"Come along as the Santa Brigade serves up more than holiday cheer in its New England trek."
Reviewed by Kay Quintin
Posted November 11, 2010
Women's Fiction | Romance Contemporary
Navy pilot Sam Merrick, ex-pro football player Stan
Kijewski and bounty hunter Kevin Wilder are all heading to
Maine to attend their friend's wedding. The groom, George
Garrison, constantly bailed the boys out of scrapes over
their formative years. All three were deserted by their
mothers, which left them wards of the White Mountain Home
for Boys. All were destined for no good, if not for the
intervention of George. The trek begins at the Philadelphia airport, which is shut
because of a snowstorm. Eventually, they all join
the "Santa Brigade" made up of oldsters making their way
across New England spreading Christmas cheer to the less
fortunate in rescue missions and churches. Gutsy senior
citizens full of spunk determinedly trudge through the
blizzard overcoming every obstacle in their way. Sam, after 14 years, confronts Reba, the love he ran from
and who is now the group director. Stan pairs up with Dana,
in wildlife management, while Kevin arrests Callie, a
runaway witness posing as an Amish girl to escape arrest.
Hitchhiking rides aboard the Santa Brigade as the only
means of making it to Maine ends up being the beginning of
each of their lives. This most humorous tale is full of clever maneuvers and
solid-gold hearts spreading Christmas cheer wherever and to
whomever they touch. The characters will warm your heart
and give you a new meaning of "oldies" and their
capabilities. The journey through New Hampshire, Vermont
and into Maine is full of surprises and renewed faith at
this time of year that promises to overcome all obstacles.
Totally entertaining!
SUMMARY
"Christmas or Bust!"
The three bad-boy bachelors of Snowdon, Maine, have to make
it to the church on time, or die trying. Due at a friend's
wedding on Christmas Eve, the Fearsome Threesome find
themselves dashing through the snow in the goofiest bus on
Earth -- bright red vehicle filled with a bunch of senior
citizens known as The Santa Brigade. Ho, ho, ho! Decked out
in red and serving up holiday cheer to the masses, a Blue
Angels pilot, a bounty hunter, and a former pro football
player discover 'tis the season for folly as each trips
over his heart to capture the love of the one special woman
for him. And who is to say what they'll find nestled in
their beds as the stockings are stuffed and the gifts
placed under the tree.
ExcerptMonday afternoon, four
days ’til Christmas Eve.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells, Jingle all the
way . . .”
“American Airlines,
Flight One-oh-one to Boston is cancelled. Passengers are
directed to the
information desk for further instructions.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle
Bells, Jingle all the way . . .” “U.S.
Air, Flight
Six-seven-three to Syracuse is cancelled. Passengers are
directed to the
information desk for further instructions.
“Jingle Bells, Jingle
Bells, Jingle all the way . . . ”
“United Airlines,
Flight Nine-eight-five to Bangor, Maine is cancelled.
Passengers are
directed to the information desk for further
instructions.”
“Jingle Bells, Jingle
Bells, Jingle all the way . . .” On and
on the staticky
public address system went with cancellations of what
appeared to be all
northbound flights in the face of a coming blizzard. The
only planes
taking off today from Philadelphia International Airport
were those
headed south, or to the western U.S. Since the southbound
storm was
headed this way and would probably hit full-force
tomorrow, chances were
there wouldn’t be any northbound flights tomorrow, either.
As a
backdrop to the
distressing announcements, speakers in the airport
terminal piped out,
over and over and over, like a stuck record, a bouncy
version of Jingle
Bells. Meanwhile, holiday travelers—those not stunned over
being
land-locked at this all-important time of the year—laughed
and called
out to strangers with jolly “Merry Christmas” greetings as
they hurried
along toward their designated gates.
One
person in
particular was feeling less than jolly. “I hate snow. I
hate that sorry
song. In fact, I’m beginning to hate Christmas.” Navy
Commander Samuel
Merrick slunk lower in his Naugahyde booth and glared out
the window of
the airport coffee shop. He watched grimly as fat
snowflakes were
beginning to come down like celestial post-it
notes . . . reminders that
mere mortals and their technological advances, such as
aircraft, could
be frozen in place on a whim of the gods.
