I am so sorry I didn’t get this book review to you before Christmas, but this book went through a long and arduous mail journey to get to me.Â It arrived in a battered and bruised package that had been shored up with tape along the way.Â It bore several postal stamps including one from Alaska and note saying the carton was damaged in transit but no contents were lost or destroyed.
After a trip like that one would expect a rollicking read and that is indeed what I got.Â Two Tickets to The Christmas Ball is a fun story: a little fantasy for ambiance, a little humor, a lot of Christ, the true spirit of Christmas, and one very human Pixie who is wise beyond her years. If you’d like to hold on to the Christmas Spirit just a little while longer, I highly recommend this book.Â I read it while curled up in front of the fireplace on Christmas Day.Â It was a sweet and wonderful treat.
Donita K. Paul has long been a favorite author of mine.Â Her stories are seeped in magic and adventure, yet strongly grounded in faith and the two go together quite well.Â Â Her characters always grow in wisdom, learning about themselves, the world around them and the nature of God, and do so in the natural progression of the story.Â I’ve yet to read a Donita K. Paul book I didn’t like, and I’ve read quite a few.
About the book:
Can mysterious matchmaking booksellers bring two lonely hearts together in time for Christmas?
In a sleepy, snow-covered city, Cora Crowder is busy preparing for the holiday season. Searching for a perfect gift, a fortuitous trip to Warner, Werner, and Wizbotterdadâ€™s (a most unusual bookshop) leads to an unexpected encounter with co-worker Simon Derrick. And the surprise discovery of a ticket for a truly one-of-a-kind Christmas Ball.
Every year, the matchmaking booksellers of the Sage Street bookshop host an enchanting, old-fashioned Christmas Ball for the romantic matches theyâ€™ve decided to bring together.
This year, will Simon and Cora discover a perfect chemistry in their opposite personalities and shared faith? Or will the matchmakersâ€™ best laid plans end up ruining everything this holiday?
Read Chapter One:
Christmas. Cora had been trying to catch it for four years. She scurried down the sidewalk, thankful that streetlights and brightly lit storefronts counteracted the gloom of early nightfall. Somewhere, sometime, sheâ€™d get a hold of how to celebrate Christmas. Maybe even tonight.With snowflakes sticking to her black coat, Christmas lights blinking around shop windows, and incessant bells jingling, Cora should have felt some holiday cheer.
And she did.
Just not much.
At least she was on a Christmas errand this very minute. One present for a member of the family. Shouldnâ€™t that count for a bit of credit in the Christmas-spirit department?
Cora planned out her Christmas gift giving in a reasonable manner. The execution of her purchasing schedule gave her a great deal of satisfaction. Tonightâ€™s quest was a book for Uncle Ericâ€”something about knights and castles, sword fights, shining armor, and all that.
One or two gifts purchased each week from Labor Day until December 15, and her obligations were discharged efficiently, economically, and without the excruciating last-minute frenzy that descended upon other peopleâ€¦like her three sisters, her mother, her grandmother, her aunts.
Cora refused to behave like her female relatives and had decided not to emulate the male side of the family either. The men didnâ€™t buy gifts. They sometimes exchanged bottles from the liquor store, but more often they drank the spirits themselves.
Her adult ambition had been to develop her own traditions for the season, ones that sprouted from the Christianity sheâ€™d discovered in college. The right way to celebrate the birth of Christ. She avoided the chaos that could choke Christmas. Oh dear. Judgmental again. At least now she recognized when she slipped.
She glanced around Sage Street. Not too many shoppers. The quaint old shops were decked out for the holidays, but not with LED bulbs and inflated cartoon figures.
Since discovering Christianity, sheâ€™d been confused about the trappings of Christmasâ€”the gift giving, the nativity scenes, the carols, even the Christmas tree. Every year she tried to acquire some historical background on the festivities. She was learning. She had hope. But she hadnâ€™t wrapped her head around all the traditions yet.
The worst part was shopping.
