Chapter One
The Christmas Times
Jenny Coates, also a journalist, has come home to the Valley to accompany Captain Rumley to his new posting in Toronto, where she will be his assistant.
Jenny isn’t expecting him to be handsome, or charming.
But he is, and he does say the oddest things.
The question in her heart is if he is as fascinated by her as she is by him.
Chapter One
Christmas Eve, Present Day, Penticton, British Columbia, Canada...
His invitation in one hand and his obligatory swagger stick in the other, Daniel Rumley climbed the ramp leading to the SS Sicamous, a retired sternwheeler permanently grounded on the beach of Okanagan Lake.
The ship, painted white, had five decks.
The wheelhouse occupied the small top deck.
A big band version of It’s a Long, Long Way to Tipperary drifted through the air along with swirling Christmas Eve snowflakes.
The double-breasted WW1 officer’s overcoat kept him warm, and the appropriate peaked cap covered his head, containing the cap badge of his former regiment—the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.
As he approached the door, he removed the cap and stuck it under one arm.
The invitation to the Christmas Eve event had arrived two days ago.
It had come taped to the top of the box containing the uniform he was to wear to the fancy dress party.
The theme of the event, according to the invitation, was 1915 in the Okanagan Valley.
The back of the card contained a handwritten note.
“Daniel Rumley, I chose this uniform for your costume because you served in the Reserves, and you have relatives who served in the Great War. Your rank in the Reserves was captain, so the uniform is that of a captain. I think it will fit you. Have a wonderful Christmas.”
This would not be the first time he had received unexpected invitations to events. As a free-lance foreign war correspondent, these sorts of things somehow fell into his lap.
His family had originally come to the Okanagan from the Peace River country of Alberta at the turn of the last century. They had spread out, but often returned to the valley for summer holidays. The area had a sentimental pull on him, and Christmas in the valley had seemed like a great idea.
The ship doors at the top of the ramp opened, spilling additional light out into the night, signaling a place of warmth and activity. A steward, dressed in an old-time uniform, bowed to him and waved him inside, taking his invitation and glancing down at it.
“Captain Rumley,” he said, smiling. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you,” Daniel replied, automatically smiling back.
“Are we expecting a guest with you?” the steward asked, peering around him into the night. “Someone coming later perhaps?”
“No,” Daniel said, shaking his head. “It’s just me.”
“No problem,” the younger man said, smiling in a professional manner and waving him inside out of the cold.
“We hope you will enjoy the dancing anyway. A buffet supper will be served at ten o’clock.
Here and there about the ship you will find various venues featuring local artisans where you may purchase last minute Christmas gifts if you have need of them. ”
Daniel did not bother to say he had no one to give gifts to this year. Perhaps he would find something for himself.
“Have a good time, sir,” the steward said, taking his coat and cap. “I’ll put these in your stateroom.”
“My stateroom?” Daniel asked, puzzled.
The steward held up the invitation. “Gilt-edged. That means a stateroom has been reserved for you. For those special guests, breakfast will be served at nine o’clock. There are toiletries in the cabin.”
“I thought all the old staterooms that survived were being used for display purposes.”
“They were. We’ve received new information about how they looked when the ship was first commissioned,” the steward explained.
“A generous donation has allowed us to retrofit five staterooms to how they looked originally. Each of them have sinks, since they were the more expensive cabins back in the day and had basins in them. There’s no shower, however. Not yet, at least.”
He juggled Daniel’s things and pulled a tablet from his pocket. After referencing it, he said, “Room 34, on the passenger deck.”
“Thank you,” Daniel said, accepting a key. He tucked it into his breast pocket and moved off into the ship, joining the other partygoers.
Having been aboard the museum ship before, he knew his way around.
He climbed the staircase from the cargo deck, bypassing the model trains, to the passenger deck, weaving his way around the other guests.
The bar had been set up in the gentleman’s saloon.
He obtained a complimentary glass of champagne and moved to one side to permit others to get their drinks.
The woodwork gleamed and garlands decked out the grand staircase leading up to the observation deck.
Daniel sipped his bubbly and began to wander. He thought he would check out the art venues. The first stall tucked away in a corner displayed watercolor paintings of scenes from around Okanagan Lake. A middle-aged man with a full gray beard and a comfortable belly waited beside his wares.
“That is very nice,” Daniel praised, pointing at an image of a beside-the-highway fruit stand. “I think I recognize that one. From childhood visits.”
“It’s gone now,” the artist said, shaking his head sadly. “Ten years ago, I think.”
They sighed companionably at the lost things of their younger years.
“They served great soft cider,” Daniel recalled, smiling at the memory.
“And peaches,” the other man said.
Daniel touched his chest. “Oh, the warm peaches. There are no others like them in the world, and I’ve been around.”
“Have you?” the man asked, folding his arms and settling back in his folding chair with the air of a man who liked to talk with strangers.
“Yes. In the Armed Forces. And then in the Reserves, and then as a foreign war correspondent. Freelance.”
“I imagine you haven’t been in the best places to pick the ideal fruit.”
Daniel made the sort of half-shake, half-nod that he’d learned in the Middle East. “Not true. I have had the best pomegranates in Iran, the juiciest oranges in Israel, the plumpest dates in Egypt, and the nicest durian in Thailand.”