In the
midst of Sam’s
grumbling to himself, Lt. Andrew O’Dell slid into the
opposite booth and
handed him one of the two cups of coffee in his hands, the
whole time
smiling. “Now, now, Slick. Since when did you become the
Bluebird of
Christmas Happiness? Or rather, the Blue angel of
Christmas un-Happiness?” he corrected, staring pointedly at the
distinctive
blue and yellow Blue Angel badge with the F/A Hornet Jets
in a diamond
formation that was positioned proudly on Sam’s
uniform . . . just as it
was on his.
He and
Andy were
current members of the renowned six-man Blue Angels Flight
Demonstration
Squadron. Considered the best of the best, these jet
pilots performed
high-precision, aerobatic maneuvers in breath-taking,
razzle dazzle air
shows across the world. Although their flying talents were
famous, the
Blue Angels’ main role was to serve as role models and
goodwill
ambassadors for the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps.
“Easy
for you to say,
Andy. You’re not gonna be stuck in the City of Brotherly
Love for the
next day or two. You’re almost home . . .
just a short puddle jump to
Harrisburg.”
Andy
didn’t look a bit
sympathetic . . . probably because his
thoughts were consumed with his
fiancee—a dairy farmer, of all things—whom he hadn’t seen
in three
months. He and Andy had come up from Pensacola, homebase
to the Blue
Angels, less than an hour ago. It should have been a short
layover for
them. Then, after Christmas, they’d travel to NAF, the
Naval Air
Facility, in El Centro, California, where the squadron
wintered. “Knowing you, Slick,
you’ll find something to occupy your time,” Andy said in
an awestruck
voice.
Oh,
swell! Another
Navy nugget suffering from a bit of misplaced hero
worship.
As if
on cue, an
American Airlines flight attendant walked by, gave Sam a
quick
once-over, then flashed him a not-so-subtle smile that
said clearly,
“Hey, sailor, I’d like to know you better,” before sitting
down with
companions at a nearby table.
“See,
see!” Andy
hooted in an undertone.
“It’s
just the
uniform. Women have this thing about men in a killer
uniform.”
“Hah!
You don’t see
them going ga-ga over me, do you?” “Ga-ga?” Sam
questioned with a raised eyebrow, even as he instinctively
returned the
woman’s once-over. His slow, lazy perusal registered her
trim figure and
attractive facial features and the fact that she could
pass for a
red-headed version of Cameron Diaz. Even better, her legs
were a shade
longer than a Hornet jet stream. Still, he turned back to
his coffee
with an “Oh, well.” shrug. Reciprocating her smile would
amount to an
invitation . . . one he was not interested
in. In fact, he’d become
bored with the whole dating game for a long time now.
Sam
wasn’t a vain
person . . . well, not too
vain . . . but he’d had no trouble attracting
females since he was thirteen years old and discovered
that his dark
hair, blue eyes and tall frame were assets to be milked
for all their
worth. But it wasn’t just his looks. Hell, he’d gotten
charm down to an
art form before he’d turned ten, and earned his nickname
of Slick which
had stuck all these years, right down to being his call
name in the
Blues. Yep, charm had been a necessary survival skill when
dodging the
law and criminal elements in the inner city neighborhood
where, during
his early years, he’d been raised—or, rather, ignored—by a
druggie
mother, who’d been practically a kid herself.
But
now Sam was
feeling all charmed out. He didn’t give a flying fig about
meeting
another woman—gorgeous or not. He was tired. Perhaps it
was this forced
trip back to Snowdon, Maine . . . a place
he had studiously avoided for
fourteen years, ever since his high school graduation. He
had no choice
now, though. His old mentor, George Garrison, was getting
married, and
he couldn’t let him down. He’d promised he would be there
by Christmas
Eve, and he would be, by damn . . .
blizzard or not. “Man,
oh, man! I can’t
imagine what it must be like to have
women . . . and men, too . . . do
double takes when you pass by . . . just
because you’re so good looking.
God, I envy you.” Though he was in perfect physical
condition, as
required by the Blue Angels regimen, Andy would never be
described as
handsome . . . not with all those freckles
and his gap-toothed, David
Letterman smile and a cowlick sticking up on his crown, in
spite of his
short haircut.
Sam
was only
thirty-two, but he felt old compared to the exuberant,
impressionable
and over-talkative Andy, who was a mere twenty-six. Andy
had just joined
the Blues this past year, while Sam was in his third year
with the
Blues . . . including ten years with the
Navy, after college. Taking
a deep breath,
he said, “Andy, I envy you.”
