bestselling author Joan Elliott Pickart’s engaging new miniseries
One
The sleek, candy-apple-red sports car hugged the curving mountain road as the powerful engine beneath the shiny hood won the challenge of the steep climb with ease.
Andrea Cunningham drove the vehicle at the exact speed limit, nodding in approval at the performance of her new possession.
The car was an early Christmas present to herself, an indulgence that had surprised even her when she’d purchased it two weeks before.
She’d been researching automobiles for well over six months, reading consumer reports, price comparing at various dealerships, and going for test drives in sedate, compact cars.
The only color she’d even considered had been white, due to the extreme heat in Phoenix. She’d wanted the best gas mileage, a proven history of easy maintenance, and ease of maneuverability in the congested, big-city traffic.
But she’d been in a strange, out-of-character mood the day she’d walked onto the new car lot and seen the gleaming red sports car that seemed to be calling her name.
An hour later, she had driven away in the catchme-if-you-can red car.
Andrea flicked on the blinker, pressed on the gas pedal and whizzed past an eighteen-wheeler that was struggling to ascend the mountain. Safely in front of the big truck, she eased back into the right lane, then reduced her speed again to the exact number posted on the signs along the highway.
What on earth was she doing with a vehicle like this one? she thought, with a mental shake of her head. Granted, it had given her a bit of a rush to zoom past that big truck, knowing that if she was still driving her little compact car she’d be chugging slowly behind the eighteen-wheeler.
But this new car had cost her far more than she’d budgeted for when she finally admitted that her ten-year-old vehicle had to be replaced.
She, Andrea Cunningham, vice president of the firm of Challenge Advertising, was actually behind the wheel of a roaring, red sports car? It was unbelievable, ridiculous, and borderline embarrassing.
This car was not who she was, it was as simple as that.
Andrea sighed, her shoulders sagging a bit as a wave of fatigue swept through her, accompanied by the beginning of a throbbing headache.
She was furious at herself, at her body that hadn’t kept up with the pace she’d been keeping at work. The whole situation was so frustrating she could scream.
She’d been literally run out of town by her doctor, Andrea fumed. She’d finally gone in for a checkup, complaining of headaches, insomnia, lack of appetite, the inability to concentrate for great lengths of time and being so tired on occasion she’d been close to tears.
She was, the mighty medical man declared, suffering from complete physical exhaustion. He’d ordered her to take two full weeks off. No, she couldn’t just cut back on her hours at the office, she was to get away, go somewhere peaceful and quiet, where her staff couldn’t reach her. Only Jack, her boss, should be informed of her destination.
The doctor knew her personal history, was aware that she had no family to spend the holidays with. Her-parents had been killed in an automobile accident when Andrea was only four.
There had been no loving relatives waiting in the wings to make a home for the frightened little girl, who had had her serene world shattered by the death of her mother and father.
She’d been raised in foster homes before she’d struck out on her own when she was eighteen.
Now she was heading to the small town of Prescott, where she’d never been before, and where her two-week sentence would include the Christmas holiday.
Being away from home on Christmas didn’t matter. She paid little attention to the festive event. She gave gifts to a few close friends, but politely refused all invitations to Christmas dinner. It was a day for families, and Andrea had no desire to be odd-woman-out at anyone’s table.
But being in Prescott for Christmas wasn’t what had her hopping mad. It was the emotion of inadequacy, of not being up for all she’d taken on and promised to do. Complete physical exhaustion. That was infuriating.
The pain in Andrea’s head increased, but she now knew the frequent headaches were caused by fatigue. They even had the official medical diagnosis of fatigue headaches.
She was only twenty-seven years old, for heaven’s sake, not one hundred and seven. She was five foot six, weighed one hundred and twenty-two pounds, and had thought she was in tip-top shape.
Ha! What a joke. She was falling apart. A total wreck. Talk about embarrassing. This whole situation was mortifying.
What was she supposed to do in dinky little Prescott for two weeks? Sit in a rocking chair with a blanket over her knees and knit? She didn’t know how to knit, and she certainly didn’t know how to spend lazy days doing absolutely nothing.
She hated this. She really, really hated this.
Andrea was pulled from her fuming thoughts by the sudden slowing of traffic and the realization that she was approaching Prescott.
Glancing quickly at the piece of paper she had taped to the center console, she shifted into the lefthand lane. She’d written precise instructions to herself after carefully studying a map she’d spread out on her kitchen table.
An image of her empty apartment flitted in her mental vision, but it evoked no nostalgia or homesickness.
It was a group of rooms where she ate, slept and spent very few leisurely hours, the majority of her life being centered on Challenge Advertising.
As her mind roamed from room to room in the high-rise apartment in Phoenix, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d rearranged the furniture or purchased something new, pretty and personal for the place she’d called home for the past five years.
Why was she suddenly thinking about her dull apartment? she wondered. She’d do well to pay attention to her surroundings, or she’d probably drive right past Hamilton House, the hotel where she’d made reservations for the next two, long weeks.
“Oh, great,” Andrea said aloud, frowning. “It’s starting to snow. Isn’t that just dandy?”
She hated cold weather. She hated snow. She hated Prescott, Arizona, and the reason that she was there.
Her doctor had suggested the small town, saying it was picture-perfect beautiful, with friendly people thrown in as an added bonus. Not having the time, nor the energy, to consider her options, she’d settled on Prescott without further thought.
“The crummy doctor might have mentioned that it snowed up here,” Andrea said, stopping at a red light. “Oh-hh, I’m really hating this.”
Brandon Hamilton stood behind the registration desk of Hamilton House, humming along with the carols that played softly in the large lobby of the hotel.
Excellent, he thought, looking down at a leatherbound registry. Once Ms. Andrea Cunningham
