Romantic Short Stories

By Paula Freda

Contemporary Short Story Romances ...(Rated "G" for General Audiences)... Three love stories that warm the heart and the spirit ... Welcome Home, Amy ... The Offering ... The Scent of Camellias

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paula Freda
• Release date: Jun 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452374093

Paula Freda

About the AuthorDorothy Paula Freda, is also known under her pen names Paula Freda and Marianne Dora Rose. Herbooks range from Fiction and Non-fiction Adventure, Romance, Fantasy, Sci-Fi, Poetry, Articles, Essays and How-to-Write Instructional complete with Lessons and optional assignments.Homemaker, mother of two grown sons, and former off-the-desk publisher of a family-oriented print small press, (1984 thru 1999), The Pink Chameleon, that she now publishes on line, Paula was raised by her grandmother and mother, and has been writing for as long as she can remember. Even before she could set pencil to paper, she would spin her stories in the recording booths in the Brooklyn Coney Island Arcades for a quarter per 3-minute record. She states, "I love the English language, love words and seeing them on display, typed and alive. A romantic at heart, I write simply and emotionally. One of my former editors kindly described my work, '...her pieces are always deep, gentle and refreshing....'" Paula further states, "My stories are sensitive, deeply emotional, sensual when appropriate, yet non-graphic, family fare, pageturners. My hope is that my writing will bring entertainment and uplift the human spirit, bring a smile to your face and your soul, and leave you filled with a generous amount of hope."

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Romantic Short Stories

Copyright by Dorothy Paula Freda

Various Dates - 1985 - 2009

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

September 4, 2009

WELCOME HOME, AMY

by Paula Freda

The night was bitter cold. I paid the taxi driver and watched the cab's exhaust fumes as the rear wheels kicked up the snow and slush while the driver pulled away. Turning, I gazed up at the white, columned mansion that until a few months ago had been my home. The hooded lamb's wool jacket and black wool slacks I wore were warm and snug, but the chill I shook with came from my heart.

The butler and his wife and the servants were all thrilled to see me. Chris met me in the spacious hall. How pleasing to the eye he was in his dark, tailored suit. Reserved and elegant, he was the epitome of sophistication and self-confidence, every centimeter of him the executive head of a chain of department stores that had been in his family since the turn of the century.

You should have called first, he said.

But he would have told me not to come and I could no longer bear the separation. The urge to fly into his arms as I was used to nearly overwhelmed me, but I managed to control it. Just felt an impulse to see the old house, I lied. God, how I had missed him.

He said, Amy, you're welcome to stay and have dinner, though I'm sorry I can't join you. I have a heavy date. I was on my way out.

I understand, of course. You're right, I should have called first. Stay a moment, my eyes pleaded. I tried to smile in spite of the lump forming in my throat and the tears begging to fall.

I left as soon as Chris had gone. I should have telephoned for a taxi, because added to the gelid weather, it was dangerous nowadays, even with the streetlights, to walk alone at night along the winding road. But the unhappiness tearing at my heart blocked out the fear. I began trudging through the wet snow.

Periodically, I lashed out angrily with the toe of my right boot at the accumulated snowdrifts. The cold seeped through my winterwear and prickled my flesh. My feet felt like two chunks of ice packed into my boots. I shivered as I finally allowed the tears to escape and slide down my frost-reddened cheeks.

I stood there, cold, weary, and miserable, remembering --

From the day I had been placed with the Home, following the sudden death of my mother, I had incessantly caused trouble.

Janice Epstein, the Housemother, explained in a concerned tone to the tall, lean gentleman seated beside her on the couch, You must understand, the girl is a perpetual little demon.

So I've heard, the man remarked, smiling accommodatingly.

Inside the kitchen I crouched behind the door, peeking through the keyhole. Janice's blonde hair tossed as she shook her head, frowning. I'm not at all sure that your decision to accept her under your roof is a wise one. Critically she cautioned, I think, Mr. Daniels, you should reconsider.

"Thank you,