“Me?”
Andy was clearly
taken aback.
“I’ve
seen the
pictures of you and Cindy . . . and the
farm she inherited when her
parents died. You can tell, just by looking at the glow on
her face, how
much she loves you. And that farmhouse will be perfect
when you start to
raise a family. Hell, you’ve already got a readymade
family with those
younger sisters she’s helping to raise.” He shrugged, at a
loss to
explain himself further. “You’ve got it all.”
Andy’s
Adam’s Apple
bobbed up and down a few times before he choked out,
“Yeah, I guess I
do.” “Tell
me what your
Christmas will be like,” Sam encouraged, wanting to take
the attention
away from himself.
Andy
smiled and his
face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Cindy and I both come
from big
families. I have three brothers and two sisters. She’s got
three younger
sisters. Then, there are lots of aunts and uncles and
grandparents.
Loud, that’s the best way to describe our Christmases. And
crowded.
Plenty of good, homegrown food. Always a stuffed turkey
and a
baked ham. My mother makes the pies . . .
eight of them . . . two each
of pumpkin, apple, mince meat and lemon meringue. Aunt
Nellie makes the
cakes; my favorite is Devil’s Food with boiled icing.
Yummm. We probably
never got as many big ticket items as other kids did, but
I can’t recall
feeling deprived.”
He
thought for a
moment, still smiling, “It’s a happy time.” That’s
exactly how Sam
had always imagined a family Christmas should be. The
Waltons . . . only
better.
“How
about you, Slick?
What do you do on Christmas?”
“Get
drunk.”
Andy
tilted his head
quizzically, not sure if he was kidding or not.
“How’s
this for a dose
of reality? My earliest Christmas memory is of me grabbing
the bell from
the Salvation Army lady, whacking her over the head with
it, and
stealing all the money in the kettle.” Andy
narrowed his eyes
at him. “Exactly how old were you?”
Sam
blinked several
times in rapid progression. What had come over him to
reveal a memory
he’d thought long-buried? Finally, when Andy refused to
accept his
silence as a reply, he told him, “Eight.”
“Ah,
Slick!”
“It
was a long time
ago. No big deal!” he said gruffly.
Andy
seemed about to
say more, then cut himself off. “Hey, I have an idea. Why
don’t you come
home with me for Christmas? Good grief! My cousin Valerie
would go
ga-ga over you. She’s a massage therapist.” Andy
jiggled his
eyebrows meaningfully. Sam
laughed. “I wish I
could. Especially with a ga-ga massage therapist.
But I have to
be in Maine by Friday.”
Andy
put his hand on
Sam’s forearm. “You seem really down in the dumps. It’s
not just the
weather delay, is it?”
Thank
goodness, Sam’s
cell phone rang then. He was spared from answering Andy’s
question . . .
a procedure which would involve even more painful
revelations.
“Merrick here,” Sam
said, flicking up the lid of his cell phone with a thumb
and holding the
mini console to his ear. “Samuel! It’s so good
to hear your voice,” a jovial voice spoke out.
It had
to be George.
He was the only one who could get away with calling him by
his given
name.
In the
background
could be heard the loud barking of
dogs . . . lots of dogs. George was a
veterinarian, and the man who had practically saved his
life as a
wayward teenager, along with the lives of his best
buddies, Kevin “JD”
Wilder and Stan Kijewski, fellow
inmates . . . uh,
residents . . . of
the White Mountain Home for Boys in Snowdon, Maine. Kevin,
a former cop
and currently a D.C. private eye, and Stan, until recently
a pro
football player with the San Diego Typhoons, were supposed
to meet up
with him in Maine. Sam
could pretty well
guess why George was calling now. He had asked the three
of them to come
back to Snowdon this week to be best men at his wedding.
Now, George was
checking up on him . . . like he always
had. “When can Molly and I
expect you? Chowder’s on the stove, just the way you
always liked it.
The weather’s getting a mite rough up this way, and I
wanted to make
sure we get to the airport in time to pick you up.”
George’s deep Maine
burr was a welcome melody to Sam’s ears. Furthermore, “a
mite rough” to
a Maine old-timer meant ten-below temperatures, wind chill
equal to a
North Pole gale, and snow to the
rooftops . . . what the rest of the
world considered emergency crisis conditions.
