Perfect Gifts

By Linda Corrigan Baker

Moving forward sometimes first requires facing the past. Not until former failures are acknowledged and old wounds are healed can steps be taken toward a better future. At the dawn of 1930 and more than four years into his marriage, Charles Hollister is preoccupied with the global economic collapse and constant reminders that he's not getting any younger. Plagued by a lack of self-confidence and the pain of unresolved issues, Charles becomes demanding, suspicious, and alienates the two people closest to him. In short, he's his own worst enemy. But he's plagued with questions only his aging father can answer, and time is running out. Then, the arrival of a shocking message threatens to destroy Charles's marriage and disrupt his accustomed way of life. Through a series of disturbing events, he learns that unforeseen circumstances can sometimes be blessings in disguise, perfect in every way. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kitsap Publishing
• Release date: Dec 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201002060

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This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

PERFECT GIFTS

First edition. December 27, 2021.

Copyright © 2021 Linda Corrigan Baker.

ISBN: 979-8201002060

Written by Linda Corrigan Baker.

Perfect Gifts

First edition, published 2021

Author: Linda Corrigan Baker

Cover Design: John Lawrence

Photo Design: Pexels.com

Editor: Constance Berg

Interior graphics: John Lawrence

Copyright ©2022 All rights reserved.

ISBN-978-1-978-1-952685-31-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

Published by Kitsap Publishing

www.KitsapPublishing.com

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.

James 1:17 (KJV)

Dedication

Dedicated in loving memory of

John Basil Corrigan, Sr.,

Lawrence E. Corrigan,

Mary H. Boyd,

and my parents, Arthur and Elaine Lawrence

HOW IT ALL BEGAN

Nearly a decade ago, a group of sisters dreamed of combining their talents to create a romance novel, showcasing imaginative, writing, and illustrating skills. During the process, assignments shifted, the plot thickened, and the original title, Bonjour Mon Amour, changed. In memory of their mother, Jean Corrigan, who handwrote and photocopied newsy letters that she mailed to family members, the book was lovingly named Dear All—Jean’s signature salutation.

Early in 2016, the first edition of Dear All was released, leading to a whirlwind of launching activities, book readings, signings, and the formation of fond and gratifying memories for the sisters. Although it was a dream-come-true experience, three of the women retired from the collaboration team. Linda Corrigan Baker, by popular request, considered the development of a sequel on her own. That launched the second phase of her writing career.

Meanwhile, feeling dissatisfied with the first book, Corrigan Baker released the new and improved second edition of Dear All in 2018. Unfortunately, her attempt at creating the sequel, Richer Poorer, landed on the cutting room floor. Discouraged and frustrated, she set the project aside for a few months before tackling the daunting task of cutting, pasting, deleting, and altering the storyline. It was like dismantling a jigsaw puzzle, throwing away large sections of Cricut pieces, fitting in new ones, and shifting everything around to form a different picture.

After nearly six years of work, Linda Corrigan Baker is proud to share her labor of love, Perfect Gifts, with romance novel enthusiasts.

INTRODUCTION

There comes a time when dawn breaks over a world substantially altered from the night before. Neglect and complacency enable decay to steadily eat away the foundations of a wasteful, entitled society. If left unchecked, footings rot, slip, and crumble. Invisible enemies lie in wait, exposing their ugly faces without warning. As a result, chaos and confusion run rampant.

On October 29, 1929, or Black Tuesday, the Stock Market suddenly crashed due to reckless speculations, followed by a mild recession and en masse selling of overpriced shares. The wave of panic swept across Wall Street and then the rest of the world, resulting in a deep, global depression. In its wake, not only banks but consumer confidence failed, creating widespread hysteria. A sharp downturn in investing and spending led to lower industrial output and employment rates. Lacking a steady cash flow, Americans bought on credit, falling further into debt. The result was a climb in foreclosures and repossessions.

