Love Finds You in the City at Christmas Read online

  Love Finds You in the City at Christmas (Holiday Two-In-One Edition)

  Love Finds You [57]

  Anna Schmidt Ruth Logan Herne

  Summerside Press (2013)

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  Tags: Love Finds You in the City at Christmas

  Love comes to New York City in two heartwarming stories of Christmas past and present.

  In 'Red Kettle Christmas,' it's 1946, and police officer Mike Wolzak inherits the family home. . . and the custody of his troubled sister. While on patrol during Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, Mike meets a Salvation Army bell ringer struggling to support herself and her young child. Over the holiday season in Manhattan, she teaches the veteran how to support his family. In the process, he gains a new one.

  In 'Manhattan Miracle,' a war-weary soldier finally comes home. Max Wolzak is celebrating Christmas in the Manhattan brownstone where he spent much of his childhood when he meets Sarah, his sister's old schoolmate. Sparks fly as the pair gets reacquainted over holiday events, but when Max realizes she will leave for the Middle East the day after Christmas, he has a decision to make.

  About the Loves Finds You™ series: The Love Finds You series features standalone inspirational romance novels set in real towns and cities across America. This special holiday 2-in-1 edition features one historical novella and one contemporary novella connected by a common thread.

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  Love Finds You in the City at Christmas

  ISBN-10: 0-8249-3436-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-8249-3436-1

  Published by Summerside Press, an imprint of Guideposts

  16 East 34th Street

  New York, New York 10016

  SummersidePress.com

  Guideposts.org

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  “Red Kettle Christmas” copyright © 2013 by Ruth Logan Herne. All rights reserved.

  “Manhattan Miracle” copyright © 2013 by Anna Schmidt. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

  Distributed by Ideals Publications, a Guideposts company

  2630 Elm Hill Pike, Suite 100

  Nashville, TN 37214

  Guideposts, Ideals, and Summerside Press are registered trademarks of Guideposts.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place. References to actual people or events are either coincidental or are used with permission.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group, Mullerhaus.net.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Red Kettle Christmas

  Dedication

  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

  About the Author

  Manhattan Miracle

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Dedication

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  To Zach, for always believing, laughing, and caring . . . and the coffee gift cards were a total bonus! Love you!

  Acknowledgments

  • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

  Huge thanks to the Salvation Army Greater New York Division for their help on this very special project! The ongoing work of this ecumenical organization finds its way to hard-pressed people in times of crisis, past and present-day.

  To Major William Groff, retired, a special round of thanks for filling in some very important blanks and chatting with me. Bill, your information was huge, and now we can work on your book!

  To Reverend Edward Jay Sinclair, for his advice and help in steering me to Bill.

  And to Zachary Blodgett, Esq., Associate Contract Attorney for the Greater New York Salvation Army. Your willingness to ask questions and help your mother are wonderful traits!

  And to my agent Natasha Kern who called and said, “Would you like to write a Christmas story set in Manhattan?” The answer was a resounding “Yes!” I live in the rolling hills of upstate, but I love New York City!

  And they, continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, did eat their meat with gladness and singleness of heart, praising God, and having favour with all the people. And the Lord added to the church daily such as should be saved.

  ACTS 2:46–47

  Chapter One

  • • • • • • • • • • • •

  New York City, Midtown, Thanksgiving morning

  1947

  The bell’s clear trill beckoned NYPD Patrolman Mike Wolzak. The welcoming chime brought warmth to the chill of gray November.

  Mike aimed for the sound and the corner that would lead him to his assignment, keeping watch over the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  Memories surged. Childhood images recalled the wonders of Christmas in the city, his little sister held tight in his father’s arms, his mother’s hand grasping his as the parade went by, both parents straight and tall, proud of their part in the American dream.

  So much gone.

  So much different.

  So much sorrow.

  But he had a job to do, a task he did well. He rounded the corner, intent, then stopped.

  A lone woman stood between him and the parade route. A cloak covered her beneath an old-style bonnet. Damp tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks. Rain misted her face.

  Gloves too thin for the cold, wet conditions shielded her hands. Her right hand rocked a bell, the small sound sweet in the dank, dark day. A heavy red kettle stood off to the side, suspended from a tripod base.

  She glanced his way and smiled, and that smile . . .

  A look that touched her face, her eyes, her mouth . . .

  Drew him closer.

  “Good morning, Officer. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  His day promised to be anything but happy, but she knew nothing of that. Nothing of him. Seeing her there, tucked beneath an overhang that offered scant help from the wind-driven mist, an urge to help swept over him. But how?

  “Mommy, may I move closer to the parade for just a little bit? Please?”

