A Slow Dance Holiday

by Carolyn Brown

  “I’m thirty as of last October, so you’re right, and I was blushing because of what Chigger said about her name.” She told him exactly what the woman had said.

  He turned his back to the bar and laughed so hard that he had to wipe his cheeks with the bar rag hanging out of his hip pocket. “That woman is a hoot. I bet she could tell tales that would fry Lucifer’s eyeballs right out of his head if she’ll tell you that kind of stuff the first time you meet her.”

  “Amen to that,” Jorja said. “And she also said we’re going to have a full house because people are bored with this weather, and I get the impression this is kind of like that old television show Cheers, where folks come to drink, visit, and eat burgers.”

  “Where everybody knows your name,” Cameron singsonged. “And maybe in a few weeks we’ll know all of them by name.”

  “Bet we don’t forget Chigger, even for a minute, though, will we?” she said as the door opened, and half a dozen cowboys came inside. They didn’t even slow down but hurried across the floor to claim the barstools. The two dogs made another race through the bar, their antlers now hanging off to the side.

  “It’s colder’n a mother-in-law’s kiss out there,” one of the cowboys said as he hung his coat on the back of his barstool. “Luke’s on his way to get them dogs of his. He shouldn’t have named them Miller and Coors if he didn’t want them to beg for beer every time they get out of their pen. I’ll have an order of french fries and a Coors in a can. I heard Merle had turned the place over to some new owners. I’m Billy Bob Walters. Got me a little spread a few miles north of Mingus. Who are you, darlin’, and can I have the first dance of the evenin’ with you?”

  “I’m Jorja Jenks,” she answered, “and thank you for the offer, but rules say that we don’t dance with the customers.” She leaned over the counter and whispered. “That would make all the other folks jealous, and we wouldn’t ever get our work done back here.”

  Cameron bumped her with his hip. “What rules?” he whispered.

  “I’m making them up as we go,” she told him. “You already know the first one, and the second is that we don’t stop work to dance with customers.”

  “What if there’s only one customer in the Honky Tonk, and she’s really cute?” he asked.

  “From six to two we are working,” Jorja answered as she helped get bottles of beer from the refrigerator and set them on the bar. “If you want to dance with a bar bunny, then you have to wait until the doors are locked, and just so you know, if you want to keep one overnight, you can use the couch in the office or the floor in the bar. The apartment is off limits.”

  “Well, ain’t you the bossy one.” Cameron chuckled.

  “Been accused of it many times.” She nodded.

  Before either of them could say another word, the doors opened and every table was filled, folks were on the dance floor, and customers were lined up three deep at the bar asking for burgers, beers, and double shots. Jorja was kept busy at the grill, but from what she heard, it didn’t take a rocket-scientist genius to be a bartender. She could draw up a draft beer or take a longneck or can from the refrigerator. She could also pour a double shot of whiskey and even make a daiquiri or a margarita.

  “Hey, Red,” a cowboy with a deep drawl said above the normal noise. “You makin’ them burgers for me?” When she didn’t respond, he asked his question again.

  Jorja glanced over her shoulder.

  “You’re ’bout as cute as a newborn kitten. What’re you doin’ after you close this joint? Want to go look at the stars with me?” He grinned.

  He wasn’t a bad-looking guy—a little on the lanky side, and his hat had flattened his thin brown hair. He had a nice smile, but not one thing about him made her want to get out in the cold and look at the stars with him.

  “Sorry, I’ve already got a date.” She turned back to the grill. “And don’t call me Red. I hate that nickname.”

  The guy laughed, picked up the double shot of Gentleman Jack that he had ordered, and threw it back. In Jorja’s eyes, that alone was a sin and testimony that he was a wannabe cowboy—just a guy who got dressed up in jeans and boots to go to the Honky Tonk with hopes of getting lucky. The next morning, he would put on his dress slacks and go to work at a bank, a law firm, or maybe even an oil company. A real cowboy would sip Gentleman Jack. He would never act all tough and toss back such a smooth whiskey just to impress a woman.

  “What are you thinkin’ about?” Cameron asked. “You look like you could go to the apartment, get your gun, and shoot someone. I hope it’s not me.”

  “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” She managed a smile. “I was thinkin’ about wannabe cowboys.”

  “Is that something like a wannabe surfer?” He grinned back at her.

  “I imagine it’s pretty much the kind of same animal.” She put together four burger baskets. “Are you a surfer?”

  “Nope,” he answered as he drew up a pitcher of beer. “I love the sound of the ocean, but I’m a cowboy through and through. I lived in a trailer on my grandparents’ ranch in Florida. Little place north of Laguna Beach. I helped them out on my days off and in December and January when the bar was closed.”

  “I thought your grandparents lived here in Texas and were friends with Merle and my granny and grandpa,” she said.