By 1930, four million Americans were unemployed, barely scraping by. Unable to afford laborers, farmers had no choice but to let crops rot in the fields. Severe drought and winds in the Southern Plains forced families to abandon their homes and migrate to overcrowded and financially burdened cities. Those were the lucky ones, getting out a few years ahead of the monstrous Dust Bowl. Despite President Hoover’s attempts to calm nerves, ensuring the crisis would run its course, conditions steadily worsened.

Charles Hollister, resident of Coronado—a San Diego Bay resort city—awoke to a new normal in late December of 1929, resigned to accept whatever the day would bring. As grim as that might be, symptoms of a more personal nature lurked just beneath the surface. Knowing what loomed on the horizon would have rocked him to the core.

New Year’s Eve, 1929

Mirrors don’t lie. The beholder can vainly admire what’s reflected there or avoid looking altogether. For pragmatic Charles Hollister, it was somewhere in between. He pinched a pair of tweezers around the offending, tell-tale strand and gave it a stiff yank. Gotcha! It was the third gray hair in as many days. At this rate, his scalp could wind up as bare as a billiard ball, but he had to stay on top of the confounded aging process. Sooner or later, Marie was bound to notice. Would it matter?

A thorough examination in the bathroom mirror revealed no deep wrinkles or sagging jowls. Not yet anyway. Charles sucked in his gut and gave his reflection a final once-over. He might stave off old age a while longer but had no remedy for the crippled economy. The Sun’s morning headlines were bleak, with little hope of an upturn in sight.

Carrying his shoes, Charles tiptoed stocking-footed past the bed, then paused to glance at his wife. Marie took his breath away. The first rays of dawn crept between the window shutter slats, kissing her tousled curls and flawless skin with a soft glow. Dear God, I love this woman! How content she looked, lying there on her side with a slender arm draped across his pillow. She stirred, softly sighed, and snuggled deeper beneath the downy comforter. Tempting as it was to crawl back under the covers with her, duty called. It would be a long day at the office in anticipation of tonight’s celebration. But the sooner Charles got started, the sooner he’d be home again.

After four-plus years of marriage, Charles remained astonished that a woman sixteen years his junior had agreed to be his wife. She’d barely crossed the threshold of her prime while he was well on the way to middle age. They were spring and late summer. But every pot had its lid, and Marie completed him.

In the beginning, Marie Jeanette Middleton, or Mimi as he affectionately called her, was like a kid sister, always getting into mischief and needing his protection. As her father’s young apprentice, Charles spent a lot of time at the Middleton home. He’d come between Marie and a trip to the morgue more times than he could count, but the ungrateful little wretch had compared his hovering ways to being plagued by fleas. Years later, after nearly sending him around the bend on a cat and mouse chase, Marie, by some miracle, surrendered herself to him, heart and soul. Sometimes he had to pinch himself to make sure it wasn’t all just a fanciful dream. But when he awoke each morning, she was curled up at his side and unmistakably real.

No angel in heaven could be lovelier than his sleeping beauty. Charles inwardly chuckled, thinking Marie may have earned her wings, but he’d known her long before a halo replaced her horns. He dared not disturb her, knowing how precious these last minutes of sleep were. Little Beau would soon awaken, sending Marie off and running to keep up with their rambunctious son. Charles made a mental note to pick up some vitamin supplements on his way home that evening.

He forced his eyes from Marie while softly shuffling his way to the bedroom door, being careful to miss the squeaky floorboard he meant to fix. He reminded himself to grab his tan neck scarf—a Christmas present from Marie’s older sister—before going outside. The morning’s ferry commute across the breezy San Diego Bay would be a chilly one.

When he crossed the threshold, he heard Marie’s sleepy murmur, Have a nice day.

#

The block of semi-sweet chocolate broke apart bit by bit as Marie Hollister applied pressure with her paring knife. She was lucky to snag the last package of Baker’s Chocolate at Petersons’ Grocery for Cary’s favorite cookies. Marie baked them often enough that she’d memorized Nanette LaNell’s recipe. How Nanette came up with the idea was beyond her, but Marie was grateful that the head seamstress of her father’s company, Middleton Clothiers, saw fit to share the otherwise secret recipe. Marie knew their New Year’s celebration would not be complete without these cookies or the cinnamon rolls cooling on the countertop.