Frenzy undid her. Order sustained her. And that was a good reason to steer clear of any commercialized holiday rush. Sheâ€™d rather screw red light bulbs into plastic reindeer faces than push through a crowd of shoppers.
Cora examined the paper in her hand and compared it to the address above the nearest shop. Number 483 on the paper and 527 on the building. Close.
When sheâ€™d found the bookstore online, she had been amazed that a row of old-fashioned retailers still existed a few blocks from the high-rise office building where she worked. Truthfully, it was more like the bookstore found her. Every time she opened her browser, and on every site she visited, the ad for the old-fashioned new- and used-book store showed up in a banner or sidebar. Sheâ€™d asked around, but none of her co-workers patronized the Sage Street Shopping District.
â€œSounds like a derelict area to me,â€ said Meg, the receptionist. â€œSage Street is near the old railroad station, isnâ€™t it? The one they decided was historic so they wouldnâ€™t tear it down, even though itâ€™s empty and an eyesore?â€
An odd desire to explore something other than the mall near her apartment seized Cora. â€œIâ€™m going to check it out.â€
Jake, the security guard, frowned at her. â€œTake a cab. You donâ€™t want to be out too late over there.â€
Cora walked. The brisk air strengthened her lungs, right? The exercise pumped her blood, right? A cab would cost three, maybe four dollars, right?
An old man, sitting on the stoop of a door marked 503, nodded at her. She smiled, and he winked as he gave her a toothless grin. Startled, she quickened her pace and gladly joined the four other pedestrians waiting at the corner for the light to change.
Number 497 emblazoned the window of an ancient shoe store on the opposite corner. She marched on. In this block sheâ€™d find the book and check another item off her Christmas list.
Finally! â€œWarner, Werner, and Wizbotterdad, Books,â€ Cora read the sign aloud and then grasped the shiny knob. It didnâ€™t turn. She frowned. Stuck? Locked? The lights were on. She pressed her face against the glass. A man sat at the counter. Reading. How appropriate.
Cora wrenched the knob. A gust of wind pushed with her against the door, and she blew into the room. She stumbled and straightened, and before she could grab the door and close it properly, it swung closed, without the loud bang she expected.
â€œI donâ€™t like loud noises,â€ the man said without looking up from his book.
â€œNeither do I,â€ said Cora.
He nodded over his book. With one gnarled finger, he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
Must be an interesting book. Cora took a quick look around. The place could use stronger lights. She glanced back at the clerk. His bright lamp cast him and his book in a golden glow.
Should she peruse the stacks or ask?
She decided to browse. She started to enter the aisle between two towering bookcases.
â€œNot there,â€ said the old man.
â€œI beg your pardon?â€ said Cora.
â€œHow-to books. How to fix a leaky faucet. How to build a bridge. How to mulch tomatoes. How to sing opera. How-to books. You donâ€™t need to know any of that, do you?â€
â€œWrong aisle, then.â€ He placed the heavy volume on the counter and leaned over it, apparently absorbed once more.
Cora took a step toward him. â€œI think I saw a movie like this once.â€
His head jerked up, his scowl heavier. He glared over the top of his glasses at the books on the shelves as if they had suddenly moved or spoken or turned bright orange.
â€œA movie? Here? I suppose you mean the backdrop of a bookstore. Not so unusual.â€ He arched an eyebrow. â€œYouâ€™ve Got Mail and 84 Charing Cross Road.â€
â€œI meant the dialogue. You spoke as if you knew what I needed.â€
He hunched his shoulders. The dark suspenders stretched across the faded blue of his shirt. â€œReading customers. Been in the business a long time.â€
â€œIâ€™m looking for a book for my uncle. He likes castles, knights, tales of adventure. That sort of thing.â€
He sighed, closed his book, and tapped its cover. â€œThis is it.â€ He stood as Cora came to the desk. â€œDo you want me to wrap it and send it? We have the service. My grandsonâ€™s idea.â€
Cora schooled her face and her voice. One of the things she excelled in was not showing her exasperation. Sheâ€™d been trained by a dysfunctional family, and that had its benefits. She knew how to take guff and not give it back. Maintaining a calm attitude was a good job skill.
