Barbara Bretton Christmas Special
Today we have a special feature on Barbara Bretton, introducing two of her Christmas books, The Year the Cat Saved Christmas and Mrs. Scrooge. Barbara joins us for a guest post on books and Christmas. There are also two giveaways to enter: enter the tour-wide Rafflecopter for a chance to win a Kindle Paperwhite, or leave a question or comment for Barbara below for a chance to win an audiobook (2 per tour stop). This book tour is brought to you by Bewitching Book Tours. Please visit all the other tour stops as well.
The Year the Cat Saved Christmas
by Barbara Bretton
Christmas used to be the happiest time of the year in the big house on the hill. But this year when the clock strikes midnight on Christmas Day, it will all be over. Can Sebastian, a wily Maine Coon cat, find a way to bring his people back home or will this holiday be their last?
As a rule, Sebastian endured Christmas with the good grace for which the best cats were known. He never indulged in merrymaking. His self-defined role as elder statesman precluded such a loss of dignity. Instead he held himself aloof and watched with great indulgence as his humans did the strangest things.
Once a year, around the first snowstorm, they opened the front doors wide and dragged in a big pine tree from outside. The same people who scolded him when he came in with muddy paws ignored bugs and dirt and sap and set the tree right smack in the middle of the living room carpet. They hung round, shiny objects from the branches and strung twinkling lights from top to bottom. Then, when that was all done, they placed boxes tied up with bows underneath the lowest branches.
Everyone who came to visit gathered around the tree to sing songs and drink something called eggnog and to give each other presents that weren’t half as much fun as catnip or a ball of yarn. All things considered, it was a most puzzling time of the year.
At Christmastime a cat had to learn how to cope or he’d find himself with a Santa Claus hat on his head and a ribbon around his neck, posing for some stupid holiday card picture that would embarrass him for the rest of his days. The dog and the parrot were perfectly happy to make fools of themselves and wear all manner of ridiculous outfits to make their humans laugh, but not Sebastian. The first person who tried to make him wear snow boots or a bow around his neck would find himself picking kitty litter out of his teeth for a year.
Sebastian did not suffer fools gladly. Christmas was not his favorite time of year. He preferred Thanksgiving, thank you very much, with that big juicy roasted bird on the table and lots of leftovers. When Christmas got too loud and confusing, he retreated to his hiding place in the Girl’s room where a cat in his golden years could sleep in peace and quiet until things got back to normal again.
This year, however, something was wrong. There was no tree, no beribboned packages, no friends and relatives gathered around singing songs to torment the ears of innocent cats. The Boy and Girl moped around in their rooms and not even talk of Santa Claus could make them smile. And what worried Sebastian most was that their parents weren’t smiling either.
When it all began, the Man slept downstairs on the sofa while she had the big bed all to herself. Sebastian, with the sensibilities of a diplomat, had tried to divide his attentions between the two of them but his twelve-year-old legs weren’t what they used to be. The stairs took their toll on his rickety knees and made him wheeze like a bulldog, so most of the time he slept on the landing so he could be near them both.
Finally the time came when he didn’t have to do that any longer, because the Man packed his bags and moved to something called a hotel.
The dog refused to believe anything was wrong. The parrot thought Sebastian was making a mountain out of a molehill, but Sebastian knew in his ancient bones that change was in the wind. He had been around since the beginning and he knew how it used to be when they were happy. There had been so much laughter in the little cottage that he couldn’t hear himself purr. Now he couldn’t remember the last time he’d even seen them smile.
He found himself dreaming about the little cottage where he’d first lived with them and how happy they’d been. It was as if the cottage itself were somehow calling him back home. The Woman used to sing while she cooked dinner and sometimes the Man came into the kitchen and drew her into his arms and they danced around the floor. Sebastian would even get into the act. He’d wind his way between their ankles until, laughing, they would bend down and stroke his fur just the way he liked it. Ah, those were the days …
He’d been young then and fast. A better mouser never lived than Sebastian in his prime. He’d bring his treasures home proudly and place them on the front porch but she never seemed to appreciate them the way Sebastian thought she should. As far as Sebastian was concerned, it didn’t get much better than dead mouse.
