Coming soon
When Angels Cry
Still in production, this novella is accompanied by a soundtrack of songs that align with each chapter. The manuscript is currently in the process of querying agents to secure representation with publishers.
Although the novella has been edited, proofed, and is ready for publication, sample chapters are not available at this time.
The Christmas House - Origins
1845 – 1997
A prequel to the original, The Christmas House- Origins, is not in production because I'm still writing it, and it is taking me much longer than I anticipated. I underestimated the arduous amount of research required to ensure this novel is worthy of a historical fiction classification.
I am planning on retiring from my full-time position as a Marketing Specialist by July 2026, so I hope to have more time to focus on the completion of this book.
This book is not in the query stage, so I can share a chapter.
Chapter One – Jonathan Is Born
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The baby’s coming!” screamed Shannon Kennedy, her voice echoing through the rafters of the old farmhouse as a summer storm brewed outside. Sweat clung to her brow, her red hair matted to her temples as she gripped the bedpost like a sailor bracing for a gale. On that humid August afternoon in 1845, deep in the farmland of Lake County, Illinois, she was giving birth to her twelfth child — and sixth son — with the help of her neighbor and midwife, Katie O’Donnell.
“After all these babes, you’d think the Lord might grant you an easier passage, like a cow calving in spring,” Katie teased in her thick Irish brogue, her sleeves rolled up as she busied herself with towels and hot water.
“Aye, it’s a wee bit easier, but it still hurts like the devil himself,” Shannon groaned. “Where’s me man?”
“I sent Mary-Francis to fetch him from the field. He’ll be here soon enough,” said Katie, dabbing Shannon’s forehead with a damp cloth.
No sooner had she spoken than the bedroom door burst open. Patrick Kennedy filled the doorway — a bear of a man, broad-shouldered and caked in mud, smelling like the very earth he’d been tilling.
“Did I miss it? Did it already happen?” he asked, breathless.
“No, it’s still coming,” said Katie. “But for the love of Saint Brigid, change those clothes before you make us all swoon from the stench.”
“I don’t care about the smell,” Shannon gasped. “Just stay here, Patrick. I need you.”
Patrick knelt beside her. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, lass. I’ve been praying this little one takes his first breath.”
Of Shannon’s eleven births, only four daughters had survived. Seven little souls had been born silent.
“Push, Shannon, push!” Katie commanded, her voice steady as a battle cry.
“Oh Lord above—it’s coming! It feels like it’s tearing me in two!” Shannon cried, gripping Patrick’s hand so tightly that his knuckles went white.
“Holy Christ, woman, you’re crushing my hand!” he yelped, trying to pull away.
“Be happy she’s not holding your testicles, Patrick,” quipped Katie without missing a beat. “One more good push now—give it all you’ve got!”
With a final, primal scream, Shannon bore down, and a slick, silent infant slid into Katie’s hands.
“It’s a boy,” Katie whispered, but her voice lacked joy.
“Is he breathing?” Shannon asked, her voice trembling.
Katie said nothing. She rubbed the baby’s back. No cry. She blew softly against his lips.
Nothing.
Patrick’s face hardened, and he noticed the stillness outside looming over the house. He snatched the baby from her hands, the cord still pulsing faintly between mother and son. Holding the child by the ankles, he slapped his tiny backside—once, twice—until a sharp crack filled the room.
“Breathe, my son! Breathe, Goddammit!”
And then—a miracle.
“Waaahhh!”
The cry was small, hoarse, but alive.
Shannon collapsed back into the bed, sobbing with relief. Katie wrapped the newborn in a towel and placed him in her mother’s arms.
“Patrick, you have a son,” Shannon whispered through tears.
Patrick’s face split into a grin as wide as the Illinois plains. “I have a son. I have a son!” He burst from the room, muddy boots thudding across the floorboards as he raced out into the open field. Under the gray sky, he danced a clumsy jig, shouting to the heavens, “I have a son! Me, Patrick James Kennedy, have a son!” His laughter broke into tears as his four daughters came running from the porch.
“Daddy, it’s a boy? We have a baby brother?” asked nine-year-old Mary-Francis, her freckles bright against her pale skin.
“Yes, lass,” Patrick said, pulling her close. “You’ve a brother at last.”
“I’m so happy, Father! Can I take him for a walk?” piped red-haired Mary-Katherine.
Patrick chuckled. “Walk him? He’s not a pup, child, and he’s only been on this earth for minutes!”
“Then I’ll put him in my doll buggy and take him to the pigsty,” she offered brightly.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Patrick barked. “He’s not a toy, and if I hear you so much as think of it, I’ll tan your hide. Understand?”
“Yes, Father,” she said meekly. But as she turned to her sister, she whispered, “I’ll ask Mama. She’ll say yes.”
Back in the bedroom, Shannon cradled the tiny bundle as Patrick took a seat beside her, his massive hand gently brushing the baby’s cheek.
“Look at what you’ve done, my darling,” he murmured, his eyes glistening. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Shannon said, smiling faintly.
“Don’t you go encouraging him, Shannon Kennedy,” Katie warned as she cleaned up the room.
“You need rest, and he needs to keep his dirty paws to himself.”
Patrick grinned. “Aye, I’ll wait a month.”
Katie smirked. “A month, is it? That’s for when the child’s a girl. You’ll wait two years for a boy.”
“Two years?! The McMahons didn’t wait that long!”
“Then perhaps the Lord will forgive your impatience when you’re as fruitful as the McMahons,” Katie shot back.
Shannon laughed weakly. “We’ve four Marys already, Patrick. Don’t you dare start naming sons after yourself.”
Patrick puffed his chest. “What’s wrong with Patrick Junior? Or Patrick the Second? Or maybe even Jesus!”
“Jesus?” Shannon scoffed. “The poor lad’ll think we’re forever yelling at him every time we stub a toe.”
Katie cackled. “He’s right about one thing, though—you’ve run out of Marys. Maybe name this one Shannon, after his mother.”
Patrick recoiled. “Shannon? For a boy? He’ll be scrappin’ his way through school by the time he’s six.”
“And that’ll make him all the stronger,” Shannon replied. “But fine, if you hate it so, let’s choose a name that’s his alone. What about... Jonathan?”
Patrick considered the name, rolling it over like a smooth stone. “Jonathan,” he repeated slowly. “Strong. Steady. A name that’ll command respect. Never Johnny, never John. Always Jonathan.”
“Agreed,” Shannon said softly, gazing down at the infant. “Welcome home, Jonathan Michael Kennedy. We’ve been waiting for you a very long time.”