She tried a friendly smile and addressed the salesclerk.
â€œI want to look at it first and find out how much it costs.â€
â€œItâ€™s the book you want, and the price is eleven dollars and thirteen cents.â€
Cora rubbed her hand over the cover. It looked and felt like leather, old leather, but in good repair. The book must be ancient.
â€œAre you sure?â€ she asked.
â€œWhich?â€ the old man barked.
â€œWhich part of the statement am I sure about? It doesnâ€™t matter because Iâ€™m sure about both.â€
Cora felt her armor of detachment suffer a dent. The man was impossible. She could probably order a book online and get it wrapped and delivered right to her uncle with less aggravation. But dollar signs blinked in neon red in her mind as she thought how much that would cost. No need to be hasty.
Curtain rings rattled on a rod, and Cora looked up to see a younger version of the curmudgeon step into the area behind the counter.
The younger man smiled. He had the same small, wiry build as the older version, but his smile was warm and genuine. He looked to be about fifty, but his hair was still black, as black as the old manâ€™s hair was white. He stretched out his hand, and Cora shook it.
â€œIâ€™m Bill Wizbotterdad. This is my granddad, William Wizbotterdad.â€
â€œLet me guess. Your father is named Will?â€
Bill grinned, obviously pleased sheâ€™d caught on quickly. â€œWillie Wizbotterdad. Heâ€™s off in Europe collecting rare books.â€
â€œHeâ€™s not!â€ said the elder shop owner.
â€œHe is.â€ Bill cast his granddad a worried look.
â€œThatâ€™s just the reason he gave for not being here.â€ William shook his head and leaned across the counter. â€œHe doesnâ€™t like Christmas. We have a special job to do at Christmas, and he doesnâ€™t like people and dancing and matrimony.â€
Bill put his arm around his grandfather and pulled him back. He let go of his granddad and spun the book on the scarred wooden counter so that Cora could read the contents. â€œTake a look.â€ He opened the cover and flipped through the pages. â€œColored illustrations.â€
A rattling of the door knob was followed by the sound of a shoulder thudding against the wood. Cora turned to see the door fly open with a tall man attached to it. The stranger brushed snow from his sleeves, then looked up at the two shop owners. Cora caught them giving each other a smug smile, a wink, and a nod of the head.
Odd. Lots of oddness in this shop.
She liked the book, and she wanted to leave before more snow accumulated on the streets. Yet something peculiar about this shop and the two men made her curious. Part of her longed to linger. However, smart girls trusted their instincts and didnâ€™t hang around places that oozed mystery. She didnâ€™t feel threatened, just intrigued. But getting to know the peculiar booksellers better was the last thing she wanted, right? She needed to get home and be done with this Christmas shopping business. â€œIâ€™ll take the book.â€
The newcomer stomped his feet on the mat by the door, then took off his hat.
Cora did a double take. â€œMr. Derrick!â€
He cocked his head and scrunched his face. â€œDo I know you?â€ The man was handsome, even wearing that comical lost expression. â€œExcuse me. Have we met?â€
â€œWe work in the same office.â€
He studied her a moment, and a look of recognition lifted the frown. â€œThird desk on the right.â€ He hesitated, then snapped his fingers. â€œCora Crowden.â€
He jammed his hand in his pocket, moving his jacket aside. His tie hung loosely around his neck. Sheâ€™d never seen him looking relaxed. The office clerks called him Serious Simon Derrick.
â€œI drew your name,â€ she said.
He looked puzzled.
â€œFor the gift exchange. Tomorrow night. Office party.â€
â€œOh. Of course.â€ He nodded. â€œI drew Mrs. Hudson. Sheâ€™s going to retire, and I heard her say she wanted to redecorate on a shoestring.â€
â€œThatâ€™s Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Hudson is taking leave to be with her daughter, who is giving birth to triplets.â€
He frowned and began looking at the books.
â€œYou wonâ€™t be there, will you?â€ Cora asked.
