Blue Christmas (The Moody Blue Trilogy | Book One) Read online

  The Moody Blue Trilogy • Book One

  Diane Moody

  Copyright © Diane Moody 2011All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Cover design by OBT Graphix

  Photo © Kutt Niinepuu | Dreamstime.com

  Photo © mrtwister | Dreamstime.com

  Photo © Sofiaworld | Dreamstime.com

  Photo © sylvanworks | istockphoto.com

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  O Come, O Come Emmanuel, (Veni, Veni, Emanuel), lyric author unknown, translated from Latin to English by John M. Neale in 1851. Public domain.

  A Quiet Simple Kiss, original lyrics © Diane Moody

  Always and Forever, original lyrics © Diane Moody

  It Is Well With My Soul, lyrics by Horatio Spafford, 1873. Public domain.

  Love You Forever, original lyrics © Diane Moody

  The Moody Blue Trilogy

  Three stand-alone stories, each with a different cast of characters, woven

  together by a common blue thread against a backdrop of music.

  Blue Christmas

  an unexpected rock star love story

  Blue Like Elvis

  a hospital romance in the shadow of the king

  Blue Moon Over Nashville

  broken hearted discord in Music City

  (coming 2013)

  Other books by Diane Moody

  The Runaway Pastor’s Wife

  Tea with Emma

  Book One of the Teacup Novellas

  Strike the Match

  Book Two of the Teacup Novellas

  Confessions of a Prayer Slacker

  Blue Like Elvis

  Book Two of the Moody Blue Trilogy

  Now available –

  Book Two of the Moody Blue Trilogy

  Blue Like Elvis

  By Diane Moody

  Click HERE

  Other Great Books

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  The beloved little book that has made a difference

  in lives of so many is now

  available for the first time as an ebook

  Confessions of a Prayer Slacker

  By Diane Moody

  Click HERE

  "This book was absolutely hilarious

  and absolutely charming."

  ORDAINED IRREVERENCE

  By McMillian Moody

  Click HERE

  “The twists and turns in the story kept me

  reading every spare minute. I loved this book!”

  THE RUNAWAY PASTOR’S WIFE

  by Diane Moody

  Click HERE

  ”What Diane Moody did in this short novel

  is tell a delightful story that is so creative

  and heartwarming, it could be a movie.”

  TEA WITH EMMA

  By Diane Moody

  Click HERE

  “A great read. Diane Moody knows how

  To bring her people to life on paper.

  And place them in your heart.”

  STRIKE THE MATCH

  By Diane Moody

  Click HERE

  Acknowledgments

  A tremendous thanks to my friends and family for their support and encouragement along the way for this story with its unique history—especially to Sally Wilson, Joy DeKok, and Ken Moody. Couldn’t have done it without you!

  A special thanks to ol’ Eagle Eyes himself—Glenn Hale. Beyond your gifted editing expertise, thank you for liking my story so much. Who knew a World War II vet would enjoy a love story about a girl and her teen heartthrob? Love you, Dad.

  To Dana Myers—best friend from high school, former college roommate, and my all-time favorite Spanish linguist. Thanks also to your Spanish colleague, Maria Waldrup. Dana, you haven’t met Sergio yet, but he appreciates you and Maria correcting the words I put in his mouth. Or, as he would say, “¡Muchas gracias!”

  To my amazing friend and former co-worker Denise Wells who was there at the start and made the writing of this story so much more fun. Thanks for reading my story as I wrote it, chapter by chapter, and giving me such great feedback and encouragement. Thanks also for not mocking this middle-age mom for listening to her daughter’s “boys in the band” while she worked in the cubby across the room from you. And don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul about that concert we went to that summer night. The one at LP Field with all those teenage girls screaming about those cute boys up on stage. Your secret is safe with me, Dee.

  To Allison Greer, Jenny Burke and the rest of my daughter’s best friends from Harpeth High School in Kingston Springs, Tennessee, who read each and every installment of our story and kept asking for more. You inspired me to keep writing, and I’ll forever thank you for that. Thanks for the memories!

  To my best friend and the love of my life—my husband Ken who has made this whole publishing adventure such a great ride. Thanks for your eternal optimism, your continued belief in me as an author, and for all your help in designing a book cover to do justice to this story. (Rumor has it, the cover really “pops” . . .) Maybe this one will get us to that beach in Hawaii!

  And last but not least, to my daughter Hannah. I will never forget this incredible larger-than-life journey we shared, sweetheart. Thanks for inspiring me to write this story, for all those brainstorming sessions dreaming up plot twists and turns, and for those unforgettable front row seats in the up close and personal shadows of your boys in the band. Didn’t we make the best memories? I am so, so proud of the woman you’ve become. Love you, Nanner.

  Author’s Note

  A little background on this story . . .

