkled that surrounded them.

For a moment, she stood there, staring down at the old woman, her mouth opening and closing with unspoken words.

“Did you like them?” The woman asked, her grin dimpling her cheeks.

“I did. Thank you so much. I brought you a few cookies I baked last night. It’s not much of a thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I hope you enjoy them.” She held out her little package, her grin pulled tight in the cold.

The woman pulled the gift against her plump bosom. “I wanted you to know that you’re not completely alone this Christmas.”

“Thanks. That’s good to know. It’s been a bit hard since I moved here.”

With a nod and a shrug, the woman patted her arm and started to scuttle back inside her little blue home. “Thank you for this.”

“No trouble at all!” With a wave and a smile, she carefully made her way back toward the street.

A rush of wind tossed a fine mist of snow into the air, and she looked up to see that storm clouds started to build on the horizon, promising more snow to come.

She hurried back into her house, pulling back on comfortable clothes and settling onto her couch to read and watch the snow start to fall.

It didn’t take more than half an hour for the woman’s tracks, and her own, to be lost to new flakes. And when the ambulance finally arrived across the street, there was no trace that she’d ever visited, except for several half-eaten cookies and three small “gifts” she hid behind her water heater until the ground thawed enough for her to burry them.

***

Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!

Ayden's Gift by Kai Strand

How do you thank someone for saving you from yourself?

***

Selfishly, I let my hands rest on the swell of Ella’s hips a fraction longer than necessary after I positioned her in just the right spot.

“Did the blindfold slip? Are you peeking?”

A small smile tipped the ends of her mouth upward. “For the tenth time, Ayden, I’m not peeking. But I’m wondering if you should have clothes-pinned my nose too. I smell chocolate.”

I chuckled. “Stand here and don’t move. What else do you smell?”

I loved watching her nose twitch like a bunny’s as she sniffed the air. Tearing my attention away from her adorable, sightless exploration of our surroundings, I quickly unpacked the rest of the meal from the basket. Setting a dinner roll on each small plate. Uncovering the bowl of butter. Pouring cream soda—her favorite—into the glasses.

“Peppermint, maybe.” Ella tipped her nose toward the ceiling, the strands of the ice blue silk blindfold hanging long on her back. “Bread. Fire.” She giggled. “Or maybe heat. Does that even make sense?”

I smiled, but remained silent. She’d know soon enough. I pulled the top off a bowl and a groan rumbled in her throat. I eyed the pulse of skin over her carotid artery, suddenly hungry for something beside dinner. Can a boy live off the taste of a girl’s skin?

“Whatever that is,” she said in a rumbling, wistful voice, “it smells amazing. Oh my god, I’m drooling. Are you almost finished?”

I stepped in front of her and slid my hands back onto my favorite spot on her hips. She startled and her grin grew wider. How could I read both confusion and wonder in her smile?

“Oh, hello,” she said.

I couldn’t resist, I leaned forward and soaked the smile from her lips into my own. Though the action was tender and light, my desire was greedy and soon my lips, my grip on her waist, even my guarded internal thoughts demanded more of her than her sunny smile. I cooled the pressure when I felt her sway unsteadily. “Is the lack of sight making you off balance?”

“No,” she said, dreamily. “You’re making me swoon.”

I laughed. She always knew what to say to fortify me. I reached behind her, careful not to pull her hair as I untied her blindfold. “Okay, keep your eyes closed until I tell you.”

“Alright.”

Her voice and her smile were filled with anticipation. God, she was fun. Despite wanting to postpone her anticipation, I stepped to the side to clear her view of the room, but continued to face her. I wanted to see her reaction. “Okay. Open.”

Ella’s lids fluttered like she was trying to savor the anticipation. Then her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She sucked in a breath like she was going to speak, but nothing came out. She spun a slow circle. The reflection of more than thirty licks of candlelight defined her delicate features and flickered in her tear filled eyes. “It’s beautiful, Ayden.”