Cary told Nanette time and again to patent her cookie recipe and make millions. Her answer would be, Leave that to someone else, mon cher. I receive my reward when people enjoy my ‘chocolate chip’ cookies as much as you do!

While folding the chocolate and a cupful of chopped walnuts into the cookie batter, Marie daydreamed. After all these years, just thinking of her dashing husband, Charles (or Cary as she’d been calling him most of her life), still made her swoon. Her dimpled darling with wavy, jet black hair and dark eyes would always be her very own Mr. Darcy. She sighed, thinking of all that had changed and all that remained the same.

The padding of bare toddler feet on the linoleum floor drew her from the reverie. Marie laid her wooden mixing spoon on the countertop when her son began tugging on her apron.

Cookie, Mommy? Peeze?

Why, Beau! You little dickens! You smelled them, didn’t you?

He nodded in hopeful anticipation. Uh-huh!

Marie lifted her boy, planted a smooch on his cheek, and squeezed him until he squirmed and giggled. She loved the snuggly feel of his flannel pajamas and the lingering scent of Ivory soap on his baby-soft skin. One little cookie with a cup of warm milk, and then back to dreamland!

The three-year-old’s brown eyes sparkled. Beau was the carbon copy of his daddy, right down to the dimple in his chin. Tenderness and pride welled within Marie’s heart. I bet Cary looked just like him at this age.

When Beau finished his bedtime snack, Marie wiped away her son’s milk mustache and tucked him in for the night. She fingered his soft ringlets as he dozed off and whispered a prayer to the Father—one she remembered from her childhood: Keep him safe till morning’s light, guide his heart both day and night, give him gladness, give him grace, shine your love upon his face. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.

How was it possible to love someone as much as she loved this adorable little person? There were no words to describe her affection for him. Cary and Beau together coursed such intense emotions through her veins that if love were a fatal disease, she’d be a goner.

A glance at the nightstand clock told Marie it was time to tear herself away from Beau, bathe, and dress before the babysitter arrived. Her favorite Alice Blue gown with beaded forget-me-nots begged for wearing. Fingering its airy fabric took her back to New Year’s Eve 1924 when she thought she’d lost Cary forever. The big surprise of that night was Cary’s heart-stopping arrival at the Hotel del Coronado, commonly referred to as The Del. But the most astonishing sight of all was the man standing next to Cary, Marie’s brother-in-law, a presumed casualty of the Great War. So, the men’s surprise appearance in the Grand Ballroom, just before the stroke of midnight, caused quite a stir. Robert Jack O’Neill and Marie’s older sister, Elsie, joyously reunited, while Charles and Marie declared their love for each other.

A pang of nostalgia pricked Marie’s heart, envisioning the O’Neills celebrating New Year’s Eve with the rest of her immediate family, 2,000 miles away. Mama’s phone calls and frequent Dear All letters prevented total isolation from her loved ones but were poor substitutes for face-to-face interaction and physical connection.

Marie gave her son a final light kiss on his forehead, thinking how innocent he looked when sleeping. As much as she hoped to one day have another child, the stories Elsie shared of how her children fought like cats and dogs gave Marie pause. Boy-crazy, twelve-year-old Wilma was in the throws of hormonal changes, and ten-year-old Bobby took advantage of any opportunity to get under her skin by pulling pranks and poking fun at his sister. But Jack and Elsie took it all in stride, basking in the glow of an otherwise loving family. Somehow, Marie doubted Cary would handle such shenanigans. He’d already grown testy over Beau’s occasional temper tantrums. She sighed, remembering how blissful the first years of their marriage had been before Beau came along and Cary had her all to himself.