Sebastian didn’t do much mousing anymore and his birding days were a thing of the past. He hadn’t gone exploring in longer than he could remember, content instead to stay close to home in case he was needed. Sometimes he thought he caught the mourning doves laughing at him as he lay on the back steps and sunned himself. He pretended he didn’t notice them waddling by, but he did. It was a sad day when a proud cat like Sebastian couldn’t catch a mourning dove but time marched on and, like it or not, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
Not long ago a sign appeared in the front yard and every day strange people marched through the house. Sebastian refused to acknowledge their presence as they peeked in closets and peered under the beds. He didn’t know exactly what was going on but he knew enough to understand his life was about to change.
He hadn’t seen his people together in a long time. The Man hadn’t been around much since the sign appeared. The other day Sebastian had heard his voice through the answering machine and he’d winced as the dog danced about with delight. Poor Charlie just didn’t understand the difference between a machine and the real thing. For a minute Sebastian had wished he didn’t either. He wanted to believe that his people would be together again and things would be the way they used to, but he was starting to suspect it never would.
When the big long truck pulled into the driveway that morning, Sebastian knew it was all over. He sat in the foyer and watched with growing dismay as the televisions vanished into the truck, along with the piano and dishes and even the paintings on the walls.
A snowy boot nudged his flank. “Move, fatso.”
Sebastian aimed a malevolent look in the human’s direction but he didn’t budge an inch. It was his house. Let old Snow Boots move.
“Hey, tubs.” The brown boot nudged a little harder. “I got a twelve foot couch to move. Get your furry ass out of my way.”
Sebastian considered turning the human’s pants into confetti but thought better of it. Instead he leaped onto the sofa with a surprising display of agility and curled up in the corner as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He was having trouble catching his breath but he refused to let on.
“Hey, lady!” the human bellowed. “Do something about this cat, will you?”
“Sebastian!” She appeared in the doorway. “Scat! Stay out of the moving man’s way.”
Sebastian arched his back and hissed. Scat? Since when did she tell him to scat? She’d never embarrassed him in front of strangers before and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Bad cat!” Her voice shook as if she’d been crying. “Don’t you ever do anything right?”
Her words cut him to the quick. He jumped down from the sofa, landing hard on his paws. Pain shot up his legs and along his back. He was getting too old for gymnastics. He waited for her to come see if he’d hurt himself but she turned away as if she’d forgotten he was even there. That hurt most of all.
“You gonna stand there all day, fatso?” the human asked, aiming that boot in Sebastian’s direction one more time. “You heard what the lady said. Now scat!”
Sebastian couldn’t help himself. There was only so much a cat could take before he defended his honor. With one graceful swing of his paw, he turned the moron’s right pants leg into a windsock and then he marched out the front door, tail held high. Maybe next time the human would think twice before insulting an innocent feline who was just minding his own business.
He strutted out onto the porch and surveyed his domain.
Snow was everywhere he looked: on the porch, the driveway, all over the yard. Sebastian’s whiskers quivered with distaste. He hated snow. It was cold and wet and reminded him of baths and other indignities. Maybe if he looked pathetic enough, she would come out and rescue him. An apology would be nice but he wouldn’t insist.
He waited patiently, watching as tables and chairs and beds and tables disappeared into the big truck parked in the driveway. It seemed a very strange thing to do and he was pondering the mystery when he suddenly remembered the last time something just like this had happened to him.
The Boy and Girl had been babies then, too little to do anything but sleep and eat and cry. Sebastian would have suggested they leave the babies behind but his people had a strange fondness for the little roundheads, a fondness Sebastian learned to share only after they were out of diapers. In his opinion, litter boxes made a great deal more sense.
He remembered that summer as if it were yesterday. All of their furniture had disappeared into a truck that time, too, only back then there hadn’t been quite as much of it, and most of what they had boasted claw marks.
“Don’t look so sad, Sebastian,” the Woman had said, chucking him under the chin. “You’ll love the new house!”
“Wait until you see the backyard, old boy,” the Man had said with a laugh. “Slower birds and plumper mice and lots of shady places to take a nap.”
Was that the last time they’d all been happy? The Man worked harder than ever and was home less and less. She worked harder too, sitting alone at the computer late at night while the Boy and Girl slept. Sebastian never saw them curled up side by side on the sofa or dancing in the kitchen or heard them laughing together in their room late at night.