  “That would be my dad’s parents. My parents and my maternal grandparents live in Florida. I’ve got lots and lots of family when you count up both sides.” He set the beer on the bar and turned around to pick up a bottle of Jim Beam. “Looks like you win the bet about this place being crowded tonight.”

  “Yep, it does,” she agreed. “See any pretty bar bunnies you intend to sweet-talk out of their tight-fittin’ jeans?”

  “Been too busy to look,” he said, “but when it clears out some, I’ll peek at what’s still left standing. Got to admit, that office is damn scary, and this floor looks pretty hard. I might just want to grab a shower and fall into bed. How about you? You going to celebrate our first night by picking out a cowboy and looking at the stars with him?”

  “Only if he gives an amazing foot rub and doesn’t even expect a kiss for it,” she said. “My feet will be singin’ the blues by two.”

  “Good luck with that.” Cameron jerked the towel from his hip pocket and wiped down the top of the shiny wooden bar on his way to the other end to where two new women had sat down.

  At midnight Chigger and Frankie waved goodbye to Cameron and Jorja. By one o’clock there were only a dozen folks left, and they were more interested in line dancing than in drinking or eating. Evidently, they knew exactly how to time the music because Alan Jackson’s “Good Time,” had just ended when the big clock on the wall above the door said it was 2:00 a.m.—closing time.

  “Good times is right.” Cameron followed the last of the customers to the door and locked it behind them. He went straight to the jukebox and plugged in a few coins. Then he rounded the end of the bar and held out a hand. “Miz Jorja, may I have this dance to celebrate our first night as partners?”

  She put her hand in his and let him lead her out to the dance floor. Merle Haggard began to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Lucky Star” when Cameron drew her close to his chest.

  Jorja laid her cheek against his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. The lyrics asked if the stars might send him love from where they were. After working together so smoothly for the last eight hours, she didn’t want him to find love and ruin their partnership.

  When the song ended, it started all over again. “This is one of my favorite songs,” Cameron whispered. “My granddad used to play it all the time. He had it on vinyl and eight-track both, and he and my grandmother would dance around the kitchen as it played. If they were here tonight, they’d close down the place by playing it at least twice. Besides, he’s the one who told me to follow my dream and move here.”

 
“Your dream has been to own a bar?” she asked.

  “Yep, and my own ranch. I reckon I can run both,” he answered.

  The song ended and she started to take a step back, but he tipped up her chin with his fist and looked deep into her eyes. She barely had time to moisten her lips with the tip of her tongue before he brushed a sweet kiss across her mouth.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  He pointed up at the mistletoe they were standing beneath. “Couldn’t waste that after all the trouble it was to get it hung just right, and also because Grandpa always ends the second dance by giving Grammy a kiss.” He grinned as he headed across the floor. “Let’s do cleanup in the morning. We’re both tired tonight.”

  “I want to tackle the office tomorrow.” She yawned.

  “We can do both.” He turned out the lights and held the door into their apartment open for her. “But honey, the desk in the office will take more than a day, so don’t get discouraged.”

  She shook a finger at him. “I told you not to call me endearments.”

  “Well, honey…” He dragged out the word in a deep southern drawl. “After a sweet little good-night kiss like that, I thought it would be all right.”

  She tried to keep from giggling, but she lost the battle. “All right, but that’s the only one and the only time.”

  “What if I kiss you again?” He raised an eyebrow and then winked.

  She held up a palm. “I’m not having this conversation tonight. I get first dibs on the shower.” She marched across the room and closed the bathroom door behind her. Any other time, she might have let the hot water beat down on her back for a half an hour, but not that night. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been awake past two o’clock in the morning and wondered if it was possible to fall asleep in the shower and drown.

  When she’d finished getting the smell of grilled onions and grease from her body and hair, she dried off, got dressed in flannel pajama bottoms and a faded T-shirt, and opened the door.

  “Your turn,” she said as she started across the floor.

  “Come look at this,” Cameron said. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

  “What?” she asked.

  In a couple of long strides, he went from the window to her side, took her hand in his, and turned out the lights in the apartment. “See what you missed by not going with that cowboy who wanted to take you out to see the stars?”

  The thick grove of mesquite trees behind the Honky Tonk glistened with snow. Ice crystals reflected the light of a quarter moon in a sky of deep-blue velvet. A couple of owls were sitting side by side on a branch. One pair of doves and then those two crazy dogs was just happenstance, but now two owls? The whole scene took her breath away. No artist or photographer could capture such a gorgeous, peaceful picture.

  “I didn’t miss a single thing,” she whispered. “That cowboy wouldn’t have wanted to look at the stars as much as he’d have wanted to do other things, and if I’d gone with him, I wouldn’t have seen those owls.”

  “Why are you whispering?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to scare them away until I have that scene memorized,” she answered.

  Cameron started humming the tune to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Lucky Star” as he drew her into his arms and two-stepped from the window all the way to her bed. “This cowboy just wanted to dance with you under the stars.” He took a step back and brought her hand to his lips. “Sleep tight, partner.”