“Uh,
George, have you
turned on the TV today?”
“No.
Mable Gentry’s
poodle was constipated again. I keep telling Mable not to
give her dog
cheese doodles.” “Mrs.
Gentry still has
that poodle? Bella was her name, right?” Sam had worked
enough in
George’s kennels as a teenager that he knew his regular
customers, even
after all these years.
“Yep!
Bella. Mus’ be
more’n fifteen years old. But what was that you said about
the
television?”
“Huh?
Oh. I asked if
you’ve turned on the TV today.”
There
was a long sigh
on George’s end.” Don’t tell me, you’re on TV again.
Goldurnit, boy,
you’ve got more moxie than good sense. I couldn’t believe
that
somersault you did in your aeroplane over the White House
last summer. I
hope you’re not gettin’ yourself in trouble again with my
weddin’ so
close.”
Sam
smiled, loving the
way George’s conversations tended to ramble. He even loved
the sounds of
all the yips and woofs and bow-wow’s and meows that always
seemed to
surround him. Most of all, he loved the way George was
concerned about
him, as if he were still “Slick Merrick,
Teenager-In-Trouble” . . . again.
“George, you are in
the midst of a major storm, and it’s headed this way. I’m
stuck at the
airport in Philly, with all flights northbound being
cancelled for the
time being, possibly the next two days.”
There
was a long pause
of silence. “Does that mean you’re not coming?” George’s
voice was soft
when he spoke, and full of disappointment. Just like it
was the time Sam
had shoplifted those condoms from a convenience store when
he was
fourteen . . . or when he’d gotten picked
up by the police for speeding
when he was fifteen . . . or when he’d
broken both legs skiing down
Suicide Run after an ice storm when he was sixteen.
“No . . . no, I’ll be
there. I mean, I’m almost certain I’ll be there. It’s just
a delay for
now.” “Hold
on a minute.”
George could be heard talking to a female in the room with
him. Probably
his fiancee. Finally, he came back and informed Sam
excitedly, “Molly
came up with a perfect solution for you.” He paused in a
ta-da manner
before suggesting, “You can hitch a ride on the Santa
Brigade bus.”
“What
the hell is a
Santa Brigade?” Almost immediately, he added, “I beg your
pardon, sir.”
Old habits died hard. George never tolerated bad language.
“The
Santa Brigade is
a troupe of volunteers from Winter Haven. And they’re
headed back up
this way any day now. They better be. They’re all invited
to the
porchbreaker of a weddin’ celebration we’re planning.”
“Winter Haven? The
retirement community?” Good Lord! What did a retirement
community have
to do with him?
“Yep.
For years, a
bunch of the residents have been dressing up as Santas,
entertainin’
kids hereabouts with magic and stuff. Then, three years
ago, they rigged
up this special bus so they could travel down the eastern
seaboard
visiting homeless shelters and such for a couple weeks
before Christmas.
They’re famous, boy. Haven’t you ever heard of ’em?”
He
paused to listen to
the female in the room again. Before finishing. “Molly
just reminded me.
They were on Good Morning America a few years back.
Dint’ja see
’em? Diane Sawyer sat on Morey Goldstein’s lap. That old
fart’s gonna
have a head so big when he gets back here his hat won’t
fit. You
remember Diane Sawyer. She passed out in a Blue Angels
plane ’bout the
same time. I saw it myself on the TV.” Sam
braced an elbow on
the table and put his forehead in his palm. Between
George’s rambling
and the approaching snow storm, Sam felt the mother of all
headaches
beginning to throb behind his eyes. “George, what do all
these geriatric
Santas have to do with me and my cancelled flight?”
“Be
careful how you
use that word geriatric, boy. I’m in that category now,
too.”
“Sorry.”
“Those
geriatric
Santas, as you call them, are the answer to your prayer,
Samuel.”
What prayer? Call
me crazy, but I don’t recall praying for a long
time . . . probably
since the time my mother told me she was abandoning me
when I was ten.
Sam shook his head, hard, to clear it. He was becoming
way too
maudlin today. “At
this moment,
they’re at the Good Shepherd Shelter in Allentown,
Pennsylvania. That’s
right down the road from you.”