  Mike’s attention veered down. A child stood tucked in the lee side of the doorway, a little girl, a miniature of the woman before him. The inset doorframe protected the child from the elements, while her mother dealt with less hospitable conditions. He moved forward, drawn to serve, and put out a hand. “Mike Wolzak, NYPD.”

  The woman raised her gaze and accepted his gesture, placing her wet, gloved hand in his. “Karen O’Leary.”

  Her voice warmed him. Soft, full of welcome, as if she weren’t cold an
d wet, soliciting financial help from people too caught up in the crowd’s noise to hear the bell’s plea.

  “And this is?” He turned his gaze down. The child returned the look with an expression so honest and sweet he couldn’t help but smile, and smiles had been a rare commodity of late.

  “I’m Laurie.” She tipped her head back and chin up, clearly proud of what she was about to say as she held up one small hand, fingers splayed. “I’m five.”

  “And clearly smart for your age,” Mike told her.

  The girl beamed.

  Her mother’s gentle smile said she appreciated his overture. “It seems we’re both working this day.” She indicated the growing crowd of people lining Broadway with a tilt of her head. “How blessed we are to have the freedom to work as we should.”

  Her words struck a sour chord within him.

  He hadn’t felt blessed a few moments ago, and he was pretty sure sorrow would drag him as the day wore on, but right now the hope and promise in her gaze made him feel more optimistic than he had in a long time.

  The rousing rhythms of Glenn Miller’s “St. Louis Blues” heralded the coming parade. Bright music to warm the day, celebrating the end of war, the joy of returning soldiers, a new tomorrow. Movie house newsreels lauded the excitement of the troops’ return, but not all came back. Some had made the ultimate sacrifice. And Mike knew others whose tomorrows would ever be affected by the remnants of war, mentally and physically.

  “It’s coming, Mommy!”

  The child’s voice called him away from dark remembrances. Innocent joy uplifted her eyes and her tone.

  The young mother aimed her gaze down. “I must stay here. This is my assignment for today. You know that, Laurie, but if you let me tie your hat nice and snug, you can come out here and watch.”

  Mike measured the child’s vantage point with a quick glance. She’d see very little, if anything, a full block up from the parade’s path, with people four-deep lining the road.

  Should he offer?

  No. Not when he was on duty. What if something happened? What if . . . ?

  “May I take her closer?” He uttered the words before common sense could stop them. “We’ll go right down to the end of the road. You’ll be able to see us from here. And there aren’t too many safer places to be on parade day than with one of New York’s finest.”

  Indecision shadowed Karen’s face, but her eyes said she couldn’t disagree.

  “Oh, Mommy, please?” Laurie gripped her mother’s hand, her voice imploring.

  “We do not beg.” Karen’s voice stayed calm but stern.

  The child quieted, but while her mouth went silent, her eyes pleaded.

  Mike turned away to hide a smile. He would have caved at the kid’s initial entreaty. Clearly parenting wasn’t as easy as he might have thought.

  “You will be good?”

  More hopeful now of a positive answer, Laurie nodded earnestly. “So good.”

  “And you will not ask for things?” Karen posed the question with one brow thrust up, a no-nonsense expression.

  “I promise, Mommy.”

  “And you’re sure this is all right?” Karen turned her gaze up to his, and a tiny breath of hope eased the tightness in Mike’s chest, a clench that began mid-war and hadn’t let go yet.

  “It’s fine.”

  “Well then.” Karen handed him the bell for a moment. She leaned down and secured the girl’s hat with a tighter bow beneath her chin. Soft brown ringlets tumbled from beneath the hat’s edge. Tenderly, she pulled the child’s collar up and tucked the hair beneath. “I know you don’t like your hair tucked in, but”—Karen kept her voice firm but gentle—“we need to ring the bell until one o’clock. You’ll get very cold if your hair gets soaked in the rain, so you must keep it inside your coat. Okay?”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “All right.”

  She stood, reached out a hand for the bell in Mike’s hand, and met his gaze. “Thank you.”

  Two simple words. No embellishment. But in those two words, he read the gratitude of a woman who cared for her child despite the odds. A woman like his mother had been.

  “No problem.” He flashed her a smile, lifted the child, and hiked down the street, not wanting the girl to miss a minute of the day’s festivities. Yes, they’d get wet. And they’d probably get cold. But she’d have a memory to hold forever, much like the ones he held close. And no one could take those good memories away.

  * * * * *

  Only a foolish woman allows her child to be carried into the sprawling crowds of New York City on parade day.

