Books > Hugs for Women > Excerpts

Chapter 1

The Dream

She pulled into town one cool,autumn afternoon, driving slowly down the main street. Shestopped at the only traffic light before parking in front of thegrocery store. Carolyn bought bread, bologna, cheese, pickles,chips, and a Coke. Then she climbed back into her car and droveto the edge of town where she noticed a small park in a grove ofelm trees. She stopped there to eat her picnic lunch.

As she dumped her trash intothe metal barrel, Carolyn caught her breath. There it was! Atlong last, after her five-year search, she had found it. Tuckedinto a secluded spot in the woods stood a little cottage –the one she had always imagined as her writing retreat. A dirtpath led from the park to the cottage’s front gate.

Walking slowly along the path,Carolyn tried to soak up every detail around the small, desertedbuilding. Fallen elm leaves crunched beneath her feet as shewalked reverently through the white-picket gate and up the oldbrick walk to the front porch. She tried the front door, and itopened without resistance. A quick inspection made her heart beata little faster with anticipation. It was the perfect place for awell-known author to find the anonymity and solitude necessaryfor writing.

Returning to the front porch,Carolyn sat down in the swing and began to push it gently backand forth, back and forth. Its metal chain squeaked softly inrhythm with her thoughts: It needs new paint, and the shingles onthe roof have to be replaced. The roses need to be pruned, andthe lawn has to be mowed. But mostly, it needs someone to live init, love it, care for it. It’s perfect! I wonder whyit’s empty. Is it for sale?

A sudden impulse sent Carolynrunning back to her car. She drove quickly back into town andfound the local real estate office. When she asked about thelittle cottage, she learned that it had been repossessed by thebank; its former owners couldn’t pay the back taxes. All shehad to do was pay the taxes, and it was hers . . . which isexactly what Carolyn did.

Handing her the key and deedto her new writing retreat, the real estate agent told her abouta local fix-it man named Henry. He could help her make the neededrepairs. Carolyn stopped to talk to him on her way back to thecottage and arranged for him to begin work the next day.

By mid-December all therepairs had been made. The roof no longer leaked, the cottage hada fresh coat of pale-yellow paint and forest-green shutters, thelawn had a manicured look, and Carolyn had added some homeytouches inside. It was the perfect haven for writing. Soon shecould sit down at her desk overlooking the goldfish pond andbegin working on her next novel.

One chilly afternoon asCarolyn swept the leaves off the front porch, she heard a smallvoice say, “Hello.” Looking up, she saw a littlered-haired girl swinging on the front gate.

“Well, hello,” saidCarolyn with a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Jenny. What’syours?”

“Carolyn.”

“How do you like thehouse?” the little visitor asked.

“I love it. It’sjust what I’ve always wanted.”

“We liked it too,”said Jenny. “It looks nice with the new paint.”

Carolyn stopped sweeping.“Thanks. Did you live here?”

“Yes, until my daddydied. Then we had to move.”

“Where do you livenow?” Carolyn asked with concern.

“In the shelterdowntown.”

Carolyn put down her broom andwalked out to the gate. “I’m sorry your daddy died.What happened?”

“He was sick for a longtime, and he couldn’t work. The doctors couldn’t makehim well. They said he had something called leukemia. He diedlast year, just before Christmas. Then the bank told Mama thatwe’d have to move. She cried a lot after that.”

“I’m so sorry,Jenny. Say, I’ve got some lemonade inside. Would you likesome?”

“Thanks, but I have to gonow. My mom will be worried about me. I have to take care of mybaby brother while she cooks dinner at the shelter. MaybeI’ll come back sometime.”

“Please do,” Carolynsaid quietly as Jenny walked away, glancing back at the littlecottage wistfully two or three times before she was out of sight.

Suddenly Carolyn’s happylittle cottage – her dream – seemed sad and lonely. Inher mind she could see Jenny and her family playing in the yard.She could imagine the smell of homemade bread baking in the smallkitchen. She could hear the sounds of laughter that now seemed toecho eerily in the trees. And she knew what she had to do.

On Christmas Eve Henry,dressed up in a Santa Claus suit, rang the bell at the downtownshelter. He entered with a happy, “Ho Ho Ho!” andstarted giving presents to all the children. He handed Jenny aspecial doll with red hair just like hers, and he had a big, bluerubber ball for Jenny’s baby brother.

The last thing in Santa’ssack was an ordinary white envelope. He walked quietly over toJenny’s mother and said, “Sarah, this is for you.”Looking quizzically at him, Sarah took the envelope and tore openthe sealed flap. When she removed a piece of paper from theenvelope, a key fell into her lap. She recognized it immediately.When she looked at the paper, she realized it was the deed to thecottage – with her name on it – marked “Paid inFull.”

Tears welled up in her eyes asshe pulled out the second piece of paper. The light blue noteread, “Please come home. I miss you. Merry Christmas.”It was signed, “The Cottage by the Park.”

She wandered into their lives,touched them gently, and then selflessly wandered away, never tobe seen by them again. She had amazed them with her kindness andgenerosity. And yet, she was no bigger-than-life heroine. She wasjust an ordinary woman – a woman who gave up her own dreamfor someone else’s. She was a woman probably very much likeyou.