The Wish Book Christmas Read online

  Praise for Lynn Austin

  “A rich and enchanting historical reading experience.”

  FRESH FICTION on If I Were You

  “Austin transports readers into the lives of her characters . . . giving them a unique take on the traditional World War II tale. Readers won’t be able to turn the pages fast enough.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL, starred review of If I Were You

  “In Lynn Austin’s tantalizing domestic drama If I Were You, desperation and forgiveness are part of a classic upstairs/downstairs plot.”

  FOREWORD REVIEWS

  “Lynn Austin is a master at exploring the depths of human relationships.”

  SUSAN MEISSNER, bestselling author of Secrets of a Charmed Life and The Last Year of the War

  “If I Were You is a page-turning, nail-biting, heart-stopping gem of a story. . . . [I] sighed with satisfaction when I reached the final page. So good.”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, New York Times bestselling author of Mine Is the Night

  “If I Were You is sure to garner accolades and appeal to fans of novels like The Alice Network and The Nightingale.”

  JULIE KLASSEN, author of A Castaway in Cornwall

  “With her signature attention to detail and unvarnished portrayal of the human heart, Lynn Austin weaves a tale of redemption [in If I Were You] that bears witness to Christ’s power to make all things new.”

  SHARON GARLOUGH BROWN, author of the Sensible Shoes series and Shades of Light

  “If I Were You is . . . a compelling read, beautifully written, celebrating the strength of faith and the power of sisterhood.”

  CATHY GOHLKE, Christy Award–winning author of Night Bird Calling

  “If I Were You is a beautiful story about courage, relentless love, and the transforming power of forgiveness.”

  MELANIE DOBSON, award-winning author of The Curator’s Daughter

  “Lynn Austin’s tradition of masterful historical fiction continues in If I Were You. . . . While longtime fans will appreciate this introspective tale from a writer who deeply feels the nuances of human nature, those uninitiated will immediately recognize why her talented pen has led her to near-legendary status in the realm of inspirational fiction.”

  RACHEL MCMILLAN, author of The Mozart Code

  “Bold and brilliant and clever, If I Were You will delight Lynn’s multitude of fans and garner many new ones.”

  ELIZABETH MUSSER, author of When I Close My Eyes

  Also by Lynn Austin

  Chasing Shadows

  If I Were You

  Sightings: Discovering God’s Presence in Our Everyday Moments

  Legacy of Mercy

  Where We Belong

  Waves of Mercy

  On This Foundation

  Keepers of the Covenant

  Return to Me

  Pilgrimage: My Journey to a Deeper Faith in the Land Where Jesus Walked

  All Things New

  Wonderland Creek

  While We’re Far Apart

  Though Waters Roar

  Until We Reach Home

  A Proper Pursuit

  A Woman’s Place

  All She Ever Wanted

  Among the Gods

  Faith of My Fathers

  The Strength of His Hand

  Song of Redemption

  Gods and Kings

  Candle in the Darkness

  A Light to My Path

  Fire by Night

  Hidden Places

  Wings of Refuge

  Eve’s Daughters

  Fly Away

  Visit Tyndale online at tyndale.com.

  Visit Lynn Austin’s website at lynnaustin.org.

  Tyndale and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Ministries.

  The Wish Book Christmas

  Copyright © 2021 by Lynn Austin. All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration of children on Christmas copyright © by CSA Images/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Lindsey Bergsma and Libby Dykstra

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with the literary agency of Natasha Kern Literary Agency, Inc., P.O. Box 1069, White Salmon, WA 98672.

  Unless otherwise indicated, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

  Isaiah 9:6 in the epigraph is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version,® NIV.® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

  The Wish Book Christmas is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-855-277-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Austin, Lynn N., author.

  Title: The wish book Christmas / Lynn Austin.

  Description: Carol Stream, Illinois : Tyndale House Publishers, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021006530 (print) | LCCN 2021006531 (ebook) | ISBN 9781496452528 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781496452535 (kindle edition) | ISBN 9781496452542 (epub) | ISBN 9781496452559 (epub)

  Subjects: LCSH: Christmas stories. | GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3551.U839 W57 2021 (print) | LCC PS3551.U839 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021006530

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021006531

  ISBN 978-1-4964-5254-2 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-5253-5 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-5255-9 (Apple)

  Build: 2021-07-30 15:49:30 EPUB 3.0

  For Lyla and Ayla

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Preview of If I Were You

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  For to us a child is born, to us a son is given . . .

  ISAIAH 9:6

  Prologue

  DECEMBER 1951

  Bobby Barrett stepped off the kindergarten school bus and his foot sank into a pile of fresh snow. Some of the snow fell inside his galoshes and soaked into his socks, making him shiver. He couldn’t remember there being this much snow back home in England, where he was born.

  “Yay! It’s snowing again!” his friend Harry Dawson cheered as the bus roared away. “If you stick out your tongue, you can catch snowflakes on it, like this.”

