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  DAVIS BUNN is an internationally-acclaimed author who has sold more than four million books in fifteen languages. Honored with three Christy Awards for excellence in historical and suspense fiction, his bestsellers include Elixir, The Great Divide, Winner Take All, The Meeting Place, The book of Hours,The Quilt, and The Lazarus Trap. A sought-after lecturer in the art of writing, Bunn was named Novelist in Residence at Regent's Park College, Oxford University. Visit his Web site at www.davisbunn.com.

  TIDINGS OF

  COMFORT & JOY

  DAVIS BUNN

  "Now we both have a reason to bate Christmas,"

  Marissa said.

  It's a stormy beginning to a holiday visit when Marissa is carried crying and screaming into her grandmother's house. Angry because she's too weak and ill to go with the rest of the family on a long anticipated vacation, fourteen-year-old Marissa is convinced that this must be the most horrible and disappointing Christmas ever.

  But Gran, who is grieving the recent loss of her beloved husband, decides to reveal a photo, yellowed with age, of herself as a young woman gazing with love into the eyes of a young man—a young man who was N O T Marissa's grandfather. And so Marissa learns the secret of a past that her grandmother Emily has held in her heart for all these years.

  As Emily relives memories of a Christmas just after World War II had ended, the two discover that the most precious gift of the season is the tidings of comfort and joy that point us to the true meaning of Christmas.

  TIDINGS OF

  COMFORT & JOY

  Copyright © 1997 by T . Davis Bunn

  All rights reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by WestBow Press, and distributed in Canada by Word Communications, Ltd., Richmond, British Columbia.

  WestBow Publishing books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail: SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson. com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bunn, T. Davis, 1952—

  Tidings of comfort and j o y / T . Davis Bunn.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1 - 5955 - 4073 - 3 (repak)

  ISBN O - 7852 - 7203 - 8 (hc)

  I. Title.

  [PS3552.U4718T5 1997b]

  813 ' . 54—d c 2 i

  97-24436

  CIP

  Printed in the United States of America.

  05 06 07 08 09 QW 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  GRAN'S STORY

  SIX

  SEVEN

  GRAN'S STORY

  EIGHT

  NINE

  GRAN'S STORY

  TEN

  GRAN'S STORY

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  GRAN'S STORY

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  GRAN'S STORY

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  GRAN'S STORY

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To Jack and Jo Ann Bundy

  For your guidance and

  prayer support over the years,

  And most of all

  For enriching us with your friendship

  ONE

  Emily watched her daughter pull the station wagon into the drive. She stood by the twin fir trees, now dressed with Christmas lights. Patches of unmelted snow gave the front lawn a wintry freckled look. She gave her daughter Carol a little wave o f greeting, but neither smiled. Before the engine was cut off Emily's two grandsons had already tumbled out, moving as though sprung from ejector seats. Through the wagons open doors a continual high-pitched wailing could be heard.

  Carol walked to where Emily stood in her shapeless cardigan. She kissed her mother's cheek, and said, "I can't believe I'm doing this to you."

  "You don't have any choice," Emily replied, her gaze still upon the car. "Your entire family is desperately in need of this vacation."

  "Mom, you'll never know how much this means—"

  Emily Albright waved it aside. "Let's get this over with," she said, and started toward the car.

  "Hello, Gran," George Junior, the elder of the two teenage boys, said. His brother, Buddy, mumbled something that might have been a greeting. But neither could manage to meet their grandmother's eyes.

  She gave them both a smile, reached over, and ruffled George Junior's hair. "You've no need to feel guilty, neither one of you."

  George resembled his father, with corn-silk hair and eyes like an early dawn sky. He winced at the cries coming from the car. "I wish she could come with us."

  "Of course you do. But she can't, and that's that. Don't you worry. We'll have ourselves a grand old time here."

  "No, we won't," wailed the voice. "I'll never have any fun. I'm going to be miserable for the rest of my life!"

  "She's been saying that for two days," Buddy said glumly.

  "Come along, now. It's getting colder, and the weatherman's predicting snow. We can't just leave her out here."

  "That's exactly what you're doing!" Through the wagon's side window an unkempt head of honey-brown hair rose into view. Normally Marissa was a buoyant fourteen year old who would never be caught dead in public unless perfectly groomed. Today, however, the car window framed a flushed and tear-streaked face. "You're leaving me and you're going off and you don't love me at all. Nobody does. No body cares about me!"

  Emily's smile was gone now. She asked the boys, "Can you two manage her?"

  "We got her in," George Junior said.

  "But she didn't like it," Buddy added.

  "Just be careful, especially on those front stairs. Last week's snow has melted, but they're still wet and slippery."

  The two boys walked around to the back of the car, and were greeted with, "Don't you dare touch me!"

  "I hate it when she talks like that," Buddy mumbled. He was looking nowhere but at his feet. "It's like she blames us for her being sick."

  Carol opened the wagon's rear door, which only made the noise louder. The girl lying on the mattress in the back shrilled, "I hope you feel so guilty you shrivel up and die!"