The moving men bellowed something behind him. Sebastian scampered down the icy stairs and darted under the porch, just in time to avoid being flattened by work boots and the big couch from the den. Snow brushed against his belly and made him shiver. He hated the cold almost as much as he hated the three-cans-for-a-dollar cat food his people sometimes foisted on him. At his age he should be curled up in front of a roaring fireplace with a platter of sliced veal and gravy, claiming his rightful place in the family.
Wasn’t it bad enough that the Man didn’t live with them anymore or that sometimes she cried herself to sleep when she thought no one could hear her? Now they wouldn’t even have a home and everyone knew you couldn’t be a family if you didn’t have a place where you could be together.
The cottage on Burnt Sugar Hill.
For days Sebastian had felt the pull of the old place until the need to see that old house again was almost irresistible. And now he finally thought he knew why: the secret to being a family was hidden within its four walls and somehow Sebastian had to lead his people back home before it was too late.
Rocky Hill Romance Book 1
by Barbara Bretton
Single mother Samantha Dean doesn’t have time for Christmas. Or romance, for that matter. She is weeks away from opening her own catering business, the most important part of her plan to provide her certified genius daughter Patty with all the wonderful things she deserves.
Except Patty doesn’t want to go to a fancy boarding school. She wants a father and when she meets bartender Murphy O’Rourke at her fourth grade Career Day presentation, she knows she’s met the man of her mother’s dreams!
But can she convince her Mrs. Scrooge of a mom that it was time to give Christmas – and love – a second chance?
Patricia Mary Elizabeth Dean knew all about biology and how marriage and babies didn’t always go hand-in-hand the way they did in old movies and television sitcoms. She’d heard stories about the days when a young girl had to leave home if she became pregnant out of wedlock but those days were long gone by the time it happened to her mother Samantha.
Sam had stayed right where she was, safe and secure in her parents’ house in Rocky Hill, New Jersey. She finished her senior year of high school and, nine months pregnant with Patty, she marched up to get her diploma then marched back out of the auditorium and headed for the hospital in Princeton. Five hours later Patty was born, and it seemed that from her very first breath she had been looking for a man to be her father.
Her best friend Susan couldn’t understand it at all. “My dad is always telling me I can’t stay up to watch Letterman,” Susan had complained just last week. “He won’t let me wear nail polish or get a tattoo or even think about going to the movies with Bobby Andretti until I’m twenty-one. You’re really a whole lot better off with just your mom.”
Patty knew her mom was pretty special. Sam was independent and ambitious and she had always managed to keep a roof over their heads and good food on the table, even while she juggled school and work and taking care of Patty. But there was one thing Sam wasn’t very good at and that was romance.
Her mom said she didn’t have time for boyfriends and dating and maybe that was true but it seemed to Patty that it wouldn’t be long before she ran out of time. Patty had heard women her mother’s age talking about their biological clocks and how all the good men had been snapped up while they were busy building careers and she hated to think her mom would end up old and lonely with a dozen cats.
Not that Patty didn’t like cats but …
And so it was that she decided to take over the quest.
There had been a few good prospects but nobody she could imagine becoming part of her family until the day Murphy O’Rourke walked into the classroom to give his career-day presentation, and she knew her search was over.
Murphy O’Rourke wasn’t handsome, although his sandy brown hair was shiny and his hazel eyes held a friendly twinkle. He wore a brown polo shirt with a corduroy sport coat that was frayed at the elbows—and Patty couldn’t imagine him sewing on those wimpy patches Susan’s dad had on his corduroy sport coat. He didn’t have a fistful of gold rings or ugly puffs of chest hair sticking out of his shirt, and his voice didn’t go all oily when he talked to women. When Mrs. Venturella introduced him to the class he didn’t try to be funny or cool or any of the thousand other things that would have been the kiss of death as far as Patty was concerned.
He smiled at them as if they were real live people and said, “Good morning. I’m Murphy O’Rourke,” and something inside Patty’s heart popped like a birthday balloon.
“That’s the one!” she whispered to Susan. “He’s perfect.”
Susan’s round gray eyes widened. “Him?” The girl looked down at the fact sheet in front of her. “He hasn’t even been to college.”
