The Christmas Coach

By Dianne G. Sagan

Enjoy the humor and warmth of the season with best-selling author, Dianne G. Sagan’s debut Christmas novel.
Finding all flights booked for the holidays, Martha Sue Kelley sets off on a bus headed for a family Christmas and lands in the biggest blizzard to hit her region in a hundred years.
Surrounded by a tapestry of unforgettable personalities, Martha Sue finds herself in her first-ever role as lifeguard, midwife and merchant of hope to her fellow travelers as they struggle to survive the trip and realize the true gifts of Christmas.

West Texas Christmas recipes included in the back of the book. Guaranteed to become your family favorites, too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dianne G. Sagan
• Release date: Oct 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370970087

Dianne G. Sagan

Dianne G. Sagan has been on the Amazon Bestsellers list 45 times for Rebekah Redeemed and The Fisherman’s Wife from her Women of the Bible series. The third book in the series, Miriam’s Room, was nominated for Historical Fiction Book of the Year for 2015 by the Christian Small Publishers Association.She has ghostwritten 10 books for an international clientele, six of which were best-sellers. Mrs. Sagan has designed book covers for four years, as well as brochures and newsletters professionally for over 20 years. In addition, her writing career includes over 300 newspaper editorials, blogs, and online articles. She is a well-known teacher and group facilitator for writing groups in Texas and Oklahoma.Her books The Hybrid Author: A Guide to Publishing, The Hybrid Author Companion Journal, and Tools and Tips for Writes are in their second editions. Her debut Christmas novel, The Christmas Coach, is a contemporary holiday adventure with a touch of romance. Dianne re-released her Women of the Bible series as an indie author with new covers and put out a box-set of the popular series. In addition, she has two new series debuts in romantic-mystery and women’s fiction under her own imprint Misty Margins Publishing that she is currently writing.Dianne lives in Texas with her husband and editor-in-chief, Greg. When she's not writing or speaking, she enjoys family time, gardening and quilting.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Home

The Kelly Ranch

North of Pampa, Texas

Thursday

December 10

5:45 PM

My name is Martha Sue Kelly. I was named after mama’s favorite cousin, who married a Yankee she met at college and who later moved to Kansas. Martha, who went by Marty, was kind of a tomboy, and she grew up to be the black sheep of the family. And she was the only black sheep in the family until I came along. I try not to be different, but somehow … well, things just keep turning out with plenty of black paint left over for me.

I graduated from Texas Tech last May, in the top ten percent of my class, with a General Studies degree and an emphasis in Literature. I’m the only one in my whole family who’s not an Aggie. My brothers think I’m a disgrace, and my daddy calls Texas Tech University that other school – the one over there in Lubbock. Anyone not from Texas won’t understand what a big thing this is in our family. Texas A&M University is THE most prestigious system in the state, unless you go to the University of Texas, but that’s a whole other kind of rivalry. Texas A&M has always, until recently at least, been one of the powerhouse football teams in their conference. You have to understand that in Texas the football team you support is as important as the church you attend or the family you’re born into. Anyway, the rivalry between Texas Tech and Texas A&M is a bit like Cain and Abel, and it hasn’t changed much even though they don’t play in the same conference anymore. When I went off to Tech my daddy told our preacher I had just gone over to the evil side.

My best friend Missy and I went to Tech and were roommates until she got married and moved down-state. Most of my friends are already married or engaged. It’s scary to look in my closet and see how many ugly bridesmaids’ dresses I’ve been asked to wear and the rainbow of colors that shoots out when I open the door. I’ve been told I have the loudest closet east of Hollywood.

Christmas in my family is a special time, especially for my mama, Sarah Ann, who is third generation on the high plains. I realize that a West Texas Christmas isn’t like what most people think of when they picture Christmas in their minds. We don’t have snow on the ground and fir trees kissed with icicles. There are no horse-drawn sleighs or carolers wearing winter coats with matching hats, mittens, and colorful scarves wrapped around their necks. Most of the time it’s bare and dry and about 50˚ … with a wind-chill of 10° below.

