I hope you’re enjoying cooler weather than we endured most of the summer. In Tucson, “cooler” is only a relative term. We’re finally getting back down to normal temps–in the nineties. I don’t usually spend a lot of time outside until after mid-October. In the meantime, I’m inside at the computer, deep into the revisions of my new time-travel romance, The Christmas Village: Julia.
I thought you might enjoy a sneak peek at part of the first chapter. (Keep in mind that the revisions aren’t done and things are subject to change. Also, this is copyrighted material. Please don’t share it without proper attribution, or use it to train an AI. Thanks!)
Happy reading!
THE CHRISTMAS VILLAGE: JULIA
by Frankie Robertson
Copyright 2023 Frances R. Gross
CHAPTER ONE
Julia scraped the snow off her boots with the old-fashioned iron boot-scraper as half-hearted flurries danced on the air, then climbed the stone steps to the wide porch of the old Scottish manor. Brown leaves swirled in the corners and drew her eye to the cracks in the mortar and the mildew staining the steps.
She announced her arrival with a brief tattoo of the tarnished brass door knocker fashioned in the shape of the Drummond Clan badge engraved with the motto “Gang Warily” over a goshawk. The design was of a piece with the rest of the large, 200 year old building. It made her sad to see the grand old house standing neglected. A single silver garland hanging over the double door was the sole nod to the Christmas season.
The right hand door opened on well-oiled hinges and a woman in her mid-seventies smiled a welcome. She was trim, dressed in jeans and a black turtleneck, and wore her more salt than pepper hair in a practical chin-length bob. “You must be Ms. Cassidy,” she declared. “You’re right on time. I’m Leticia Ruthven. Please come in.”
Julia smiled back and stepped into the large, bright foyer. Light from two cut-glass windows on either side of the door bounced off the black marble tile and brought out the pattern in the faded wallpaper. A bouquet of pink silk roses in an antique vase decorated an inlaid table and a broad staircase with a beautifully polished banister in a pecan stain curved upward to join with a second floor balcony rail.
No, in Scotland it would be called the first floor, Julia reminded herself.
The overall effect was elegant and, unlike the exterior, everything was clean and in good repair. Nearly everything. Fifteen feet above them, the crystals on the chandelier were festooned with dusty cobwebs like macabre holiday decorations.
“Your home is beautiful,” Julia said.
Leticia snorted and glanced upward at the chandelier. “Parts of it are. Other parts need some TLC. But even with the now-outdated updates made over the years it still reflects the grace my many times great-uncle designed into it. Here, let me take your coat. You can leave your boots by the door. Help yourself to a pair of baffies.” She gestured to the leather and wool slippers lined up beneath an ornate bench.
Julia handed Leticia her coat, and then sat to exchanged her boots for a pair of soft slippers. “I hope I can help with that. As I said on the phone, my audience loves old homes like Drummond House and they’re willing to contribute to see all the old details preserved.”
Leticia cast a skeptical glance her way. “There’s no shortage of old houses in Scotland. I have my doubts that enough people will think this one is special enough to donate to its restoration and maintenance—but let’s sit down shall we? I have some soup on the stove and the kitchen is the warmest room in the house.”
Julia braced herself for disappointment as she followed the older woman through a hidden door behind the staircase and down a hallway to the kitchen. The kitchen was often the most badly renovated room in one of these old houses. Generations of owners updated these old beauties in whatever style was current and with varying degrees of competency. Back in the States she’d seen more than one avocado kitchen circa 1970 that jarred painfully with the wainscoting and lincrusta wallpaper of a 150 year old house. She wasn’t hardcore about refurbishment. She didn’t think that every original window and floorboard should be preserved regardless of their condition. But old homes were like music, and the original melody should be respected even when some improvisation was necessary.
A delicious aroma enveloped Julia like a hug as Leticia led her into a warm kitchen that took her breath away. Someone with taste and money had remodeled this room. Large enough for a cook and several assistants to work, it sported honed slate counters, pressed tin backsplash, a wide double sink with an older style faucet, hidden appliances, and a big butcher-block island with a marble pastry board inset. Sconces with candleflame bulbs illuminated the corners. A pot simmered on the centerpiece of the kitchen: a gas stove reminiscent of those from the 1920s.
“Wow.”
The corner of Leticia’s mouth curved in a subtle smile as she stirred the soup. “My grandmother’s parents brought the kitchen into the 20th Century with gas and electric. My parents had the house rewired and replumbed for safety, but the house didn’t welcome change beyond that.”
That’s an odd way to phrase it, Julia thought, but only said, “Shall I set the table?”
“Please. Bowls and plates are in that cabinet.” She waved a hand at the antique baker’s hutch that stood beside another doorway.
Julia retrieved the dishes from the glass fronted shelves. She found silverware and cloth napkins in the drawers. After setting two places she turned back to get glasses, the cabinet door for that portion of the hutch was already open. Odd. Old furniture often had loose latches, but this piece had been retro-fitted with magnetic catches. She made sure to shut it firmly so it wouldn’t come open again.
Leticia ladled out butternut squash soup and cut four slices of fresh baked bread. An old style butter keeper was already on the table.
“Oh my goodness, this is so good!” Julia exclaimed a moment later. Even if Leticia decided against doing the feature, the hour-long drive to Drummond House from the Edinburgh airport was worth it just for the soup and homemade bread. There was a feeling of welcome in this kitchen like she hadn’t felt since her grandmother had taught her how to make cinnamon rolls.
“It’s nice to have someone to share it with.”
“So tell me about the house.”
“I haven’t agreed to the interview yet,” Leticia countered. “Tell me about your audience. Am I going to have a bunch of strangers knocking on my door and camping out on my lawn after you publish?”
“The people who follow me are pretty respectful. You might get some email from contractors and antique fixture suppliers, but it will be up to you who you want to do business with. I ask my clients to sign a contract that whatever money is raised will be spent on updating the house. Beyond that, the money will be yours to decide how to spend. Other houses I’ve featured have raised between fifty thousand and two hundred thousand dollars.
“Two hundred thousand?” Letitia’s eyes widened.
Julia nodded. “There are a lot of old house enthusiasts who like to be part of a restoration project. We just have to capture their imagination. You might be contacted by one of the syndicated T.V. shows for a before and after. Whether you let them film is up to you.”
Leticia took a bite of buttered bread and chewed thoughtfully. Julia found herself holding her breath. The older woman was right. There were plenty of other old homes she could profile, and she’d already contacted a couple of other owners who were eager to have help with the cost of renovation. But there was something about Drummond House that spoke to her. She wanted—no, something in her needed—to see this grand old lady transformed back to what she once had been. But it all depended on the hospitable and cautious woman in front of her.
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