  Carol shot a worried glance at her mother, clearly concerned that she was doing the wrong thing. But Emily pointed the two boys forward. "Go on, now. Be careful."

  "Come on, Buddy," George urged quietly. "It won't get any better if we wait."

  The thin foam mattress had side straps, which the boys grasped and pulled out the back. As the blanket-clad figure came into view, she shouted, "I hope you have the most horrible time you've ever had in your whole rotten lives!"

  Her two older brothers refused to look at their sister as they hefted the mattress and sidestepped down the walk. Emily moved in behind them. "Take her to the big bedroom at the top of the stairs."

  Marissa flung out a feeble fist, which George Junior easily dodged. "I won't let you do this, I won't!"

  Emily caught sight of Buddy wincing in pain over the words. She frowned but said nothing.

  The two boys carried Marissa into the front hall. Her pitiful wails and her energy were fading fast. By the time they had climbed the stairs, the cries had diminished to frail whimpers. The girl's eyes closed, the tears dried, the moans grew quieter still. The others breathed easier.

  As Carol quietly lowered her
cases, Emily pulled back the bedcovers. Together the two women lifted Marissa from the mattress and settled her onto the bed. Emily hesitated a moment before settling the sheet into place. She stared at her granddaughter and murmured, "She's still losing weight."

  "Not that much," Carol whispered. "She's just growing so fast, two inches in the past six months. It makes her look skinnier."

  "Fourteen is such a difficult age," Emily said, laying the sheet over her.

  Carol picked up the quilt she had brought from Marissa's bed, and tucked it in and around her daughter. As she straightened, she found that Marissa's eyes were open and watching her solemnly.

  They stood like that for a long moment, mother looking down at daughter, until Marissa's eyes again began to sink shut. With an overly quiet voice, she said, "You don't love me at all, do you, Momma?"

  Buddy dropped his side of the empty mattress and fled from the room.

  "Oh, darling, darling." Carol reached down and cradled Marissa's face with both hands. "I love you with all my heart, and that is the truth as best I know how to say it."

  George pulled the mattress over to the doorway, stopped, and said quiedy, "I'll miss you, Sis. Merry Christmas."

  Marissa struggled to keep her eyes opened and fastened upon her mother. "Why is everybody going away and leaving me alone, Momma?"

  "I would do anything if I could be lying there instead of you," Carol said, and a single tear escaped to trace its way down her cheek. But her daughter did not see it. Marissa's eyes had defeated her best efforts and closed on their own accord.

  Carol sat there and stroked Marissa's face, then rose to her feet with a weary sigh. She turned to her mother and said quietly, "I don't know if I can let you do this."

  "We'll be fine," Emily said.

  But this time Carol was going to have it out and said, "This will be your first Christmas without Dad. You don't need this."

  "I'm not so sure about that," Emily responded quietly.

  Carol was too busy with her own worries to hear her mother. "You've been talking about this Indiana reunion for over a month. I hate to see you miss it on our account."

  "She needs me, Carol. All those families can be seen another time."

  Carol felt defeat crowding in. She tried once more with, "You've seen how she is, Mom."

  "Yes. And I also see how tired you are. All of you. It's been an exhausting year for everyone. George's company almost going under, then my Colin passing on, now Marissa's illness." Emily's tone was flat and determined. "You have to go. We've been through this a dozen times. You have to. This vacation has been like a lifeline for all of you.

  Carol's shoulders slumped. She rubbed her forehead, her cheek, the back of her neck. "I'm so tired I can't even think straight anymore."

  Emily gave her a fierce hug, turned her around, and guided her out of the room and back down the stairs. "Go and start getting ready for the time of your lives."

  At the front door, Carol halted once more. "Are you really sure about this, Mom?"

  "I am," Emily replied calmly. "Who knows, this may turn out to be a blessing in disguise."

  TWO

  Marissa awoke to the smell of soup. She opened her eyes. Her grandmother had pulled a chair up close to the bed and was sipping from a steaming cup. "Good evening. Are you hungry?"

  Reluctantly she nodded. She hated her body. She hated how it kept her trapped in this bed and in this house. She hated how it had grown until she looked like she was nothing but a scarecrow, her clothes flapping on empty sticks. And now she hated how it refused to let her just lie in misery, how it forced her to wake up to a world she hated, and made her hungry for food she didn't want.

  "What time is it?"

  "Almost eight. You've slept over twelve hours." The edges of Gran's eyes crinkled with the tiniest of smiles, one that did not touch her mouth at all. "That little tantrum of yours must have tired you out. It certainly did me."

  Marissa blushed at her grandmother's matter-of-fact tone. The way she said the words made her feel even worse. "They've gone off and left me," she said morosely.

  "Yes, they did." There was no getting around the directness in Gran's voice. "Carol called from the airport about an hour ago. They were just boarding the plane.

  She'd been waiting to see if she could speak with you again, but I told her not to bother. I said you needed time to get used to the way things are."

