Jackson - A Christmas Gift for Mary Jones

A CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR MARY JONES

Kimberly B. Jackson

Copyright 2013 Kimberly B. Jackson

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Cover Art by Joan Alley

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are the product of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If youre reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Published by Prism Book Group

ISBN - 978-1-940099-42-2 First Edition, 2013

Published in the United States of America

Contact info:

http://www.prismbookgroup.com

CHAPTER ONE

Some folks called her a busybody, some called her an angel. She had a knack for knowing what a person needed, even before they knew themself. A childless widow at the age of forty-five, though most folks thought she was older, she mothered anyone who crossed her path.

Mary Jones was a down-to-earth kind of woman. With the farm to take care of, she didnt have time to primp. Besides, she hadnt been given much in the looks department. She worked as hard as any man tending her land, but her passion was people. She had a unique insight into others and their various problems.

Always ready to lend a helping hand, and not afraid to get her hands dirtythat was Mary Jones. Two characteristics shed inherited from her maternal grandmother.

Only her close friends called her Mrs. Mary. But most people in the small mountain town of River Oak, Tennessee referred to her as Grandmother Jones. A title she carried proudly, since she had not been blessed with children.

The day started as the same as always for Mary Jones. Before the sun crept into view, coffee brewed and bacon fried on her woodstove. The steam from the coffee pot floated into Marys nostrils, intoxicating her as she deeply inhaled. Breakfast, being her favorite meal of the day, she looked forward to from the moment she hauled her old bones from bed. Morning was the only time she sat down at the hundred-year-old farmhouse table filled with scratches, nicks, and even her brothers name. Hed carved the marking at the age of seven, always determined to leave his brand.

After Mary finished her meal, she carried her dishes to the kitchen to wash, dry, and return to the cabinet. The window above the sink revealed the sun in its pinkish orange hue hovering in the sky, ready to make an appearance. After donning her work dress and a straw hat shed used for years, she opened the door to chilly, brisk air. Gold, red, and orange swirled around the ground like a mini-tornado. Dry leaves crunched under each step she took. Looking directly at the mountain, she wondered how anybody could deny that God existed with such a view.

Drawing in a deep breath of cool, crisp air, she exhaled. A routine she believed helped keep her lungs strong. Again, she glanced at the mountains behind her home, only to have her mind play the mean trick itd taken to habit of late. The vision, though there and gone, struck the breath from her chest. How real it seemed her late husband, along with his loyal, white German Shepard, was strolling back to the farm after a hunting trip or perhaps a walk in the woods.

As she walked around the old farmhouse, she smiled at her prized pumpkins. What a crop. Soon, they would be making their yearly appearance for the towns annual pumpkin festival. With a turn, she focused her attention on the cabbage and broccoli planted in the next rows. Taking her hoe, she rooted out the weeds along the two lines of winter vegetables.

A fast worker, in no time she had finished and moved on to the row of cauliflower. In an hour and a half, the whole garden had been weeded. Picking up her supplies, Mary strolled toward the back door of the house.

Hello! screamed an unfamiliar voice, that of a young child, causing Mary to trip on her own feet and her legs to go out from under her body. She landed on her rear with a thud. As her heart beat in triple overtime, she couldnt help but think she could see it pulsating through her dress. Regaining her composure, she pulled herself to standing. Slowly, Mary eased into the house, thinking perhaps shed imagined the sound. Hello?

Hello, came the voice of an angel.

Sure enough, there sat a redheaded child at the table.

Who are you and what are doing in my house?

Im Emma. Who are you?

Precocious little thing.

Emma! Emma! Where are you? A womans voice penetrated from the front hall. Within seconds, the two ladies stood face to face, as if both were meeting at an intruder.

Excuse me. Im looking for William Jones. This is his home, isnt it? the brown-haired, cocoa-eyed female asked.

Yes, this was his home.

What do you mean was ? the puzzled, young lady asked. Did he sell it to you?

Clearly, there was some sort of misunderstanding. Since she seemed harmless enough, Mary proceeded into the living room and motioned for the young woman to follow. Sit, please. Now, first thing, tell me what your name is.

Its Teresa and youve met Emma. She stroked the girls hair.

Okay, Teresa, why dont you tell me what brought you here?

Im looking for my father, William Jones.

Marys stomach leapt into her throat. Your father, she choked out. William? How?

But Teresa had named him, specifically.

Yes, my father. Do you know him? You must, since you are in his home.

The information rambled through Marys mind. William couldnt have a daughter and a granddaughter. He would have told her.

Althoughhe had mentioned needing to talk about something shortly before his passing. A sigh released some of the tension in Marys body. Im Williams wife. Im afraid he never informed me he had a daughter.

Of course. I see. A look of sadness came over Teresas face. Weve only just started to communicate with each other, after the death of my mother. Growing up, I never knew who my father was, at least not until eight months ago. I found his name on an old letter my mother kept in her dresser drawer.

Several thoughts raced through Marys mind. How did this young lady know William her Williamwas truly her father? If this information was accurate, why hadnt he told her sooner? What did the letter say?

Refocusing her attention to the woman sitting in front of her, along with her little girl, she found it ironic that William secretly had the daughter shed ached for. If only

How long have you and my father been married?

It was a good couple of decades beforebefore Mary stopped, unsure how to inform this sweet dear sitting in front of her, who looked no more than twenty at the most, that her father had left this world.

Before what? Teresa asked.

I hate to tell you this. William passed away a few months ago.

Teresa glanced at her daughter, then back to her. I guess Im the one who ended up with a surprise.

Several awkward moments ticked by.

How did he die?

Heart attack. He went fast. Didnt suffer long.

I regret that I didnt get to meet him. Looking at Mary with sad eyes, she said, Im sorry for your loss.

Thank you, Mary replied, still contemplating Teresas story.

More time stretched between them, filled with questions, the need for answers.

This might help explain. Teresa handed Mary a couple of letters. The first divulged who Teresas father was and his last known address, while the other, one William had written years ago, explained why he was leaving home and going into the army. Mary sat down and read both letters twice. Though William had never told her of his daughter, it was as if she could hear him now, his warm, husky voice confiding in her after all this time. After she finished, she handed the letters back to Teresa.