Memories of the past were sweet, but Marie had grown up and moved on. Life had a way of doing that, which, in her case, was for the best. She fingered the delicate fabric one more time before sliding her favorite gown along the closet bar and reaching for another dress. Her chic, black satin formal was most appropriate for tonight’s event and would undoubtedly meet Cary’s approval. She’d made her decision, and Alice Blue would stay home. Marie wished she could too. A cozy evening alone with her menfolk sounded ever so appealing had that option been open. As Conductor of the Coronado Community Symphony, it wasn’t since the group would perform a few classical numbers to kick off the annual New Year’s Eve Gala at the hotel. Once the jazz band took over, she was free to dance from one decade into another in the arms of the most dashing man on Coronado Island, Charles Basil Hollister.

The metallic rattle of a key in the entry lock made her tingle like a smitten schoolgirl. Cary’s home!

#

Charles Hollister, head of Heroes’ Haberdashery (a subsidiary of Middleton Clothiers), caught the seven o’clock ferry in time to escort Marie to the iconic Hotel del Coronado. It had been a long, tiring day of fitting vets with glad rags for New Year’s Eve, but he wasn’t about to miss a moment of the night out with his wife.

Comfortably seated in the opulent ballroom with its panoramic ocean views, Charles enjoyed a Prohibition Sour as he watched Marie lead the string ensemble through warmups. The stunning black number she wore accentuated every curve of her supple frame. She looked like a million bucks. Marie’s old pal and concertmaster, Jonathan Woods, seemed to share his thoughts. To top it off, she was wearing the violin-shaped amethyst pin from her first beau. Charles wished she’d get rid of the flashy thing, but Marie always wore it for concerts. She insisted whatever meaning it may have once held for her was of no consequence, nothing more than a symbol of her craft and love for music. Marie called it her good luck charm. Despite her husband’s protests, she argued that she felt half-dressed without it pinned to her shoulder. Even though Bradley Smythe was happily married and living 2,000 miles away, it went against the grain.

But Charles conceded that his wife had as much right to show off her finest gems as anyone else. Especially on this night and in this place. The Del, Crown Jewel of Coronado, was an eye-catching treasure trove: pearl white with a ruby-red roof, emerald-green lawns, and flanked by a sweep of sparkling gold dust sand running to meet the blue topaz waters of Glorietta Bay. The stunning resort was visible from nearly every vantage point along the coastline. The original developers of the Hotel del Coronado, Babcock and Story, were brilliant artists and visionaries.

Charles set his drink on the table and gave the glass an irritated shove. Suddenly, it left a bad taste in his mouth. Years ago, he made a vow to abstain from the frequent consumption of alcohol. The reason went far beyond adhering to Prohibition law since police officials and some establishments often turned a blind eye to it. Still, he would always blame his mother’s alcoholism for the destruction of their family. Lorraine Hollister couldn’t go a day (or an hour) without some form of liquor. Much like a chain smoker, she guzzled down beers and more potent drinks in rapid succession, day and night. It was all Lorraine thought of, and that brown bottle took precedence over her little boy’s welfare. Not that his father was without blame. Raymond Hollister coped by turning a blind eye to his wife’s transgressions and making himself scarce. Forgiving or respecting either one of them could come only through an act of God, and Charles was a skeptic when it came to miracles.

Unsure how his mother came upon her libations since she rarely left the house, Charles suspected Uncle Virgil was the supplier. What, exactly, Uncle Virgil’s relationship was to their family remained a mystery. Like clockwork, after Raymond left for work each morning, Virgil showed up, and Charles often crossed paths with him on the way home from school. Judging from how his mother looked and acted around the guy, Charles sensed his father didn’t know about him. He never heard Virgil’s name mentioned at the dinner table, so young Charles didn’t bring it up. The implications of that relationship, after all these years, made him sick.

