Chistmas Ever After Read Online Free Page A

protect herself from the outside world, filled with its slow dull pain and awful, fickle realities.
    She gazed into the jagged flames, watching the logs shift, hearing the crackle and hiss of the wood. Slowly, she eased down next to the fire, feeling the heat of it, beginning another battle with the unseen enemies of her thoughts. She closed her eyes, and it was almost as if she could see the accusing red eyes of her thoughts looking back at her, sensing her vulnerability. They were awful, guilty thoughts, with the sharp teeth of rodents, waiting for her to relax enough for them to pounce and tear her to pieces.
    She shut her eyes and, again, offered a silent plea for help.

CHAPTER 3
     
    It was December 22nd, and it was snowing again; a steady, quiet snowfall, devoid of the sharp chill that usually sailed down from Canada. A heavy accumulation was forecasted.
    Frances Wintergreen, a white-haired woman with playful blue eyes that sparkled with wonder, sat perched behind the wheel of her candy-apple-red 1957 Ford Fairlane, peering through the windshield at the slapping windshield wipers. She took in the scenery as she drove along Collier’s Road toward Willowbury. She had a date with Jennifer Taylor and, snowfall or not, she’d have to keep it.
    Frances thought the scenes before her were reminiscent of Courier and Ives Christmas cards, complete with tall pines air-brushed by snow; horse-drawn sleighs galloping across the elegant countryside; and fat snowmen poised on the rolling white hills, with stove pipe hats, stick arms and shiny black eyes.
    A white church steeple appeared, as she drove slowly through a red covered bridge that spanned Cutter’s narrow bubbling stream. The road then unraveled past quaint Victorian homes and a few clumps of modern townhouses and condominiums, all nestled comfortably behind majestic firs and pines.
    The road arched around Harvey’s Pond, and Frances smiled when she saw ice skaters glide and twirl, some with precision and grace, others with reaching arms and scattering, falling bodies. It was all unfolding to the music of Christmas, because Harvey Trudeau taught music at the local high school and, many Christmases ago, he’d wired the speakers from his home.
    Just beyond the Pond, on Morris Pike’s Hill, kids struggled to the top, hauling sleds and snow tubes. They skidded down the slopes, squealing with delight as they skimmed across the glistening white carpet of newly fallen snow under a porcelain blue-gray sky.
    As she approached Main Street, she smiled at the decorations. Hanging along side the stoplights were long, elegant icicles, swinging in an easy breeze. In the Village Green stood bold-eyed drummer boys with red and black uniforms, drum sticks raised and red hats poised. They seemed alive. A manger scene adorned the Methodist churchyard lawn, along with tall Victorian plastic carolers making silent music, their mouths formed in dramatic Os.
    In the square, 5-foot-high candy canes blinked erratically to the tinny sound of Jingle Bells . Three angelic trumpeters surrounded the 20-foot evergreen tree that blazed with colored lights. It leaned precariously left, because of the thickening snow.
    Mrs. Wintergreen continued on, watching children build a snowman, some pausing to sling snowballs and play catch.
    Above her, a red and green plastic banner, stretched from one side of the street to the other, announced the yearly Christmas Festival and Parade on December 24 th .
    Shoppers hurried across the streets into shops and markets, shopping bags and children in tow. Mrs. Wintergreen smiled and waved as she drove by on her way to Cards N’ Stuff.
    She found a parking spot nearby, parallel parked expertly and stepped out. The car drew curious eyes. Even partially covered with a layer of snow, one could see that it was a beauty—one you didn’t see every day—kind of like Mrs. Wintergreen.
    A man approached, looking it over, hands behind his back. “You’ve really got something