Christmas Dance

By Leah St. James

Alexandra Anderson has a loving husband who provides for her every need, a beautiful home in the suburbs, and money to fulfill her slightest whim. But after a lonely childhood, what she wants more than anything is a baby, a family of her own.

Sam Herrmann is married to his college sweetheart, and together they have three healthy, boisterous boys. Sam spends his days running numbers as a government accountant, and his nights and weekends trying to keep up with the grueling family schedule set by his wife, a wife he can barely remember.
What happens when those same two people catch each other’s eye and like what they see?

Christmas Dance - A story of marriage and parenthood, secret disappointments and temptations. In the end, a story of hope and rediscovering love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leah St. James
• Release date: Nov 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9780998373041

Leah St. James

Leah writes stories of good and evil, the mysteries of life, and (most of all) the enduring power of love. Although romance is her favorite genre to read, as a writer, she enjoys tackling subjects that make people think, and her stories have covered topics from murder to the question of life after death, from infidelity to infertility.She married her college sweetheart, and together they have two amazing sons, two beautiful, smart and accomplished daughters-in-law, three grand-cats—Hercules, Beep, and Jack—and a grand-dog, Gus, all rescues. They treasure their time with family and friends, traveling when they can, and analyzing the plots of movies and TV shows.She loves chatting with and getting to know readers! Please visit her on her social media pages or send email to [e-mail]. To stay up to date on future releases, you can sign up for her (soon to be launched) quarterly newsletter.

Book preview

CHRISTMAS DANCE

a novella

by Leah St. James

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

COPYRIGHT © 2012, updated 2020, by Leah St. James

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Cover Art Design by Creative Author Services

Third electronic edition 2020

Second print edition 2020

Published in the United States of America

DEDICATION

To my sons, John and David – You have given me life’s greatest joys…

even when I found myself counting to ten, and then twenty, when you were little guys. Since then I’ve watched you grow into strong, honorable men, making your unique marks on the world. I couldn’t be prouder to be your mom.

Also to Jess and Lisa-Marie, the women who married them. My heart warms and overflows when I witness your love for my sons, and theirs for you. Wishing you joy always.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

This is an updated version of a story I originally wrote in 2012. It was based on a short-story concept concocted by my husband (family nickname: The Plot Master). He tends to prefer tragedies, where I write happy-ever-afters. This story, like life, is a mix.

I was honored to place as a finalist in the 2013 International Digital Book Awards, Inspirational Category, with this story. But after living with it for almost a decade, I’ve decided to take one particular plot point in a different direction.

I hope this new updated version brings hope to all who are struggling through a relationship, with decisions they’ve made, or with disappointments—in others and themselves.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to the readers who provided feedback and helped me to see the story from a different perspective.

Many, many thanks to Alison Henderson of Creative Author Services for the beautiful new cover. Despite my (as usual) vague description and the non-specific genre, Alison came up with a perfect visualization of the story. I’m so grateful for her time, talent and guidance.

* * * * *

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks used in this work of fiction:

Coach

Lay’s

Lysol

Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgments

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

Also By Leah St. James

About the Author

Chapter One

Cold was the enemy, at least in Alexandra Anderson’s mind, and this part of Jersey, in December, seemed to have more than its share of bitter, cold days that made her defend herself in gloves and scarves and fur-lined hoods. And that was inside the house.

She smirked at her own joke as she entered her three-car garage through the house door. Her giant SUV sat idling—she’d started the ignition remotely minutes ago—and its engine rumbled with suppressed power, its vibrations traveling from the motor to the cement flooring, right through the soles of her boots. She climbed into the gentrified tank, yet another defense against the cold, then sighed with bliss when her butt hit the warmed leather seats.

Who would ever have thought she’d end up driving a rich man’s version of a pickup?

She settled her purse and checked her mirrors—then took the opportunity to smooth the line of her lipstick. Who would have thought she’d ever need a vehicle that could cut through snow and ice like warm butter, for that matter? When she’d left her home on the North Carolina shore five years before and headed north to marry Ben, she knew the winters would be harder, but Lord, there was hard, and then there was hard.

She’d expected to wear heavier coats. She’d expected to turn the heat on earlier in the year and turn it off later. She’d expected she’d have to put her shorts and flip-flops away for a good part of the year, too.

But she hadn’t expected days where no amount of layering, or consuming hot, spiked beverages, or turning up the thermostat, could touch the bone-deep chill that saturated the air, inside and out, making her feel like one big popsicle.

