Christmas In Cedar Cove: 5-B Poppy Lane. Debbie Macomber

other familiar figurines. A large evergreen wreath hung on her front door. The house was redolent with the scents of spruce and spice—ready for Christmas.

      Helen wanted everything perfect when her only granddaughter and her husband arrived. In preparation she’d mulled cider and baked Ruth’s favorite Christmas cookies from an old gingerbread recipe; they’d first made it together when Ruth was a child. Even now, after all these years, Helen remembered the thrill she’d felt when her granddaughter was born. Oh, she loved her grandsons, but for a grandmother there was something special about a girl.

      The doorbell chimed and Helen peeked outside to see her dear friend Charlotte Rhodes standing on the porch. Delighted, she opened the door and quickly ushered Charlotte inside. They were both getting on in years, and Helen suspected neither of them had many Christmases left. She didn’t have a fatalistic view of life by any means, but she was a practical woman. Helen knew what it was to face death. She had no fear of dying.

      “Merry Christmas,” Charlotte said, unwrapping a hand-knit lace scarf from around her neck. Her friend was the most exquisite knitter. Many a time she’d assisted Helen with her knitting projects. She gave her the confidence to try new things. Why, with Charlotte’s help a few years back, Helen had completed a complicated Fair Isle sweater. She still felt a bit of pride whenever she wore that sweater. She was a competent knitter in her own right; she didn’t mean to discount her skills. But Charlotte had such an encouraging way about her, and not just when it came to knitting. Helen had confided in Charlotte about what had happened to her during the war, and Charlotte had urged her to share it with her family. Eventually, she had…

      “Merry Christmas,” Helen said, taking Charlotte’s coat and scarf and hanging them up. She led her friend into the kitchen. “This is such a pleasant surprise.”

      “I knew your granddaughter and her husband were stopping by, so I brought some of my green tomato mincemeat.” She removed two beribboned jars from her ever-present knitting bag.

      “Oh, Charlotte, thank you.” Helen accepted the jars and put them on the counter to admire. Charlotte was well aware that Helen had a weakness for her homemade green tomato mincemeat.

      “Consider this a small Christmas gift,” Charlotte said, looking pleased at Helen’s reaction.

      “Didn’t you say it was too much work this year?” Helen could swear Charlotte had claimed she was finished with canning. And who would blame her?

      “I did say that, and then I took a look at all those green tomatoes and I couldn’t help myself. Besides, Ben swears mincemeat is his favorite pie.”

      “I thought your peach pie was his favorite.”

      Charlotte actually blushed. Those two had been married for several years now but they still behaved like newlyweds. It always made Helen smile.

      “Ben says that about all my pies.”

      “Well, I’m very happy to get these. I’ll make a pie for tonight’s dessert.” Helen automatically set the teakettle on the burner, dropping teabags in her best china pot.

      “What time is your granddaughter getting here?”

      Helen glanced at the kitchen clock. “Not for several hours. Around five.”

      Charlotte pulled out a chair and sat down, reaching into her voluminous bag for her knitting. Socks again. Charlotte was never without her knitting, and these days it was usually socks. Helen had recently made socks, too, but not ones you’d wear. She’d knit both Ruth and Paul Christmas stockings to hang by the fireplace. Because of the intricate pattern, it had taken her the better part of three months. She planned to give them their made-with-love Christmas stockings when they exchanged gifts that evening.

      It wasn’t long before the tea was ready and the two of them sat across the table from each other, a plate of the gingerbread cookies between them.

      “I’ve met your granddaughter, haven’t I?” Charlotte asked, picking up her teacup and frowning slightly.

      “Yes, don’t you recall? Ruth certainly remembers you.”

      “She does?”

      “It was a few years ago. She was in quite a state when she came by to visit. She was absolutely beside herself because she wasn’t sure what to do about Paul.”

      Charlotte looked confused.

      “That was shortly after they met,” Helen explained, surprised her friend had apparently forgotten the episode, since Charlotte had answered Ruth’s knock at the door. “They’d been corresponding for a while. Paul was in the marines. Well, he still is, but that’s not the point.”

      Charlotte chose a cookie. “It’s coming back to me now,” she said. “They had a lovely romance, didn’t they?”

      “Oh, yes.”

      She took a bite. “Mmm. Delicious. Now, remind me again how they met.”

      Helen settled back in her chair and picked up her own cup of tea. This was such a wonderful story. Her own love story was part of it, too. All those years ago during the Second World War. There were fewer and fewer people who knew what that war had really been like.

      For more than fifty years she’d refused to talk about that time, refused to even think about her adventures and ordeals. She’d lost so much—and yet, she’d gained, too. At the urging of the few friends she’d confided in, including Charlotte, she’d finally told Ruth what had happened. Ruth and her Paul. Afterward, her granddaughter had said that her experiences were more than family history; they were history.

      “Helen,” Charlotte murmured, shaking her out of her reverie. “You were going to tell me about Ruth and Paul.”

      “Oh, yes. The story of how they fell in love…” She settled back, listening to the comforting click of Charlotte’s needles, and began.

      One

      Ruth Shelton hurried out of her classroom-management lecture at the University of Washington, where she was completing her master’s of education degree. Clutching her books, she dashed across campus, in a rush to get home. By now the mail would have been delivered to her small rental house three blocks from the school.

      “Ruth,” Tina Dupont called, stopping her in midflight. “There’s another antiwar rally this afternoon at—”

      “Sorry, I’ve got to run,” Ruth said, jogging past her friend and feeling more than a little guilty. Other students cleared a path for her; wherever she was headed must have seemed urgent—and it was, but only to her. Since Christmas, four months ago, she’d been corresponding with Sergeant Paul Gordon, USMC, who was stationed in Afghanistan. There’d been recent reports of fighting, and she hadn’t received a letter or an email from Paul in three days. Three interminable days. Not since they’d initially begun their correspondence had there been such a lapse. Paul usually wrote every day and she did, too. They emailed as often as possible. Ruth had strong feelings about the war in Iraq, although her opinions didn’t match those of her parents.

      Earlier in the school year, Ruth had been part of a protest rally on campus. But no matter what her political views on the subject, she felt it was important to support American troops wherever they might be serving. In an effort to do that, Ruth had voluntarily mailed a Christmas card and letter to a nameless soldier.

      Paul Gordon was the young man who’d received that Christmas card, and to Ruth’s surprise he’d written her back and enclosed his photograph. Paul was from Seattle and he’d chosen her card because of the Seattle postmark. He’d asked her lots of questions—about her history, her family, her interests—and closed with a postscript that said he hoped to hear from her again.

      When she first got his letter, Ruth had hesitated. She felt she’d done her duty, supported the armed services in a way she was comfortable doing. This man she’d never met was asking her to continue corresponding with him. She wasn’t sure she