  Once upon a time there lived a beautiful young teenager in our home, our daughter Hannah. Like so many others her age, she was smitten—make that, obsessed—by a band whose music topped the charts and won Grammys by the armful. The band was made up of five young men, some of them not much older than she was. Their pictures covered her bedroom walls so completely, you’d be hard pressed to know the color of the paint on those walls.

  When she was still too young to drive, I chauffeured Hannah and her girlfriends to see her band in concert in our city. A couple years later she won a local radio contest by plastering the outside of our home with banners and posters and enormous pictures of her five beloved singers. The prize? Two front row tickets when their new tour came to town, and she took me as her special guest. What a precious memory that night was, sharing it with her. I don’t think she stopped grinning the entire evening.

  And I’m pretty sure the cute dark-haired one winked at me. Actually, he might have winked at me two or three times. Or maybe he just had something in his eye.

  For Christmas that year, I wrote a story for her about a young woman named Hannah, a college senior who inadvertently meets her former teen heartthrob—one of the boys in the band—quite by accident. I didn’t know it then, but it would one day be labeled fan fiction. Who knew such a genre existed? I printed off the short story, tied it with a red ribbon, and slipped it under her door. She loved it. Then she shared it with her friends who all pleaded, “Write more! Write more!” (No sweeter words to an author’s ears.)

  And so I did. In installments, I wrote the story you’re about to read with the help of my daughter. We’d pile up on the sofa when she came home from school and brainstorm
plot lines and story ideas. Good times.

  The internet had just exploded on the landscape of our lives, and Hannah found an online website featuring these fan fictions stories about “her” boys in the band. She submitted my story and suddenly, girls all over the world were begging, “Write more! Write more!” We would eventually register more than 80,000 hits on that page over the course of the next year. I received more than one thousand fan letters via email along the way.

  And to my surprise, some of them even asked questions about the thread of faith we wove into that love story. Those were my favorites.

  Of course, the story on the following pages has changed a lot from that first version. The band and its members have all been fictionalized, and the character of Hannah is much different than my Hannah, who is now grown and married and completely amazing.

  And last I looked, the walls in her loft apartment don’t have a single picture of those boys in the band . . .

  To Hannah

  my beautiful daughter,

  my pride and joy,

  my inspiration.

  Chapter 1

  Chapel Hill, North Carolina

  “These cranberries are rancid. I want my money back.” The old man straightened his back in defiance.

  Standing behind the grocery counter, Hannah Brooks exhaled as she tried to carefully guard her words. “And I told you I’ll be happy to give you your money back, but I need to see your receipt. It’s store policy. Otherwise, how do we know you didn’t buy those from another store? I mean no disrespect, sir, but there’s no way you bought those here two days ago. Look at them—they’re mush!” Fingers splayed, she pinched the edge of the bag and dropped it back in his hands. “And for the record, we don’t even carry that brand.” She stared him down and watched the crimson darken his face.

  He wiped his brow with a wrinkled blue bandana then jammed it back in his coat pocket. “I demand to speak to your supervisor.”

  “Fine. I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to talk with you when he gets back.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “Next year. He’s on vacation.” She flashed him a smile then busied herself wiping down the glass-covered scanner beside her register.

  “Then who’s in charge here?”

  “I am.”

  He turned to the well-dressed woman behind him, clearly hoping for some reinforcement. She looked unimpressed when he stepped closer, waving a gnarled finger back in Hannah’s direction as he repeated his complaint. Hannah recognized the woman as one of her regular customers, the kind who occasionally stopped by late at night for a carton of milk or loaf of bread. They’d always exchanged pleasantries, sometimes a brief chat if the store wasn’t busy. She was always friendly, though Hannah realized she didn’t know her name. Just another regular face in the Alexander’s Grocery family of customers.

  When the grouch finished wheezing his frustrations, the woman raised her eyebrows and glared at him over her half-glasses. “For heaven’s sake, pops, it’s Christmas Eve. Is a three dollar bag of cranberries really worth all this fuss?”

  He growled a couple of colorful profanities in her direction then barked at her. “And who asked you? Mind your own business, broad!”

  The woman shot a quick glance at Hannah then got in his face, her manicured nail poking him in the chest. “This IS my business. You’re taking my time and you’re irritating me. So take your silly cranberries and hit the road, Scrooge.”

  He clamped his mouth shut, clutched the berries to his chest, turned on his heel, and stomped out the door.

  The woman looked at Hannah with wild eyes, then just as fast burst into laughter. Hannah welcomed the sudden break in tension and joined her until they could laugh no more. She pulled her thick brown hair into a ponytail and tried to regain her composure. “Honestly, there must be a full moon out there tonight. Do you believe that guy? So much for Christmas spirit.”