  Bobby watched, then imitated Harry, opening his mouth wide and sticking out his tongue. Bobby had moved to America only a year and a half ago with his mum, but Harry had lived here ever since he was a baby. He was always teaching Bobby new things. Snowflakes fell from the gray sky like feathers from a torn pillow, and they tickled Bobby’s tongue as they landed on it.

  “Come on, let’s make footprints,” Harry said a moment later. They stomped through the snow that had piled up on their neighbors’ lawns as they made their way down the block to the house they shared. Mummy had been friends with Harry’s mum for a long, long time, and now they all lived together in the same little house.

  “I love it when it snows,” Harry said. “Know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because that means Christmas is co
ming, and Christmas means toys! Lots and lots and lots of toys!”

  “Where do the toys come from?” Bobby asked.

  “From Santa Claus, silly! You tell him what new toys you want and he brings them to your house on Christmas. Didn’t Santa Claus ever come where you used to live?”

  “You mean Wellingford Hall? In England?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm. I remember Father Christmas,” Bobby said, “but I don’t think I remember lots of toys.”

  Harry dropped to his knees and scooped up a pile of snow between his mittens, packing it together to make a ball. Bobby dropped down to do the same thing and felt the cold snow soaking through his mittens and the knees of his corduroy pants. He hoped Mummy wouldn’t get mad at him for getting all wet.

  “Santa Claus is very rich, and he likes giving toys to children,” Harry said. “He left some under the tree for us last Christmas and some more at Nana and Granddad’s house, remember?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” Everything had been new and strange last year after he and Mummy had sailed across the ocean on a big boat. America was loud and noisy and hard to get used to compared to the peace and quiet of Wellingford Hall. Everyone was always in a big hurry here, and they talked funny. It had taken a while before Bobby could understand what people were saying. Bobby had wanted to leave America at first and go back home, but Mummy said they couldn’t.

  Harry stretched his arm back and threw the ball of snow as far as he could. Bobby did the same, but his ball fell apart, and the loose snow fluttered to the ground. Harry was better than Bobby at everything.

  “Come on, let’s run,” Harry said. “I’m hungry! I hope your mommy made hot dogs for lunch.”

  Dogs? For lunch? An old woman was walking toward them with a big yellow dog on a leash, and it took Bobby a moment to remember that the Americans called sausages “hot dogs.” They weren’t really made from dogs, Mummy told him. He backed away as the dog got closer, his heart beating fast. He was afraid of most dogs, and this one was very big and frisky. It tugged on the leash as if it wanted to get away, and the lady had to pull back hard to make it stop.

  “Hi, doggy,” Harry said, waving. The dog looked at Harry and barked really loud, making Bobby’s heart race even faster. He turned and ran the rest of the way home without waiting for his friend, hoping the dog wouldn’t chase after him and eat him.

  He arrived home breathless, beating Harry through the door for once. Mummy had lunch waiting for them on the kitchen table—tomato soup with saltine crackers and bologna sandwiches. He took off his galoshes, coat, and mittens and slid onto his chair, beating Harry a second time.

  “How was kindergarten today?” Mummy asked as Bobby bit into his bologna sandwich.

  Harry answered before he had a chance to. “We had fun! We painted pictures using our fingers. The paint felt all squishy and cold.”

  “I didn’t like it,” Bobby said. He had worried that the paint wouldn’t wash off afterwards and he would have colored fingers forever. “Why don’t they let us use paintbrushes in America?” he asked.

  Harry shrugged his shoulders. “Because then they wouldn’t be called finger paints, silly.”

  Bobby remembered what else they’d done in school today and hurried to tell his mum before Harry did. “Mummy, guess what? We’re going to be in a play at school, and you and Harry’s mum and Nana and Granddad can all come and see us.”

  “A play? How nice. Do you know what the play is about?”

  “It has a baby and a lot of sheep in it,” Harry said. He was talking with his mouth full, which Mummy said not to do. “Most of the kids are sheep but me and Bobby and another boy are going to be three smart, rich men.”

  “No, the teacher said we’re rich kings!” Bobby said. “Like the king we have back home in England. We’re going to wear crowns and everything!”

  “That sounds lovely,” Mum said. “I can’t wait to see it.” She brushed Bobby’s hair off his forehead. Her hand smelled like flowers.

  Harry finished his lunch first, leaving the crusts of his bread behind. Bobby copied him—he hated the dry crusts, too—then followed him into the living room, after putting his dishes in the sink. They were trying to decide what to play when Harry spotted a colorful magazine on the coffee table that hadn’t been there when they’d left for kindergarten that morning. “Look, Bobby! That’s Santa Claus—see? He’s the one who’s going to bring us toys for Christmas. Now do you remember?”

  Bobby picked up the magazine and studied it. The cover showed a fat, white-bearded man in a red suit putting presents beneath a Christmas tree. Santa held one finger to his lips as if saying, “Shh . . . these presents are a secret . . .”