  Karen knew this and made the decision anyway. Foolish? Well. She’d been called worse in the past. She’d gazed into the man’s eyes, read the shadows of life and loss, and seen his pain. But alongside the pain she discerned honor and protection, and on that note, she let her precious daughter go.

  And then watched from her post a block away, the bell chiming tiny reminders of want and need.

  “Some coffee, miss?”

  Karen turned toward the thick accent, half Yiddish, part Brooklyn. A man not much taller than her waved to the one lit store behind them, a bagel shop, bright and fragrant. From it, the scent of warm bread kneaded the morning mist. “We’re only open until noon this day, the holiday, you understand . . .”

  She nodded, knowing not everyone got holidays off.

  “But the coffee is fresh, hot, and good. And if you don’t mind doing an old man a favor, my nephew and I will pack up the extras at the end of the day and send them home with you and the little girl.”

  Warm bagels, fresh from the oven, boiled just so before being baked. Rarely did she indulge in such a treat, but wouldn’t the girls at the Booth Memorial Home be delighted by this man’s generosity?

  She nodded, elated. “I have people who will be truly gratified by your generosity.”

  “And the coffee, miss? What do you like in it?”

  Temptation mounted. What she liked was cream and sugar, but why tease her senses with what couldn’t be on a regular basis?

  It’s a holiday. Treat yourself. Why do you insist on going without? Doing without? The war is over. Stop punishing yourself.

  While the war had ended, her life continued, and that meant providing for herself and her daughter. Eking out a living. Providing a home. Spoiling herself with nonessentials could make it more difficult to sacrifice when needed. With no further hesitation, she smiled at the bagel maker. “Black is fine.”

  “All right.” He hurried back to the shop. Bright light shone a triangle onto the wet, gray pavement when he opened the door. Exhaust fans in the upper side wall pumped the scent of baking dough into the street. The fragrance warmed her, the thought of taking extra food to the expectant mothers at the home adding solace from within.

  The parade’s joyous noise pulled her attention back down the road. Laurie was now perched on the officer’s shoulders, an enviable vantage point for any child. This would be a day to remember, an event to jot into the girl’s memory book. At five years old and precociously bright, Laurie wouldn’t care about a big meal or a family tradition she’d never known. But she’d remember this parade, viewed from high atop a policeman’s shoulders.

  The bagel scent made Karen’s stomach gurgle.

  She pushed the longing aside.

  There would be little turkey at the home today. She’d seen the cook’s face last evening. Donations were down as men and women scrambled to regain footholds lost while fighting a war on multiple fronts. But Major Dennison had a knack for turning out delicious meals from scant supplies, while volunteers and paid nursing staff looked after the young mothers. And they’d been given two fifty-pound sacks of surplus potatoes from the farmers’ market. Potatoes could go a long way toward stretching meager turkey and gravy.

  Karen smiled as she thought of Major Dennison, the Salvation Army officer in charge of the Booth Home kitchen who possessed a drill-sergeant persona. No one called Major Dennison by he
r first name. But the major’s strict tactics covered a heart of service and sacrifice, two marvelous traits, well hidden.

  “Here you go, miss.”

  Karen turned back. The bagel maker’s earnest smile of understanding made her glance down.

  “I thought a little cream and sugar might warm you better,” he said, almost apologetic, as if striving not to hurt her pride.

  Her eyes smarted. His gesture, kindly and good, sweetened the coffee more. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Mister—?”

  “Arnie.” He pointed to the sign above the small shop. “Arnold Mencher.” He shrugged and pointed east toward the cop and the little girl. “Mike’s family has done business with us a long time, since the first war. Once neighbors. Now friends.”

  World War I. Karen nodded, following the path from his arm to the pair watching the drawn-out festivities. “You’ve made a lot of bagels, sir.”

  Her appreciation for sticking with a job deepened his smile. “First my father, then me. My father, he came over before the troubles grew worse. With Mike’s grandfather.”

  Karen pondered his given name. “You are Polish.”

  “And Jewish.” The man squared his shoulders, proud of his heritage. “Not all came over when there was a chance. And now . . .”

  Karen read his shrug and understood the “now.” Concentration camps had taken a huge toll on Eastern European Jews. “You have family, Arnie?”

  He nodded and stepped aside as some passersby paused to drop coins into Karen’s kettle. The sharp noise of the coins said few had stopped on their way to the parade. She hoped more would part with loose change at the parade’s end, but something was always better than nothing.

  “Two boys. One girl. In Brooklyn.”

  “Do they help?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I am typical American father now. I want much more for them. They have American schools, American citizenship, American dreams. They will have college. Many choices. It is a parent’s wish to watch his child’s success surpass his own. But my sister’s boy, Stanley, he is my apprentice now. And he does well.”