“I don’t care. He’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
Susan wrinkled her nose. “He’s old.”
“So is my mother. That’s what makes him so perfect.”
“I liked the fireman,” said Susan. “Did you see those muscles!” The girl sighed deeply and fluttered her eyelashes, and Patty could barely keep from hitting her best friend over the head with her math notebook.
“The fireman was stupid,” said Patty. “He didn’t even understand the theory behind water-pressure problems encountered fighting high-rise fires.”
“Patty, nobody understands things like that except you.”
“The nuclear physicist from M.I.T. understood.”
“Then why don’t you think he’s the right man?”
“Because he called me ‘little lady’ when he answered my question on the feasibility of nuclear power near major urban centers.”
“But he was cute,” said Susan. “He had the most darling red suspenders and bow tie.”
“I hate bow ties.”
Susan made a face. “Oh, you hate everything, Patty Dean. I think you’re about the snobbiest girl I’ve ever -“
“Patricia! Susan!” Mrs. Venturella rapped her knuckles sharply against the chalkboard at the front of the room. “If your conversation is so fascinating, perhaps you’d be willing to share it with the rest of the class.”
Susan’s cheeks turned a bright red and she slumped down in her chair. “Sorry, Mrs. Venturella,” she mumbled.
Patty found herself staring up at the twinkling hazel eyes of Murphy O’Rourke and suddenly unable to speak.
“Patricia,” warned Mrs. Venturella. “Do you have something to say?”
Murphy O’Rourke winked at her and before she knew it, the words came tumbling out. “Are you married?”
All around her the class was laughing but Patty didn’t care. This was important.
O’Rourke looked her straight in the eye. “No, I’m not.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“Do you -“
“That’s enough, Patricia.” Mrs. Venturella turned to O’Rourke and gave him one of those cute little “I’m sorry” shrugs Patty had seen the woman give Mr. MacMahon, the phys ed teacher with the hairy chest. “I apologize, Mr. O’Rourke. Patricia is one of our advanced students and she has an active curiosity.”
“I make my living being curious,” he said, then crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against Mrs. Venturella’s desk. He looked straight at Patty. “Go ahead. Ask me anything you want.”
“On the newspaper business,” said Mrs. Venturella, with a stern look for Patty, who still couldn’t speak.
“Do you make a lot of money?” Craig Haley, class treasurer, asked.
“Enough to pay my rent,” said O’Rourke.
“Did you ever go to China?” asked Sasha D’Amato.
“Twice.” He grinned. “And I was thrown out once.”
Danielle Meyer held up a copy of the New York Telegram. “How come I don’t see your name anywhere?”
“Because I quit.”
Patty was extremely impressed: he didn’t so much as bat an eye when Mrs. Venturella gasped in horror. “What do you do now?” Patty asked.
“I’m a bartender.”
The only sound in the classroom was the pop of Susan’s bubble gum.
“Look,” he said, dragging his hand through his sandy brown hair, “I didn’t mean to misrepresent anything. When you guys called and asked me to speak at the school, I was still a reporter for the Telegram. This is a pretty new development.”
“Why’d you quit?” Patty asked. If there was anything her mom hated, it was a quitter. She hoped Murphy O’Rourke had a good reason for giving up a glamorous job as a New York City reporter and becoming a run-of-the-mill bartender, or it was all over.
“Artistic freedom,” said Murphy O’Rourke.
“Bingo!” said Patty.
She’d finally found her man.
Guest Post by Barbara Bretton
Do you remember the moment when you first learned to read? That magical moment when the random letters on the page suddenly came together into words, words that triggered images and told stories that would linger in your mind forever?
To be honest, I can’t recall a time when I didn’t read. I seemed to have slipped seamlessly from staring at the pictures in my Little Golden Books to devouring the words on the pages as fast as my tiny fingers could turn the pages. My parents said I made that magical transition when I was around three and a half which means reading has been a major part of my life for three score years.
The first book that imprinted itself on my child’s brain was Clement Clarke Moore’s A Visit from St. Nick. We lived around the block from the house where Moore lived and each year on a night in early December, the students of St. Bartholomew’s gathered at the park that now stood there and celebrated the lighting of the town Christmas tree. One year I was the lucky student chosen to read the poem to the crowd gathered for the ceremony and I can still remember the wonderful ripple of excitement I felt as I uttered the final words, “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!” Words I’d first learned from the pages of a book I cherish still.
