The Promise of Christmas. Tara Quinn Taylor
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF TARA TAYLOR QUINN
“Quinn’s latest contemporary romance offers readers an irresistible combination of realistically complex characters and a nail-bitingly suspenseful plot. Powerful, passionate and poignant, Hidden is a deeply satisfying story.”
—Booklist
“Somebody’s Baby is an exceptional tale of real-life people, who are not perfect, feel heartache, make mistakes and have to find their inner strength…. Somebody’s Baby easily goes on my keeper shelf.”
—The Romance Reader Reviews
“Quinn explores relationships thoroughly, getting into the nooks and crannies, into the dark corners and secret cupboards. Her vividly drawn characters are sure to win readers’ hearts.”
—Romance Communications
“Quinn’s profound observations of human nature and her intimate understanding of values and prorities lend extraordinary psychological depth to all her work.”
—Wordweaving.com
“Quinn writes touching stories about real people that transcend plot type or genre.”
—All About Romance
Dear Reader,
Happy holidays! It’s been a while since I celebrated the season, my favorite time of year, with you all. I love the holiday season, the collective giving of thanks—a nation focused on being grateful, even if only for a moment. I love the season of giving, of receiving, of hope. We tend to be more openhearted this time of year, more open-minded as we look around us at the people who share our world, if not our lives. We tend to be more forgiving.
It is for this reason that I bring you this particular story now. Leslie Sanderson did not have a typical childhood. Oh, she lived on the right side of the tracks, did not want for anything materially. She had a family who loved her. She had opportunity and intelligence. She got good grades and stayed away from alcohol and drugs. And she suffered unspeakably in a way that many suffer, a way of which few speak. But this Christmas, at the age of thirty-one, Leslie chooses to speak. Trusting in the promise that the season has always represented to her, she makes the choice to live life fully, instead of allowing it to hold her hostage. I love Leslie. I love everything she stands for. I love her strength, her weakness, her willingness to get up each day and try again. And I love her jewelry! So much so that I own a number of identical pieces.
The Promise of Christmas is not a fable or a fairy tale. And yet, as I read it one final time, I felt as victorious as I ever did reading those stories of triumph. In this book, Leslie and Kip and their family find the promise that is real, not fantasy—the promise that love truly is strong enough to conquer all. Even the unseen demons that live inside.
From my heart to yours, Merry Christmas!
Tara Taylor Quinn
P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O. Box 133584, Mesa, Arizona 85216, or through my Web site at www.tarataylorquinn.com.
The Promise of Christmas
Tara Taylor Quinn
For Pat Potter, who sat with me and talked about this very challenging book when she could have been at a Broadway play. I cherish your friendship. And for Paula Eykelhof, who didn’t even flinch when I pitched this special story to her over Chinese dinner after a day-long road trip. I cherish you, too.
CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“LESLIE, THERE’S A Kip Webster here to see you.”
The Kip Webster? As in her older brother’s best friend Kip Webster?
“Did he say what he wants?”
Nancy Maple, Leslie’s secretary of five years, shook her head. “Just wanted me to tell you he’s here.” The older woman raised her brows, her way of asking the question that might seem too personal if she actually verbalized it.
“I knew him in high school,” Leslie said, keeping her explanation simple. “I haven’t seen or spoken to him since my college graduation, but I heard he’s a bigwig with Sporting International now.”
SI was the company that Leslie hoped would seal her partnership in one of the nation’s largest brokerage houses. As an investment counselor, she’d risen steadily up the ranks, due to her instincts as much as her analytical skills.
“You think he’s here about the rumor that SI’s going public?”
“What else could it be?” Leslie stood, resisting the urge to take a peek in the gilded antique mirror hanging beside her desk, to flatten the flyaway auburn curls. “I’ll see him,” she said, shoving papers back into their file. “Send him in.”
Nancy nodded. “By the way, great call on the South Seas deal. Congratulations!”
Leslie grinned, but said nothing. She’d gone against the firm’s senior partners on that one, and the payoff had been bigger than even she’d expected. Several of Tyler Investments’ clients were much richer today because of Leslie’s recommendation that they buy into a company that could’ve gone under but instead went public and skyrocketed overnight.
Damn, that felt good.
Her stomach didn’t feel so good right now, though. It couldn’t seem to decide whether to swarm with anxiety or give in to the weight of nausea.
With her secretary gone, she took a quick glance in the mirror, decided her curls were behaving themselves today, looking not bad against the shoulders of the navy suit she’d worn to work. And her lipstick was still on.
Kip Webster. Her one and only high school crush. She wasn’t ready. Juliet would disagree. Her therapist would say she could handle this. Without so much as a blip on her emotional monitor.
She reminded herself that Juliet was gifted, a miracle worker, really, as she waited for Kip’s knock. Juliet wouldn’t make a serious mistake like setting Leslie free if Leslie wasn’t ready.
So maybe she was having a relapse, if one had such things when it came to the afflictions of one’s past. Juliet had taught her how to shine a light on old shames and render them powerless, but right now she’d be happy if the ten years separating her and the darkness of her youth stretched into another fifty. Or eighty. That would put her at 110 and by then, surely, she’d be blessed with forgetfulness?
Her office door flew open and Kip was there, with the same dark hair that she’d always figured would be as curly as hers if he’d let it grow more than a quarter-inch. Same great shoulders in a tweed jacket she’d never seen before.