Had it not been for their kind neighbors, Estal and Anita Gardiner, who checked on Charles from time to time, his formative years would have been bleaker. Even though the missus was busy with her large brood, and her husband worked at the rail yards with Raymond, they shared crumbs of their time and resources with Charles. Estal always carved out time for his family, even after the most tiring days. Charles watched with envy as the Gardiners boisterously loaded themselves into a horse-drawn carriage for weekend picnics and trips to the lake. Other times, Charles furtively peeked through the fence at their backyard touch football games. Now and then, their middle son, Pete, asked him to play, but Charles wasn’t one to barge in uninvited. Some nights, he dreamed he was part of their safe and happy world. But the following day, he found himself again on the outside looking in.

Now that he had a wife and child to consider, Charles dared not run the risk of following in his mother’s faltering footsteps. Undeterred by his adamant refusals, Jasper Orwell, a local fisherman, persistently urged Charles to indulge in a nip of moonshine. Not that Charles had never tasted the stuff. He had and liked it, too much for his good. Come to think of it, a straight shot of whiskey would go down smooth right about now.

Charles sullenly ruminated throughout the symphony’s opening performance. Marie lowered herself into the chair beside him with a satisfied smile none too soon for his liking.

You ordered me a Cranberry Minnehaha! What a thoughtful hubby I have.

They clinked their glasses together. Here’s to us!

To us! Marie parroted.

Charles watched his wife quench her parched throat with the pink, fruity cocktail and marveled at the feelings she perpetually stirred within every fiber of his being. Always a looker, motherhood had softened Marie’s willful air and blossomed her to full maturity. Easy on the eye! On occasion, she still drove him to distraction with her stubborn, strong-willed nature, but Marie had grown up. She was breathtaking, and he was more in love with her now than the night she enthusiastically accepted his marriage proposal.

How did we sound, honey?

Her nearness was a rejuvenating tonic. Charles perked up. Like the professionals you are. I couldn’t be prouder, but I’m no expert in the field of music. Just know what I like.

Your good opinion is the one I value most on all topics, Marie assured him with a coy smile and playful toss of blond curls.

He closed his dark, shining eyes as they leaned together for a lingering kiss. Charles hoped Marie would always feel that way. For some reason, she adored the old wet blanket she’d once thought him to be. His fingers subconsciously loosened the Windsor knot of his red necktie—the one Marie gave him on the most memorable New Year’s celebration of their lives. His gift to her, a Cartier rose-cut diamond, sparkled tonight under the stage lights with every fluid arm stroke and hand signal to the orchestra.

A distinguished pianist in black tie and tails played a repertoire of love songs throughout the dinner hour. During the appetizer course, Clark and Suzanne Williams had joined them. Suzanne, née Leach, was Marie’s best friend, roommate, and partner in crime at Mademoiselle Beaumont’s Academy for Young Ladies. Charles had difficulty staying with their lively conversation, revolving around Suzanne’s work as an inker for Walt Disney Studios. He politely commented when called upon, but his mind drifted to weightier matters. The most pressing ones were the pending government grant renewal needed for his charitable organization to remain solvent, maintaining the lifestyle he and his family had grown accustomed to, and how long it would be before his first purchase of hair dye.

Don’t you agree, Cary?

The question from Marie jolted him back to the table talk. Agree?

The leg of lamb. Don’t you agree that the seasonings are superb?

He sliced through the meat, cleared his throat, and uttered a curt reply. Quite! As always. It’s what they’re famous for.

Marie watched with skepticism as he lowered his head and vigorously chewed. When the conversation veered toward current fashion trends, it caught his attention—a topic into which he could deeply sink his teeth.

By the time the jazz band announced the first number, Charles was more like himself. He stood, gallantly bowed, and held out his hand. May I have this dance, Madame Hollister?

His radiant wife giggled, rose to her feet, and readily accepted. Bien sûr, Monsieur!

Cheek to cheek, the Hollisters fluidly glided across the dance floor, smiling as brightly as the crystal chandeliers above them. Halfway through a foxtrot to the tune of Baby Face, Charles felt a firm tap on his shoulder.

Mind if I cut in?

Turning his head, Charles locked eyes with Jonathan Woods. He instantly bristled and possessively tightened his grasp around Marie’s torso. Mrs. Hollister’s card is full. Dance with your own wife!