Our family starts gathering on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, people accumulating rapidly until the house bulges and you’d think it couldn’t hold even one more toddler. It used to be at Grammy’s house until grand-daddy passed a couple of years ago and she moved to the retirement. Now the holiday reunion meets at Mama and Daddy’s house. I didn’t think I’d be living back in my old room after college, but here I am – at least for now. I see people coming by, looking inside, saying, Nice, the way people do when they’re buying a car, and I hear their hushed conversations about what changes to make next year that go completely quiet when I walk in the room. I hear Mama wants to make it into a craft room, although I can’t imagine what for. She can’t sew a stitch, and the closest she comes to any other craft is what she does in the kitchen, so I can’t understand why she would want another room for that, unless she wants to start butchering her own meat. I also hear stories about how Daddy wants to make my room into his own personal office so he can hang animal heads on the walls and sit in his old leather chair and smoke cigars. I don’t know where Daddy will get the animal heads because in all the years I’ve known him the only thing he ever killed with a rifle was a garter snake that Mama found in a potted plant, but since Daddy had no ammunition he had to club it to death. Broke the pot, too.

Christmas Eve dinner is tamales, guacamole, tortilla soup, and a jalapeño eating contest to see who spouts steam first. Then Grammy organizes everyone for the late Candlelight Service at the Disciples of Christ Church, which we’ve attended since the church was a blacksmith’s shed behind the mayor’s house. Every year she tries to keep all of us younger ones in one long, straight, narrow line where any black sheep are surrounded by bright white ones. When we line up, spiritually at least, we look like a piano.

On Christmas morning the children rise at the crack of dawn and descend on Santa’s bounty. Granddaddy’s old hunting socks, each with the name of a family member embroidered on it, hang from the mantle and bulge with fruit, candy, nuts and a gift peeking over the cuff. Mama decorates the tree with little Texas boots, coyotes, and cowboy hats, all glittering in the twinkling lights. Of course we always have lots of angels ‘cause mama collects them and everyone gives her new ones every year. Nobody ever gets more than a couple of presents, but there's so many of us that the tree looks positively plastered with the different colors of paper and ribbon. We have lots of different wrapping jobs in view – from the pros at the local Beall’s to little Jethro who just had to do it himself. Within twenty minutes of the youngsters’ screaming reveille the floor is ankle deep in paper, with ribbons strewn everywhere and some hanging from lampshades. Little Edna May likes to take the stick-on bows and cover her slippers with them so she can dance around the room like a ballerina and kick everybody’s toys. Mama tries to keep paper separated from presents and small children so we don’t lose anything expensive or anyone important before breakfast.

Mama always fixes mountains of pancakes and a wagon-load of bacon for Christmas breakfast. The women just seem to know when to move into the kitchen, leaving the children and men, which at this point are all one and the same, until the food is ready. My aunts will dig around in the utensil drawers looking for stuff we don’t have, in the process rearranging things so we can’t cook properly until sometime next summer. The gossip begins early and goes on all day long, and only those present are exempt. Even little discussions over recipes can get heated when you’re talking about family traditions. It takes about an hour to get the mob fed, the butter off the curtains, bacon grease off the fingertips and the syrup off everything else, but we always manage to clear the deck by 10:00 AM to commence the main event – fixin’ the turkey. Mama always starts by ordering everybody out of the kitchen for thirty minutes. She says that’s so we can get dressed, but I think it’s so she can catch her breath, have a shot of Bailey’s Irish Cream and try to find her sanity before she gets any more help. I do know her cheeks are always rosy when she finally lets the rest of us back in.

While dinner is cooking, the boys play football in the yard. Of course in our family, since everyone is an Aggie except me, it’s always the maroon team – the good guys – against the white team – the ones who lost the toss or who married into the family and don’t know about Texas A&M yet. We have no refs, but all my cousins like to cheat, so even if it starts off as simple touch football it always seems to end up as full contact, no pads, and lots of dirt. It’s all great fun, and nobody has broken any bones for a couple of years now.