“I
hate to tell you
this, but Allentown isn’t down the road from
Philadelphia.” Andy
whispered some specifics to him. Then Sam informed George,
“It’s a
two-hour drive under good conditions.”
George
was talking
right over him. “Molly’s ringing up their bus driver right
now. You
remember Betty Morgan.”
“Betty
Morgan is the
bus driver? The Betty Morgan? I thought she was a
Marine.” Betty,
nicknamed Betty Bad-Ass by him and his buddies, had caught
him necking
one time behind her father’s garage with Sally Sue
Simpson. She’d given
him a lecture that day, complete with blue language that
still turned
his face red in memory, on the need for always carrying
proper rubbers.
And she hadn’t been referring to boots, either.
“Retired. Now she’s a
NASCAR mechanic . . . famous,
actually . . . and a bus driver for the
brigade on her off-time. Orders everyone around like a
drill sergeant.
What’s that you say, Molly? Oh, Betty wants to know if you
can you be in
Allentown by fifteen hundred hours?” “I
can’t be there in
one hour,” he replied testily, glancing at his wrist watch
and making
some quick mental calculations. “It’s already two o’clock.
I have no
means of transportation handy. There’s not enough time.
And the
weather’s getting bad.” Besides, I have no desire to
ride for a day
or more in a crowded bus with a bunch of senior citizen
Santas through a
blizzard. Not to mention Betty freakin’ Bad-Ass Morgan.
She’d probably
give me a more up-to-date lecture on condoms.
George
ignored all his
protests, and was giving him the number of Betty’s cell
phone, which Sam
jotted down on a napkin.
“Don’t
let me down,”
George said then. The wily old fox was manipulating him to
his will,
just like he always had.
“I’ll
try to find a
way to get there in a day or two, George, but I’m not
coming on a Santa
bus,” he pronounced firmly.
“Now,
don’t rule it
out. There are no guarantees that the storm won’t get
worse, and you’ll
be stuck in Philadelphia through Christmas. Talk to Betty.
See what you
can arrange.”
“I’m
not coming on a
Santa bus.” “Maybe
you could hire
a taxi to Allentown.”
A
taxi? Is he nuts?
“I’m not coming on a Santa bus.”
“Oh.
Molly just
reminded me about somethin’. The director of Winter Haven
is on that
bus, too.”
So? “I’m not
coming on a Santa bus.”
“You
know who that is,
dontcha?” I
don’t care if
it’s Julia Roberts. “I’m not coming on a Santa bus.”
“Reba
Anderson.”
The
wind was knocked
out his stomach, and his heart raced wildly. Jet pilots
and astronauts,
and especially Blue Angels who performed tight maneuvers
fighting
gravitational pull, were taught to lift weights regularly
and learn how
to tense their abdominal muscles as if to prepare for a
stomach punch.
It was called “hooking.” Without it, they might lose
consciousness. In
essence, the news about Reba hit Sam like a lethal
G-force, and he’d had
no chance to “hook.”
Through discipline and
occasionally alcohol, Sam had kept thoughts of Reba banked
in the
recesses of his memory. Now, they all came rushing
forward, like a burst
dam.
Reba . . .
Reba . . . Reba . . . “That
was a low blow,
George,” he said when he could finally speak with a
modicum of calmness.
“Huh?
All I said was
that Reba was on the bus. I know you had a crush on her
when you were
kids.”
Yep, George is
manipulating me, bigtime. “A crush? I was crazy about
her.”
“Well,
ya mighta told
her that . . . before you skipped town like
a cat with its tail on
fire.”
“That
was fourteen
years ago. I was headed for the Naval Academy,” he pointed
out, then
took several deep breaths to control his temper, before
adding, “She’s
married, George. Why rake up dead ashes?” George
gasped. “Samuel
H. Merrick! You are ten kinds of a fool. Reba Anderson got
divorced
more’n ten years ago. I don’t think she was married for
six months
before she discovered that Whitby boy was light in the
loafers.”
Reba isn’t married?
he marveled. Thank you, God! Apparently, he hadn’t
forgotten how
to pray, after all.
The
most incredible
feeling swept over Sam then. It took him several moments
to realize that
it was happiness, the kind of happiness a little kid
experiences,
awakening on Christmas morning, when he believes that
everything is
possible.
He
caught himself
smiling like an idiot before he spoke into the phone
again, “It appears
I’ll be riding on the Santa bus, after all, George.”
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