The Year the Cat Saved Christmas - a novella by Barbara Bretton

published.
Competition was fierce and it took guts as well as talent to
succeed. Every time he tried to tell her how much he admired her
achievements, the words caught in his throat and he was tumbled
back to those early days when they were poor and struggling. She'd
given up so much when she married him: money and social standing
and whatever tenuous connection she had with her family.
     
     
    #
     
     
    Then
     
    Eight months to the day after David began
working at the biggest architectural firm in the state, he made
dinner reservations for two at the Peacock Inn.
    "Have you lost your mind?" Jill asked,
clearly shocked, when he called to tell her what he'd done. "We
can't afford the Peacock Inn. We don't even know anyone who can
afford the Peacock Inn."
    "Trust me," he said, pride almost bursting
through his chest. "I'll pick you up at the office at six."
    He pulled up in front of the rambling
Colonial building that housed Baxter Publishing, the small textbook
firm where Jill had worked since their marriage. He was three
minutes early. He knew she would be three minutes late. Their
marriage had been a series of compromises, some easy and some not
so, and he couldn't imagine it any other way.
    She trusted him with her life. He trusted her
with his heart. She lifted him up when his optimism flagged. He
held her close when the world was too much with them.
    People said that marriage made romance
disappear, that the grind of everyday life extinguished the spark
of passion, but they were wrong. Marriage had taken two lonely
people and turned them into one entity, a team in heart and spirit.
A team that only death could part.
    "Champagne?" Jill said as the waiter brought
the chilled bottle for his inspection.
    "Our anniversary isn't until September."
    "You need an occasion to drink
champagne?"
    "On our budget, we need an occasion to drink
beer."
    He smiled but said nothing. Good news
deserved to be savored. He motioned the waiter to leave the
champagne and, with great ceremony, David popped the cork himself
then filled the crystal flutes with the golden liquid.
    "To the future," he said and they touched
glasses.
    "To the future," Jill echoed. Then, "You're
making me a nervous wreck, David. The Peacock Inn. Champagne. You
must have robbed a bank to pay for this."
    He leaned forward. Her hair shimmered in the
candlelight, glowing like burnished copper. There was no sight on
earth that could compare to his wife's face. He was consumed with
love for her, for everything she was, and for all he knew she would
be now that he could finally give her the chance.
    "How much do you like your job, Jilly?"
    Her brows drew together. "It's okay. Ed
Cavanagh is easy to work for. The editors are pleasant enough. Why
are you asking me this, David?"
    "Because I think you should quit."
    He'd never seen a jaw sag open before but
damned if Jill's jaw didn't do exactly that.
    She stared at him. "Quit?"
    "Quit."
    "How much champagne have you had
tonight?"
    He lifted his glass. "It's still almost
full."
    "Then you must have lost your mind."
    "I haven't lost my mind. In fact, I've never
felt more sane in my life."
    "I'm glad one of us can say that, because I
feel like I'm trapped in the Twilight Zone and Rod Serling is about
to serve our salads."
    He reached for her hand. "I'm doing the
O'Neal house."
    "Oh, David...." Her beautiful face came to
life, as if all the candlepower in the room were centered in her
eyes. "You worked so hard for this. I'm so happy!"
    "We worked hard," he corrected her. "We did
it as a team. I wouldn't have made it through without you, Jilly,
and that's the God's truth."
    "You're not going to toss me aside and run
off with an assistant?" Her words were soft and teasing. "I hear
that's what all you successful architects do."
    "Not this one." He raised her hand to his
lips. "I have everything I want right here."
    He told her about the corner studio and the
expense account, and then he told her the best part of all.
    "It means a lot