â€œAt the party? No, I never come.â€
â€œI know. I mean, Iâ€™ve worked at Sorenbyâ€™s for five years, and youâ€™ve never been there.â€
The puzzled expression returned to Serious Simonâ€™s face. He glanced to the side. â€œIâ€™m looking for the how-to section.â€
Cora grinned. â€œOn your left. Second aisle.â€
He turned to stare at her, and she pointed to the shelves Mr. Wizbotterdad had not let her examine. Mr. Derrick took a step in that direction.
Cora looked back at the shop owners and caught them leaning back in identical postures, grins on their faces, and arms crossed over their chests.
Bill jerked away from the wall, grabbed her book, rummaged below the counter, and brought out a bag. He slid the book inside, then looked at her. â€œYou didnâ€™t want the book wrapped and delivered?â€
â€œNo, Iâ€™ll just pay for it now.â€
â€œAre you sure you wouldnâ€™t like to look around some more?â€ asked Bill.
â€œRight,â€ said William. â€œNo hurry. Look around. Browse. You might find something you like.â€
Bill elbowed William.
Simon Derrick had disappeared between the stacks.
William nodded toward the how-to books. â€œGet a book. We have a copy of How to Choose Gifts for Ungrateful Relatives. Third from the bottom shelf, second case from the wall.â€
The statement earned him a â€œshhâ€ from his grandson.
Cora shifted her attention to the man from her office and walked a few paces to peek around the shelves. â€œMr. Derrick, Iâ€™m getting ready to leave. If youâ€™re not coming to the party, may I just leave the gift on your desk tomorrow?â€
He glanced at her before concentrating again on the many books. â€œThatâ€™s fine. Nice to see you, Miss Crowden.â€
â€œCrowder,â€ she corrected, but he didnâ€™t answer.
She went to the counter and paid. Mr. Derrick grunted when she said good-bye at the door.
â€œCome back again,â€ said Bill.
â€œYes,â€ said William. â€œWe have all your heartâ€™s desires.â€
Bill elbowed him, and Cora escaped into the blustering weather.
She hiked back to the office building. Snow sprayed her with tiny crystals, and the sharp wind nipped her nose. Inside the parking garage, warm air helped her thaw a bit as she walked to the spot she leased by the month. It would be a long ride home on slippery roads. But once she arrived, there would be no one there to interrupt her plans. She got in the car, turned the key, pushed the gearshift into reverse, looked over her shoulder, and backed out of her space.
She would get the gift ready to mail off and address a few cards in the quiet of her living room. There would be no yelling. Thatâ€™s what she liked about living states away from her family. No one would ambush her with complaints and arguments when she walked through the door.
Except Skippy. Skippy waited. One fat, getting fatter, cat to talk to. She did complain at times about her mistress being gone too long, about her dinner being late, about things Cora could not fathom. But Cora never felt condemned by Skippy, just prodded a little.
Once inside her second-floor apartment, she pulled off her gloves, blew her nose, and went looking for Skippy.
The cat was not behind the curtain, sitting on the window seat, staring at falling snow. Not in her closet, curled up in a boot sheâ€™d knocked over. Not in the linen closet, sleeping on clean towels. She wasnâ€™t in any of her favorite spots. Cora looked around and saw the paper bag that, this morning, had been filled with wadded scraps of Christmas paper. Balls of pretty paper and bits of ribbon littered the floor. There. Cora bent over and spied her calico cat in the bag.
â€œDid you have fun, Skippy?â€
The cat rolled on her back and batted the top of the paper bag. Skippy then jumped from her cave and padded after Cora, as her owner headed for the bedroom.
Thirty minutes later, Cora sat at the dining room table in her cozy pink robe that enveloped her from neck to ankles. She stirred a bowl of soup and eyed the fifteen packages sheâ€™d wrapped earlier in the week. Two more sat waiting for their ribbons.
These would cost a lot less to send if some of these people were on speaking terms. She could box them together and ship them off in large boxes.
She spooned chicken and rice into her mouth and swallowed.
The soup was a tad too hot. She kept stirring.