Marie’s body stiffened as a flush crept through her cheeks. Jonathan merely shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Cary, how could you be so rude? Jonathan and Cathleen are good friends! I’m so embarrassed I could die!

Your friends, not necessarily mine. He’ll get over it. Let’s show this crowd how the pros cut a rug! With a gleam in his eye, Charles flashed a disarming grin and tried to change the subject as the band transitioned to I Can’t Give You Anything but Love.

His partner angrily tore herself from his arms and spat out, Suddenly, I don’t feel like dancing, so will sit this one out!

Dumbfounded, Charles watched Marie storm off toward a place where men were not permitted, the ladies’ room.

New Year’s Day, 1930

The jouncing drew Marie from a dream in which a violent squall tossed the light Skerry Cruiser to and fro before ravenous waves swallowed it whole. Cary!

Wake up, Mommy! I’m hungry!

Marie opened bleary eyes and met the bright brown ones of her little boy. Morning, sweetie. She glanced at Cary’s side of the bed, where the only signs of him were the indentation in his feather pillow and his lingering musky scent. A sense of uneasiness began to build. Where’s your Daddy?

In da boat. Catchin’ fish! Beau grinned and giggled as he continued bouncing on the coil spring mattress.

Marie had planned to sleep in that morning but was wide awake thanks to her playful son and his father’s poor judgment. It was a bad dream, anyway. Why would Cary leave their three-year-old unsupervised while she slept? Mommy’s going to get dressed and make you some pancakes. How does that sound?

Little Beau licked his lips and patted his chubby belly. Pannycakes! Nummy! Hurry, Mommy!

While styling her sandy-blond tresses, Marie couldn’t help thinking about last night. On the surface, one would not have guessed they were facing an economic crisis. The hotel’s luxurious Grand Ballroom was alive with glittering lights and beautiful people, dining on gourmet foods and dancing to the latest hits. But when she searched beneath the façade, Marie found the unvarnished truth in the eyes and souls of those superficial revelers. The glitz and glamor and thick cloud of cigarette smoke didn’t hide the shadow of apprehension that enveloped the place or her husband’s sullenness. Cary was distracted all through dinner, and his rudeness toward Jonathan was deplorable. Thankfully, Cary had the decency to apologize to all concerned, ending the night on a friendlier note.

Charles hadn’t been himself since the Great Crash. Marie rarely gave their sixteen-year age difference much thought until recently. He was beginning to show evidence of his forty-one years, with bouts of melancholy, a sprinkling of silver strands in his thick ebony mane, and laugh lines forming at the corners of his dreamy eyes. Marie thought he was distinguished, and her only real complaint was that he’d reverted to his old controlling and hovering ways (how he’d treated her when she was an adolescent). She’d accused her father of hiring Charles Hollister as her bodyguard back then. History did tend to repeat itself, but revisiting life with the sullen and overly protective version of her husband was far from appealing. Even more troubling was his contradictory lack of concern for Beau this morning. If he loved the child, why keep him at arm’s length, as he was known to do. It didn’t add up.

Marie recalled a past sermon on mustard seed faith. There wasn’t a geographical mountain in their way, but a heaviness weighed down Cary’s spirits. Despite all that, Marie believed they could overcome the current bump in the road. They had to.

The dresser mirror reflected Beau’s image as he sprawled across the middle of the brass Art Deco bed, breathing heavily with beads of sweat dotting his brow. The bouncing had worn him out. Breakfast could wait a little longer. Marie stole a private moment and reached for her journal. Her occasional poetry entries had an emotionally calming effect, so she picked up a pencil and began writing:

It’s time to begin

A new year, a new day,

A new way

Of learning to live

In a world gone wrong,

To look to The Light,

To keep hope in sight,

And find courage to write

A new song.

Mommy! Beau had crawled out of bed and into his mother’s lap.

I’m ready, baby. Time for pannycakes!

#

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and Charles Hollister