  “He looks sort of like Father Christmas,” Bobby said, “with his white beard. But Father Christmas wears a green coat, I think. And he isn’t this fat.” He opened the book to see what was inside and saw pictures of all sorts of toys.

  Harry grabbed the book from him. “Oh, boy! Look at all these cars and trucks!”

  “Mummy, is Father Christmas the same as Santa Claus?” Bobby asked as she walked through the living room. She was carrying a basket of dirty laundry on her way to the basement.

  “Yes, love. Children call him by different names in different countries. By the way, did you and Harry forget that we’re going to see Santa Claus in the Christmas parade tonight?”

  “Tonight?” Bobby asked.

  “Yes, after we eat supper.”

  “Yay!” Harry cheered, bouncing in place. “We can sit on his lap afterwards and tell him all the toys we want him to bring us.”

  Bobby couldn’t imagine sitting on this plump, red-suited stranger’s lap. He felt shy around people he didn’t know. “I don’t know what toys to tell him.”

  Harry waved the magazine. “Well, there’s lots of them in this . . . this . . . What’s this book called?” he asked Bobby’s mum.

  She bent over to look at the cover. “The Sears Christmas Wish Book.”

  As she walked away, Harry leaned close to Bobby to whisper in his ear, “We’d better hurry if we’re going to pick out all the toys we want to tell Santa about tonight. Come on.” He sank to the floor, lying on his tummy, and opened the book to the toy section. Bobby stretched out beside him, excited at the thought of picking out a whole bunch of new toys. It wasn’t even his birthday!

  “Oooh! Look at these fire engines!” Harry said. “And Santa will bring us everything we want!”

  “Everything?”

  “Yes. But only if we’re good. Bad kids get sticks and coal for Christmas.”

  “What’s coal?”

  “Black lumpy stuff that looks like rocks.”

  “What do the bad kids do with it?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they have to play with it because they don’t have any toys. Listen, Bobby. We have to be real good from now until Christmas, okay?”

  “Okay. How long is it until Christmas?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe your mommy does.” They studied a few more pages of toys until Bobby heard his mum come upstairs from the basement again.

  “Mummy? How many days is it until Christmas?” he called.

  “Ehm . . . let’s see . . . twenty days.”

  “Oh no!” Harry groaned, slapping his forehead.

  “Is twenty days a lot?” Bobby asked him.

  “Yes! That’s like . . . all of your fingers and all of mine! We’ll have to be good for a long time if we want lots and lots of toys.”

  Bobby sighed. This all seemed like a lot of work. But the toys pictured in this wonderful Wish Book dazzled him, and like Harry, he wanted all of them. Most of the toys in their bedroom and at Nana’s house had belonged to Harry before Bobby moved in, and although Harry was pretty good about sharing them, Bobby wanted some new toys of his own. “Start at the beginning again and go real slow,” he begged. “I need to remember everything.”

  “Okay, okay,” Harry said, turning back to the first page of toys. “I want these Ti
nkertoys, don’t you? We can build fun towers and stuff with them, see?”

  “Yeah! I want them, too.” They continued through the pages, turning them slowly, studying the pictures. By the time they reached the end, Bobby could hardly wait to see this red-suited Santa Claus tonight and tell him about all the wonderful toys he wanted. Yes, Christmas was going to be great!

  Chapter 1

  20 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  Christmas was coming. Eve Dawson saw signs of it all around her Connecticut town as she walked home from work. Pine boughs and wreaths decorated front doors. Christmas lights and tempting gift displays adorned shopwindows. Even the snow blanketing lawns and rooftops and sitting in puffy mounds on all of the bushes looked festive. Yes, Christmas was coming, and with it, the anxiety of trying to squeeze a few extra dollars from her tight budget to buy presents for her five-year-old son, Harry.

  The afternoon was growing dark as she hurried along. The shortened December days meant it was barely light when she left for work in the morning and nearly dark when she returned home. Harry would be watching for her from the picture window, eager to show her something he’d made in kindergarten or to talk about the latest exploits of his TV heroes, the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Eve remembered watching for her mum the same way, waiting outside Granny Maud’s cottage for the first glimpse of Mum coming up the road. At least Eve’s job in the typing pool allowed her to return home to Harry every day and tuck him into bed at night. When Eve was Harry’s age, her mum, who’d also been a single mother, had worked as a live-in servant at Wellingford Hall and was only able to see Eve once a week.

  A hunched figure hurried up the sidewalk toward Eve—Mrs. Herder, bundled against the cold and the gently falling snow, walking her dog. Eve smiled as they passed. “Hello. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

  “If you like snow.” Her words were muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around her neck and chin. Mrs. Herder continued past, her rambunctious yellow Labrador stopping to sniff at mailbox posts one minute, then tugging on his lead the next. They seemed a mismatched pair, the young dog too large and energetic for the small, white-haired woman who reminded Eve of her granny.