She could send one package with seven gifts inside to Grandma Peterson, who could dispense them to her side of the family. She could send three to Aunt Carol.
She took another sip. Cooler.
Aunt Carol could keep her gift and give two to her kids. She could send five to her momâ€¦
Cora grimaced. She had three much older sisters and one younger. â€œIf Mom were on speaking terms with my sisters, that would help.â€
She eyed Skippy, who had lifted a rear leg to clean between her back toes. â€œYou donâ€™t care, do you? Well, Iâ€™m trying to. And I think Iâ€™m doing a pretty good job with this Christmas thing.â€
She reached over and flipped the switch on her radio. A Christmas carol poured out and jarred her nerves. She really should think about Christmas and not who received the presents. Better to think â€œmy uncleâ€ than â€œJoe, that bar bum and pool shark.â€
She finished her dinner, watching her cat wash her front paws.
â€œYou and I need to play. Youâ€™reâ€â€”she paused as Skippy turned
a meaningful glare at herâ€”â€œgetting a bit rotund, dear kitty.â€
Skippy sneezed and commenced licking her chest.
After dinner, Cora curled up on the couch with her Warner, Werner, and Wizbotterdad bag. Skippy came to investigate the rattling paper.
Uncle Eric. Uncle Eric used to recite â€œYou Are Old, Father William.â€ He said it was about a knight. But Cora wasnâ€™t so sure. She dredged up memories from college English. The poem was by Lewis Carroll, who was really named Dodson, Dogson, Dodgson, or something.
â€œHe wrote Aliceâ€™s Adventures in Wonderland,â€ she said. â€œThereâ€™s a cat in the story, but not as fine a cat as you. He smiles too much.â€
Skippy gave her a squint-eyed look.
Cora eased the leather-bound book out of the bag. â€œThe William I met at the bookstore qualifies for at least ancient.â€
She put the book in her lap and ran her fingers over the embossed title: How the Knights Found Their Ladies.
She might have been hasty. She didnâ€™t know if Uncle Eric would like this. She hefted the book, guessing its weight to be around four pounds. She should have found a lighter gift. This would cost a fortune to mail.
Skippy sniffed at the binding, feline curiosity piqued. Cora stroked her fur and pushed her back. She opened the book to have a peek inside. A piece of thick paper fell out. Skippy pounced on it as it twirled to the floor.
â€œWhat is it, kitty? A bookmark?â€ She slipped it out from between Skippyâ€™s paws, then turned the rectangle over in her hands. Not a bookmark. A ticket.
Admit one to the Wizardsâ€™ Christmas Ball
Dinner and Dancing
and your Destiny
Never heard of it. She tucked the ticket in between the pages and continued to flip through the book, stopping to read an occasional paragraph.
This book wasnâ€™t for Uncle Eric at all. It was not a history, it was a story. Kind of romantic too. Definitely not Uncle Ericâ€™s preferred reading.
Skippy curled against her thigh and purred.
â€œYou know what, cat? Iâ€™m going to keep it.â€
Skippy made her approval known by stretching her neck up and rubbing her chin on the edge of the leather cover. Cora put the book on the sofa and picked up Skippy for a cuddle. The cat squirmed out of her arms, batted at the ticket sticking out of the pages, and scampered off.
â€œI love you too,â€ called Cora.
She pulled the ticket out and read it again: Wizardsâ€™ Christmas Ball. She turned out the light and headed for bed. But as she got ready, her eye caught the computer on her desk. Maybe she could find a bit more information.
About the Author:
Expertly weaving together fantasy, romance and Biblical truths, Donita K. Paul penned the best-selling, fan-favorite DragonKeeper Chronicles series. After retiring early from teaching, she began a second career as an award-winning author and loves serving as a mentor for new writers of all ages. And when sheâ€™s not putting pen to paper, Donita makes her home in Colorado Springs and enjoys spending time with her grandsons, cooking, beading, stamping, and knitting.
Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Waterbrook Multnomah Publishing. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commissionâ€™s 16 CFR, Part 255: â€œGuides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.â€