Nobody loved popsicles more than Alex, but living the life of one wasn’t her druthers. She missed home. She missed the moderate winters. A person could go outside in December without being bundled up like Nanook of the North. Oh, she’d admit there had been days here in Jersey, or even a few spells, where the bite left the air and a body could breathe without feeling like their lungs would freeze, but today wasn’t one of those days.

Today was a Nanook day—gray-skied, frigid-aired, and down-right nasty feeling. Like Mother Nature wanted to pick a fight with the world. Maybe even freeze its balls into submission.

She inched the vehicle from the garage and pointed its nose toward the end of the drive, a full hundred yards away, and down the twisty-turny slope that Ben had found so picturesque he’d been compelled to plant azaleas along its length. And it was pretty, usually, especially in the spring and summer when they blossomed with that glorious shade of fuchsia that made her feel happy, and warm. But nothing looked pretty today when the world felt encapsulated inside a snow globe.

Even at this snail-like speed, the tires skidded a few feet when the vehicle reached the bottom, and she sat there for a minute—her foot pressed so hard on the brake her calf spasmed and sweat broke out on her palms. She told herself she could do this. She could drive this monster truck-like thing the couple miles to church. She could direct the children’s Christmas pageant and survive the inevitable chaos brought on by the kids’ nerves and excitement. She could make the drive back in time to be here for Ben before he returned from his latest business trip to … oh Lord, she couldn’t even remember where he was this time. Somewhere, probably a thousand miles away, teaching his fellow geeks about bits and bytes and algorithms that made the world go round.

He’d be on one of his post-trip highs, pumped up from the piles of praise thrown at him. Still, he’d be hungry and tired. Maybe even cold. He might want a little sex to warm him up. She could sure use it—warming up, and sex. He’d been gone a whole week this time. And she was ovulating.

For a second she thought about turning the truck around and heading back inside, away from the icy crap spitting from the sky and pummeling the vehicle so hard, it sounded like a barrage of BBs hitting her roof. So hard, she worried it would leave pit marks on the SUV’s perfect, shiny surface. The icy mix, as the weatherman had termed it, already coated the trees with a sheen that would have looked pretty on a Christmas card but scared the crap out of her at that moment. And if Mr. Weatherman could be trusted, it would keep falling for at least another couple hours. Just about the time the pageant was to start. Already those parents and kids would be on the road, driving through this crud like she was, counting on her to resuscitate this year’s rendition of peace on earth, good will toward men.

Sighing, she eased the SUV into the roadway that was turning gray with slush and gave a tentative push to the gas pedal. The tires bit into the pavement, propelling the SUV forward until she was going a nice, moderate twenty. Plenty fast enough for these conditions.

And that was another thing she missed about home. The drivers up here in Yankee-land didn’t respect the white stuff falling from the sky. They’d whizz by you on the icy streets like you were a damn park statue, when you were already driving the speed limit, or close to. What was their hurry all the time anyway?

A van zipped by on her right, the driver blaring his horn at what he must have perceived as her slowness, his tires churning up enough crap to hurl it back onto her windshield. It hit with a splat!, startling her. She took her eyes off the roadway for a split second to glare at him and found him glaring back. For a second, just a second, she was tempted to return his middle-finger salute. But Mama didn’t raise her to respond to jerks with more anger. Mama raised her to be a lady, to kill people with kindness. Even the jerks.

Alexandra, she’d said, in her soft, sweet voice that held even more of a twang than her own, the world is made up of good people and bad, and you’ll meet your share of both. Just remember where you came from. We might not have much by way of things, but if you can get to the end of the day and have no regrets, if you can sleep through the night with an easy heart, you’ve done all right.

The conversation had taken place on Christmas morning, near fifteen years ago now, a month after she turned twelve. Mama had reached beneath the tree and pulled out a square box that just fit in the palm of her hand. It was wrapped in glittery silver paper and trimmed with a tiny, but perfect, red satin bow.

She’d handed it to her, saying, You’re a young lady now, no longer a girl. Things are going to start getting hard for you, Alexandra. I want you to have this so you’ll always remember not just who you are, but whose you are.

What do you mean? What’s going to be hard? Alex had asked, although her mother’s words of warning had taken a back seat to the sparkling prize she now held.