“Durian. Isn’t that the stinky fruit?”
Laughing, Daniel said, “It is. But I like it. And I’ll take the print, too. Can you deliver it to my hotel? I plan to be there until January 2nd.”
“I can,” the man said, grinning now. “Is Boxing Day a good day to bring it?”
“An excellent day,” Daniel said, withdrawing the ancient wallet that had traveled the world with him. He paid him, and gave him the name of his hotel.
Daniel wandered off, looking for more prizes, but found nothing he wanted. Ten o’clock came and he entered the line for the buffet.
“Hello, Soldier,” a lady said behind him.
Daniel half-turned, expecting someone familiar, which would be a surprise since he hadn’t thought he knew anyone at the party.
He didn’t recognize her. She was tall, almost as tall as his six-feet-two inches.
She wore heels, which he thought brave of her, considering she must tower over most of the men in her life.
An apricot silk dress with an extremely wide beaded-band around her midriff hugged her figure.
Another narrower band around her head flattened her silver-blonde bob.
“Hello,” he said, smiling. She appeared to be somewhere near his own age—mid-thirties. “Nice dress.”
She waved at it with a manicured hand loaded with rings. Bangles encircled both her wrists.
“This old thing?” she said, pursing her lips, then grinning. “I had it copied from a dress worn by my great-grandmother. Granny was a little woman. I get my Amazonian genes from my father’s side of the family.”
“Same,” Daniel said. They moved a few feet forward in the line. “Are you here alone?”
“My husband’s up ahead somewhere,” she said, pointing vaguely. “Where’s your date? Did you bring one?”
Shaking his head, Daniel said, “No such luck. I got the invitation just a few days ago. I’m visiting from the Coast.”
“The West Coast?”
Daniel nodded. He realized they’d reached the end of the table where stacks of plates waited beside utensil bundles. He picked up a plate and utensils for the lady and took the same for himself.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Carey Branson.”
“Daniel Rumley.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The journalist? The one who almost lost his leg from an IED?”
Daniel inwardly winced. Damn. “That’s me, for my sins.”
“I’m so pleased to see you standing and walking around,” she said, her tone serious. “Someone has to report from the action, but we often forget they are in the path of the enemy, unarmed.”
“Thank you,” Daniel said, and pointed at a platter, unwilling to be dragged into a discussion of his injury or the importance of journalism. “They have raw oysters.”
“Yum.”
They both took a couple of oysters and continued to make their way down the buffet until their plates were loaded.
“Come and sit with us,” Carey offered, taking his arm. “I can’t bear the idea of you sitting off by yourself. Peter, my husband, will love having another guy to talk to. It was my idea to come, you know, and he isn’t keen on dress-up parties. But he is a keen supporter of the SS Sicamous Society.”
“The what?”
“He’ll tell you all about it,” she promised.
And he did. Peter proved to be a big, gruff man with a military buzz cut.
Carey ate quickly and then popped up from her chair to leave them alone so she could mingle.
Occasionally, she returned to the table with another foundling, left that person with Daniel and Peter before returning to the crowd.
Unfortunately, the talk moved from which hockey team would win the Stanley Cup to the various conflicts brewing around the world.
“Daniel knows,” Peter promised the group. He took a big swig of his beer and added, “He’s a journalist.”
Crap. I don’t want to talk about war. I’m tired of war, and skirmishes, and sorties, and military posturing. The malignant evil that seems to brew beneath the surface of our lives has brushed against me too often. I’d like to skim along the surface for a while.
“Let’s talk about Christmas traditions, instead,” Daniel suggested. Direct questions featuring an “or” usually elicited a response, so he asked, “Do you open your gifts on Christmas Eve? Or on Christmas morning?”
Not tonight, however. Everyone stared at him. Daniel opened his mouth to venture his opinion when he finally received an answer.
“Christmas Eve?” one of their new table mates scoffed. “That’s anarchy, that is.”
“And you know what else is anarchy?” the man beside him asked, his face red from too much drink. He wore an admiral’s dress uniform. “Letting our Armed Forces do whatever the hell they want.”
Don’t engage. Just get up and leave.
Daniel stood, smiled at Peter, and left the table.
He’d had years of practice biting his tongue and ignoring the loud-mouth opinions of people who didn’t know what they were talking about.
He didn’t blame them, really. They usually spoke out of fear.
If it wasn’t fear, then the speaker was spoiling for a fight.
Daniel couldn’t, and wouldn’t, give them one.
He ignored the cries for him not to duck out of a discussion—argument more like—and wove his way through to the grand staircase.
Perhaps it would be cooler on the observation deck.
Others must have thought the same thing for a large group of revelers milled around, going in and out of the door to the outside even though snow continued to fall.
The press of people moved him along like a leaf caught in a stream eddy until he was spit out into an alcove created by museum artifacts.
Daniel shook his head and turned to examine the Christmas crackers artfully displayed on a pristine white tablecloth on the table next to it.
Obviously handmade by an expert, the cylinders were wrapped in many different colors of crêpe paper, capped by crêpe paper ruffles.
Shiny paper encircled the tube section, decorated by artificial flowers, beads, and greenery.
“There you are.”