The mayhem starts early and continues pretty much all day long in one way or another. The children play with their new toys while my sister-in-law runs around making sure the little ones don’t swallow the tiny Viking Castle interlocking block set that their older brother received, misplaced and abandoned all before breakfast. At some point the baby usually leaves her new toys and climbs into a box so we can’t find her until she cries. Later the grandchildren always start digging in Grammy’s toy box looking for the old-standby toys, the survivors of holidays past, and making fools of all the old folks who searched catalogues, department stores and toy stores for weeks to get the season favorites. While the children play, the daddies look around at those hot new toys that by now are reduced to their most basic elements and formed into piles along the edge of the rug. That’s usually when all the mamas decide the kids are on sugar and stimulation overload and all need naps.

Mama always serves up a roasted turkey of no less than 26 pounds, cleaned, basted and seasoned with salt, pepper and sage, then loaded with cornbread stuffing. To go with it she usually makes sweet potato casserole topped with those little baby marshmallows. My aunt always brings that green Jell-o thing mixed and molded with cottage cheese, pineapple and pecans, from the recipe that she got out of the newspaper’s Classic Cuisine holiday section. Cousin Cindy never eats it because she swells up like you can’t believe on any kind of nuts except cashews. Daddy loves mashed potatoes and green beans at any dinner, so we always have those, too. Grammy makes homemade cranberry sauce that no one ever eats because they’re always too full. To top it off, mama makes pecan pies. By the way, in Texas we pronounce it PEE-kan, not pick-KHAN like they do up north.

But anyway, this Christmas I decided I was tired of everyone in the family descending on the Kelly household and feeling like, once again, I needed to blackmail one of my old friends into acting like my boyfriend for the holiday or answer all those embarrassing questions about why I'm not married yet. Besides, I was running out of friends. All the likely ones were married, and the only ones left were the ones I couldn’t stand for more than three minutes at a time. So back in October one of my girlfriends and I decided that this year we would take a trip together for the holidays. Her name is Ashley, and her brother was working at a ski town in southern Colorado, and we thought that was just the change of scenery we both needed – mountains for flatlands, snow for blowing dust, and attractive young strangers for … family. So now all I have to do is just break the news to mama, rent some skis, buy some cute snow bunny clothes, and not run into a tree on the slopes.

Ashley and I work at the local big box store stocking shelves at night. I was waiting tables until I accidentally tripped over a customer’s purse and covered her and her husband in guacamole. I did apologize, but after spilling a pitcher of tea and bumping the salad bin off the counter twice in the serving area when I put the tray on my shoulder, the manager of Juan’s Burrito Barn decided waiting tables wasn’t my profession.

Before that I did a short stint as a receptionist at my daddy’s real estate office. I just never could get the phone system figured out. I didn’t mean to lose people when I transferred them. The Big Boss said I did really well answering the phone and I had the perfect voice, but those things didn’t count if there wasn’t a customer on the other end.

My Grammy says, Martha Sue, you just need to find your true calling in life. I always feel like answering with, Grammy, if it’s calling then so far I can’t hear it, but I never do ‘cause I don’t want to be disrespectful.

I’ve had several other jobs that aren’t worth mentioning because I never stayed long enough to figure out what they were. Maybe I’ll find a job at the ski resort. That would be great.

Tonight at dinner I still have to tell Mama and Daddy about my plans for Christmas, and this isn't going to be the easiest sales-job I've ever faced with them. I know I need to approach it carefully, ease into the idea, maybe sneak up on it or wait for a good opening in the conversation. Maybe if I sweet-talk Daddy a little or get Mama on my side first then I can pull it off without being disowned. That's the best way to convince them that I need a change and that it really has nothing to do with whether I love them or not. The absolute worst thing I can do is just spring it on 'em out of nowhere, especially when I'm sure they're expecting our traditional holiday with everybody gathering at our house and me just doing what I've always done. So I need to ease them into the idea. I tried different approaches in my head most of the day, but the trouble with telling your parents you’re not gonna be there for Christmas is that you never really know what they’re gonna say – especially the first time you do it.

Mama arrived home from an afternoon of volunteer work. She balanced two bags from Stan’s Bar-B-Que as she came through the door, and that gave me an opening to start my plan. I said, Hi, Mama! Here, let me help you with that.

Thanks honey, Mama said, handing me one of the scrumptious-smelling totes.

I held the door open for her and she glided in front of me, putting her armload on the closest kitchen counter. I said, "Mama, your hair sure looks pretty today.