  "The way things are is just plain awful," Marissa declared. She felt another flare of anger over being left behind. But then she recalled how she had screamed at her brothers, and how sad Buddy had looked. The anger mingled with shame, pinching her heart. She had always been so close to Buddy.

  Marissa found herself hoping that her grandmother would disagree, so that she could use the renewed anger to push back her shame.

  Yet all Gran said was, "Thing are indeed truly awful. But they could also be far worse."

  "I don't see how," Marissa muttered crossly. Yet the remorse still flickered like shadows just beyond the light's reach.

  "Shall I help you sit up so you can have some soup?" When Marissa nodded, Gran set down her cup, rose, and helped her slide up in bed. As she plumped the pillows behind her granddaughter's back, she went on, "Well, let's see. At least we know you're going to get better."

  "They haven't even told me what's the matter," Marissa said glumly.

  "Yes they have. A little, anyway. But you weren't listening."

  "They keep treating me like a child."

  "Well, that's partly because you've been acting like one. Here." Gran handed her a mug. "Homemade chicken soup. Good for what ails you." She watched Marissa take a tentative sip, and went on, "Your folks also didn't tell you much because there was a lot they weren't sure of. Which was why they've been so scared."

  "Scared? Of what?"

  "Of you dying." Gran watched Marissa with that calm stare of hers. "They thought you had leukemia."

  A cold wind passed over Marissa's heart. "That's what all those tests were about?"

  "Some of them. The doctors couldn't figure out why you were so tired all the time," Gran replied. "So they started eliminating one possible ailment after another. And all the while there was that terrible fear at the back of their minds."

  "Leukemia," Marissa said, and sipped again. "I've heard of that. It's bad, isn't it?"

  "Horrible. As bad as bad can be. It's a child killer of the first degree."

  Over the rim of her mug, Marissa regarded the older woman. Her grandmother had changed a lot in that year since Granpa had died. He had passed on just after Christmas of the year before, a time that had been hard for all of them. The frank way her grandmother observed her now, the way she seemed ready to sit and wait there forever, gave her the strength to say, "It seems like the whole world has come unwound since Granpa died."

  Gran backed off a notch, clearly caught off guard. Marissa took a little pleasure in that, being able to make somebody else hurt. But the feeling was instantly replaced by a pang of guilt. Her grandmother watched her with a gaze that seemed keen enough to understand exactly what was going on inside her, but all Gran said was, "Well, mine sure did."

  The pain inside Marissa seemed to grow even stronger. But her words seemed to come of their own accord. "You've gotten a lot thinner. And you cut off your long hair. And you've gotten, I don't know, harder. No, that's not the word."

  "I think I understand," Gran said, and set down her cup. "I've lost some of my sweetness, haven't I? All my soft edges have gotten sharper."

  The quiet way she spoke those words made Marissa feel so ashamed. "I'm sorry, Gran. I didn't—"

  "Shah, child. There's no need to apologize." She took one of Marissa's hands in both of hers. "You are absolutely right. I'm sure everyone else has noticed and thinks about it, but they just don't want to say anything. I can't help it, you see. I lived for my Colin. He was the center of my world. And now he's gone."

  There was a little lilt to that last sentence, so much longing t
hat it pulled up the edges of the words. Gran gave a big sigh, as though trying to push all the pain back inside her chest. She raised sorrowful eyes to Marissa's, and went on. "I've had to pare things down to their very essentials. That's what it takes at a time like this, just to keep going."

  Marissa wasn't sure she understood what Gran had said, but she heard the emotion behind the words. "You miss Granpa a lot, don't you?"

  "With every breath. With every thought. With every passing minute."

  Until that very moment it had never occurred to Marissa that romance was something people as old as Gran could feel. But the way Gran said those words, and the way she turned to look up and out the window, searching the night for a man who was no longer there, made Marissa's heart swell with a shared sorrow. "I miss him too."

  "I know you do, child." Gran did not turn back from the window. "We all do. He was a truly wonderful man." But it was not missing Granpa that bound Marissa to her grandmother at that moment. "Now we both have a reason to hate Christmas," she said.

  That brought Gran around. "What a thing to say." There was no anger to her voice, no criticism. Just a quiet surprise. "I don't hate Christmas."

  "But you . . . " Then it came, the blanket of sleep rising so swiftly that she would have spilled soup all over herself had Gran not reached out and taken hold of the mug. "Oooh."

  "You sleep, child," Gran whispered. She set down the mug, leaned over, and kissed Marissa's closed eyes. "You sleep."

  IN THE NIGHT'S darkest hour, Marissa awoke with a strangled cry.

  "Shah, child, it's all right." Gran was instantly there beside her. "It was only a dream."

  She rose from the depths of lingering fatigue with great effort. The edges of the nightmare clung to her like tentacles. "It was horrible."

  "Everything is fine." Gran settled on the edge of her bed, and stroked the sweat-limp hair from her forehead. "Don't worry about a thing."

  "I was back in the doctor's office. He had a needle. It looked two feet long. And thick as Daddy's drill." She shuddered at the memory. "He was going to stick it in me."