For me, Christmas is all about books. And when the book in question is a holiday story – well, it just doesn’t get any better than that for me.
I hope you’ll enjoy my selection of holiday stories. May the season be merry and bright for you, now and always.
About the Author
Oh, how I hate bios! All of that deadly dull information about name (Barbara Bretton) and date of birth (June 25) and geographical data (born in New York City; lives near Princeton, NJ), marital status (many years married), and hobbies (who has time??). How do you gather up all of those dull, dry facts and turn them into something interesting?
No wonder I tell lies for a living.
I considered weaving a story for you about life on a houseboat on the French Riviera. Or maybe my years as a concubine, hidden away in a golden pleasure palace in the shimmering desert. Then I decided to do the unthinkable and tell you the truth.
When I sold my first book and my life changed forever. I sent in my manuscript on Thursday February 21, 1982 and four days later the telephone rang and I heard the amazing words, “We want to buy your book.” How I wish you could have seen me. I was standing by the kitchen door of our North Babylon house, the picture of cool sophistication, as I listened to Vivian Stephens explain the terms of the deal to me. You would have thought I’d sold a first book every single day of my life. Yes, I said. Sounds wonderful. Thank you so much for calling. I look forward to our association. That cool sophistication hung on until I hung up the phone, took a deep breath, then promptly threw up on my shoes.
I was thirty-one years old, unagented, unschooled, unfamiliar with anything to do with the business of publishing. To put it mildly, I was in shock. My husband was working in Manhattan at the time (and finishing up his degree at night) so it would be hours until I could break the news to him. This was too exciting to waste on a phone call. I wanted to see his face when I told him that my dream had finally come true — and came with a $6000 advance!
He pulled into the driveway at midnight. I was waiting in the doorway, holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses. I didn’t have to say a word. He knew right away and the look of joy and pride in his eyes warms me now, years later, long after the advance faded into memory.
A lot has happened to me in the years since that first sale. I’ve learned that this is a difficult and demanding business (it takes a tough writer to write a tender book) and that I am happiest when I am most ignorant. I’ve also learned that a good friend, a writer and pal who truly understands, is worth her weight in good reviews and royalty checks.
I fell madly in love with Skye O’Malley in early 1982 and wrote an unabashedly gushy fan letter to our beloved Bertrice Small. By the time Sunny answered, I had joined the ranks of the published and Sunny became friend and mentor, guide and confidant. She has held my hand through broken dreams, disappointments, family illnesses, and accepted my bizarre need to go underground from time to time with great affection and understanding. Over the years I’ve come to understand the difference between the writer and her work, that loving the book doesn’t guarantee that I will love the author. But what a joy it is when you discover that the author of a beloved favorite is even more wonderful and witty and wise than the characters she creates.
So this bio is for you, Sunny, for being the best of friends during the worst of times and – even more wonderful – during the good times as well.
And now for the statistics:
Barbara Bretton is the USA Today bestselling, award-winning author of more than 40 books. She currently has over ten million copies in print around the world. Her works have been translated into twelve languages in over twenty countries.
Barbara has been featured in articles in The New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, Romantic Times, Cleveland Plain Dealer, Herald News, Home News, Somerset Gazette,among others, and has been interviewed by Independent Network News Television, appeared on the Susan Stamberg Show on NPR, and been featured in an interview with Charles Osgood of WCBS, among others.
er awards include both Reviewer’s Choice and Career Achievement Awards from Romantic Times; Gold and Silver certificates from Affaire de Coeur; the RWA Region 1 Golden Leaf; and several sales awards from Bookrak. Ms. Bretton was included in a recent edition of Contemporary Authors.
Barbara loves to spend as much time as possible in Maine with her husband, walking the rocky beaches and dreaming up plots for upcoming books.
Enter the tour-wide giveaway for your chance to win one of two Kindle Paperwhites.
Barbara is also giving away two audiobooks (digital downloads – winner’s choice) per tour stop. You can see the available audiobooks at Audible. For your chance to enter, please leave a question or comment for Barbara below.