She couldn’t remember what Mama’s response had been. She only remembered ripping the paper away, seeing the velvet jeweler’s box that lay underneath. With clumsy fingers she snapped the lid open, then had to sit for a minute, had to let her mind process what her eyes saw—a beautiful gold necklace with a charm shaped as the letter A attached to the end. It, too, was made of gold and seemed layered with gem-like bits and pieces in every shade—bright reds and blues, purples and greens and even yellows—like a garden of jewels. And in the center of the A sat a diamond. Of course, now she knew the stone was too small to be considered anything but a chip, but back then, at age twelve, she felt as if she’d been handed the majestic Hope itself.

She remembered lifting the necklace from the box and holding it up to the light, her eyes and mouth forming big O’s. She remembered the colors catching and reflecting half a dozen rainbows across the floor and onto the nearby wall. Then Mama gently pried the chain from her fingers and scooted behind her to fasten it around her neck.

She’d worn that necklace for a week before removing it, and even now, it was a rare day the charm wasn’t hanging between her boobs, where she could feel its weight and warmth—and remember her mother, and the words she’d said.

I got the letter charm on purpose, so you’d always remember what your name means, no matter what happens.

What? What does ‘Alexandra’ mean? she’d asked.

It means favor, and grace. God’s grace. Never forget that, baby girl. You’re God’s child, first of all, before all others. No matter what trouble may come your way, He’ll be there for you.

Her almost-teen mind skipped over the words, but she’d remember them the next year when her mother died of a particularly vicious form of cancer that devoured her flesh and turned her complexion to ash. She remembered, too, when her father came to get her to come live with him and his second family—a wife and two kids nearly a decade younger than Alex, too full of their own lives to care about this new stranger in their midst. You’re God’s child she told herself in those lonely hours when it seemed she did nothing but look on this family from the outside, day after day. She’d lived with them until her eighteenth year, until she escaped to college. Her father never said, but Alex knew he was relieved to be rid of her.

Alex realized now that her mother had tried to prepare her young daughter for her own passing. Back then Alex had struggled through the layers of grief—shock, anger, and finally a sadness so deep, it was as if she’d been cut in half, as if she’d never feel whole again. But nothing could have prepared her for the intensity of the pain that felt like someone had taken a branding iron to her insides and scorched her soul.

The memory had her brushing tears from her cheeks and blinking away visions of her mother’s face. As she so often did, she reached with her mind to the necklace where it lay at the top of her cleavage, and focused until she could feel its shape against her skin. The sensation had her breathing easier, her mind calming, and she realized then that she’d reached the church parking lot, safely, without incident.

Thank you, Mama, she said out loud as she pulled into the lot, then found a space in the second row. It wasn’t until after she put the SUV in park and turned off the ignition that she noticed it had stopped snowing—or sleeting, whatever the stuff was. Dusk had turned the sky purple, and the first of the evening stars were twinkling above, messages that had been sent light years before. Night was falling, and with it, whatever warmth the winter sun had provided.

Still, she had to admit to its raw beauty as she slipped her furred hood over her head and stepped from the car’s warmth. Even that extra layering did nothing to protect her nose and mouth from the pinch of the frigid air. So she drew the edges of the hood together, forming a mask over her face, and kept her head down as she picked her way over the ribbons of ice lacing the parking lot.

She’d reached the last row of cars when she heard a shout from somewhere close by. Her gaze followed the noise, and she saw Sam Herrmann, husband to Dani Herrmann, with their youngest, little R.J. The toddler’s older brothers, Maxwell and Douglas, were probably already inside the choir room, among the kids waiting for her to appear.

They were good, well-behaved kids who rarely gave her cause to raise her voice. That didn’t mean they weren’t boys, though, and she was certain that Dani Herrmann kept that little body of hers so little by chasing after her brood.

The three of them looked like peas in a pod, too, miniature versions of their father, with jet black hair and eyes that alternated shades of green depending on the color of their clothing. Their builds, too, looked like they’d already started to develop that same big, solid football-player body as their father. A warrior build. The man even worked for the Defense Department, if she remembered correctly.

And he was putting that body to good use right now, playing with R.J. on a small patch of lawn near the back door. They were laughing and tossing handfuls of snow at each other, and when the little boy’s high-pitched giggles sailed through the air, a pang of regret, or envy, blasted through Alex’s chest and pierced her heart.

She drew in a breath to beat it back, and shot the two a smile as she neared, then passed them and entered the building. They probably never noticed her. Still, she felt their attention, or someone’s attention, directed her way, like a laser beam trained on the center of her back.

Ignoring it, she tugged the big door open, then slipped through, anxious to get the afternoon started. The sooner they could start, the sooner she’d be done, back home, and hopefully snuggled in bed with her husband. Maybe even making their own baby.

As