Suddenly I felt shy and awkward, even though she’d already expressed her approval. “Maria said beef stew is one of your favorites.”

“Maria?” Ella’s gaze swept across the table in the middle of the room, set with fine china, crystal stemware, and silver flatware.

I guided her toward her seat and pulled it out for her, gesturing for her to sit. It took her a beat longer than expected to fold into her chair, because she was busy taking in the atmosphere of the room.

“Who do you think helped me with all of this?” I smiled at the sudden arch of her eyebrows as I claimed my seat across from her. “I got the candles and stuff, but she came in to light them all and set the table. Of course she made the meal. As soon as I asked what your favorite meal was, she offered her assistance.”

Tears glimmered in Ella’s eyes. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” Her voice choked on emotion. “And now my two favorite people…”

I grasped her hand across the table and squeezed. “Ella, I know this isn’t a grand gesture by any means, but…”

“But it is!” She interrupted. “The candles, my favorite meal, the private setting. Where are we anyway?” Her eyes scanned the rustic paneling of my dad’s “hunting” cabin, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “Ayden, my parents have never surprised me with so much as a peck on the cheek. I’ve always been the one to plan things among my friends. I know how much thought went into this and I’m…” Her voice broke off and tears flooded her eyes again.

“I’d like to say we’re even then.” I gave her what I hoped was a snarky grin, but what probably looked desperate and needy. “You’ve saved me from myself, and I’ve shown you—I don’t know, a small measure of my…something—but truth is, I’ll never be able to repay what you’ve done for me.”

Ella laughed her tears away. “My motivations are strictly selfish. Who wouldn’t want to be your girlfriend? You’re handsome, rich and very attentive.”

The spark in her eye made me want to wrap my arms around her and attend to her lips. Instead, I raised my glass and waited for her to do the same. “Merry Christmas, Ella.”

She clinked her glass against mine. “Merry Christmas, Ayden. Thank you for making me feel very, very special.”

I took a sip and grasped her hand one more time before releasing it so she could enjoy her stew. “This meal doesn’t quite show how special you are. I hope to have many more opportunities to show you exactly what you mean to me.”

I leaned forward and feathered my lips across the back of her knuckles. The mischief in her eyes was a promise of opportunities to come.

***

This is a supplemental story to my Worth the Effort novella series. Though Ella and Ayden are happily celebrating Christmas together now, their relationship hasn’t always been so easy.

Ella’s Story (book 1) Ella Jones is a coward. There is a teen boy living in the alley behind her work and she is terrified of him. (Another gift: download for free from all major ebook retailers.)

And because there are two sides to every story:

Ayden’s Story (book 2) This isn’t the first time Ayden Worth has taken to the streets for comfort.

 ***

Thanks for your interest in my writing. I love talking books with readers and hope you’ll share your thoughts by leaving a comment. It’s easiest to get a hold of me through my website. Perhaps you expect my bio to say things about me, such as I hate to handle raw meat, I’m a wife and mother of four, a compulsive walker, and a Mozart fangirl. But since you stopped by, what I really want you to know is that I love that you read. Readers are smart, quick-witted, and usually good conversationalists—even if it’s only in their head. Introverts unite!

I write middle grade fiction because those are the most formative years of our lives. It’s when we are trying to claim our freedom, while still being restricted by rules. The things we learn in books can give us the skills to navigate that maze. I write young adult fiction because there are no limits to what message I share or how I share it. Plus young adult readers are some of the most passionate readers out there. I heart YA readers.

If you’d like an image of me as a writer, go ahead and picture me with my laptop in a quaint bookshop café, fingers flying over the keys while the words pour out of my fingertips. It’s much better than the real image of me in my pajamas with coffee breath, sinking into the me-sized crater in the couch, grumbling at my laptop when the words don’t come. 

For a list of my published work, visit www.kaistrand.com.