  The lady, her long blonde hair woven in an elegant French braid, nodded her head in agreement. “Wasn’t he a trip? But I thought you handled him like a real pro . . . Hannah,” she said, noting the engraved nametag on Hannah’s dark green bib apron. “You were completely polite until he became unreasonable. So don’t you give him a second thought. People like him live their whole lives just trying to aggravate the rest of us.”

  “I guess. All the crazies are out tonight, y’know? It’s been like this all day. Does everyone wait to do their holiday grocery shopping on Christmas Eve? It’s been a zoo in here.” She scanned the jumbo bag of peanut M&M’s. “Then again, you strike me as someone who’s had her shopping done for weeks, and I would bet this—” she held up the bag of candy—“is a stocking stuffer for someone very special. Am I right?”

  The woman’s face warmed as a smile graced her gentle features. Tiny laugh lines fanned her soft blue eyes. “You found me out. My son is coming home tonight and I completely forgot his favorite candy. I know it’s silly—he’s 27 years old. Not exactly a little boy any more. But it’s one of those holiday traditions, and I couldn’t help myself. I hardly get to see him anymore, so I’ve got to spoil him when I can, right?” Her smile faded when she looked back up at Hannah.

  Hannah realized the tears pooling in her own eyes must have caught her attention. She felt a tear break free just as the woman reached for her hand and patted it maternally.

  “Why, what’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”

  Hannah wiped her eyes with the back of her other hand. “Oh no, really—it’s me. I’ve been so depressed all day.” She felt the catch in her voice. The sound of it destroyed what little resistance she had left. “I mean, it’s Christmas Eve and I’m stuck here for the holidays. I’m the assistant manager—this is just a part-time job while I’m in school . . .” The words gained momentum as her misery spilled out, but she couldn’t help herself. “But Jim, my boss, had a sudden death in his family. He had to go—it’s not like he had a choice. And I’m next in line, so it fell on me to work through the holiday weekend.”

  Her nose ran like a faucet and she hiccupped, trying to catch her breath. Oh brother. I must sound like such a whiner. She paused to take another breath, sending a new wave of tears down her face. “My whole family is away in Colorado on a skiing trip. I was supposed to go, but I just couldn’t do that to Jim. And my best friend Kylie went home to be with her family for the holidays, and here I am.” She took a deeper breath this time and looked up at the woman. “Listen to me, carrying on like some blubbering idiot. I’m sorry, I really am.”

  “That’s okay, sweetheart, you just blubber away.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to drag you into my stupid little pity party like this. It’s completely unprofessional. I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t drag me into anything. There’s nothing worse than being separated from family, especially during Christmas. But surely you don’t have to work tomorrow, do you?”

  “No, the store is closed for the day, thank goodness. I should be grateful for that and just get a grip.”

  The lady looked around this way then that. Finally, she looked back at Hannah. “Since it appears I’m the only customer left, I have a wonderful idea.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “What time do you get off?”

  Hannah wiped her eyes and nose with the hem of her apron then looked at the clock on the wall. “Actually, we’re closed now. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

  “Perfect!” She clapped her hands for emphasis. “How would you like to join my husband and me for a Christmas Eve service at our church? It starts in about an hour. Then we always have a quiet dinner at home after the service. I would love for you to join us.”

  Hannah shook her head. “Oh no. I mean, that’s really nice and all, but I just couldn’t. I wouldn’t want to impose on your family like that. No offense, but I hardly know you.”

  “Nonsense. We’re old friends! I see you in here all the time. We’ve talked about everything from the weather and football to Carolina politics! That
’s more than some married couples talk in a lifetime, by the way.”

  Hannah watched her, the gentleness of her eyes, her easy smile. She was certainly no one to worry about. The small diamond cross hanging from a delicate chain on her neck shined like a beacon of reassurance. Still, Hannah wasn’t used to taking risks with a near stranger. Much less a near stranger’s family.

  “Besides, I told you my son is coming home. He’d be thrilled to have someone his own age around. Especially someone as pretty as you.”

  Hannah could feel the heat warm her cheeks. She averted her eyes, closing the register and turning off the light above her. “Look, I know you mean well, but I’m not really comfortable with matchmaking, if you know what I mean. But thank you any—”

  “Matchmaking? Who said anything about matchmaking? Although, I must say you are a refreshing change from some of the bimbos he’s brought home.”

  An unexpected scenario tiptoed through Hannah’s mind . . .

  “Mom? Dad? I’m home!” shouts the handsome son as he throws open the front door. “I want you to meet someone. Bambi, this is my mother and father. Mom, Dad, this is Bambi.” His eyes turn to Hannah who sips eggnog, seated on the sofa between his parents. “And who is this? Picking up strays again, Mom?”

  An involuntary shudder raced down Hannah’s back. She shook her head again, this time with resolve. “No, I just don’t think it’s a good idea. But thank you anyway.”