  Jorja sat down on the bed with a thud. Twenty-four hours ago, she hadn’t even known her new co-owner was a guy, and he’d come close to sweeping her right off her feet in the last thirty minutes. She stood up and crawled beneath the covers. From her bed she had a clear picture out the window of twinkling stars dancing around the moon. She was humming the Merle Haggard tune as she drifted off to asleep.

  Chapter 4

  Jorja awoke on Tuesday morning to the smell of coffee and the sound of sizzling bacon drifting across the room. She heard laughter and voices outside, and when she opened her eyes, she saw tree limbs sparkling with diamonds. She blinked a few times before she realized that she was looking out the window across the room at the sun shining on the bare branches of a big pecan tree covered in ice. She threw back the covers, sat up in bed, and stretched.

  “Good mornin’.” Cameron crossed the room in a couple of long strides and offered her a mug full of steaming-hot coffee. “I tried to be quiet, but a couple of kids out there in the parking lot are building a snowman, and they don’t understand that we didn’t go to bed until after two o’clock.”

  She took the coffee from his hands. Two of everything—it had to be an omen. “I thought Mingus was a ghost town.”

  “Not quite. There’s still a bank and a post office and even a church north of town. Didn’t you do your research before you signed that deed?” He sat down on the end of the bed.

  She shot a dirty look his way, but he didn’t budge. “And all that means kids in the parking lot?”

  “Yep, and it means folks can still get their mail. They have a bank for their business, and a church to pray for a crop failure, which they might need, thanks to us.” He grinned.

  She took a sip of the coffee, black as sin and strong enough to heat up Lucifer’s pitchfork—just the way she liked it. “What do you mean by ‘thanks to us’? We don’t plant crops.”

  “No, but we provide the products for all the folks in this county and the one south of us that tend to make couples careless when they sow their wild oats on Saturday nights. They need a church to attend on Sunday so they can pray for a crop failure.” He chuckled, but still wasn’t sure she understood.

  “Where is this church?” she asked.

  “North of town,” he answered.

  She giggled. “Sounds about right. They come ‘down,’”—she put air quotes around the last word—“here south of town to sow those wild oats and go up”—she pointed toward the ceiling—“to the church to do their praying. My mama and daddy would be so proud of me if I attended services on Sunday.”

  “You’re funny”—he chuckled again—“but why would that make your parents proud of you? They do know you are now half owner of a bar, don’t they?”

  “Daddy is a preacher. Mama plays the piano for the services, and my sister, Abigail, teaches Sunday school.” She set her coffee on the floor and kicked free of the covers. “And no, they don’t know anything about the Honky Tonk. I’m not real sure how to tell them.”

  “Holy smokin’ crap!” Cameron gasped. “Should I expect your dad to show up here with a shotgun?”

  “I hope not.” She stood up and headed toward the bathroom. “If he does, I bet I outrun you, but you don’t have to worry for a little while. I have to tell them before Daddy’s anger melts all the snow and ice from Hurricane Mills to here.”

  “I didn’t think preachers had a temper.” He stood up and headed back to the kitchen area. “I’m making breakfast burritos. Want one?”

  “Nope,” she said from the bathroom doorway. “I want two. I’m starving.”

  She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Her curly hair was a fright. Every freckle seemed to shine, and her blue eyes looked as pale as her skin. Her mother, Paula, would be aghast at the very idea of Jorja letting anyone, including the stranger guy she was living with, see her looking like that. Not even Eli, the youth director she had been in a serious relationship with, had ever seen her looking so rugged.

  “I said two burritos,” she said. “Good God! What is the universe trying to tell me?” Again, she shrugged off the notion of omens and thought about Eli.

  He had been a good man, but he believed too strongly that a woman’s place was in the home and that the husband was the absolute head of the household. He had let her know that he might discuss things with his wife, but his decisions were final
and not to be questioned. She kept hoping he would change and figured he was praying hard that she would see the light—his light of course. Neither happened so they’d split up, much to her parents’ dismay.

  “Now I have to tell them I’m living with a bartender and own half of the Honky Tonk,” she muttered. “That ought to send them into shock. I just hope they don’t bring Eli and Abigail out here to do an intervention.”

  “Breakfast is ready,” Cameron called out.

  She took a deep breath, swung the bathroom door open, and crossed the floor to one of the chairs set at the small round table. “Thanks for cooking this morning. This looks good and smells even better.”

  “Peppers, onions, and a little salsa spice up the bacon and eggs. Just for the record, my parents are CEO Christians—that stands for Christmas and Easter Only—and they know that I’m the co-owner of this place. They were happy for me, but Dad still hopes that I’ll get into ranchin’ since that’s what both sides of my family do.” He sat down in the other chair and poured orange juice. “I’m glad Merle left the refrigerator and freezer in the bar stocked. We’ll have to buy food sometime this week for in here, but for now, we can live on what we can scrounge up.”

  She’d taken the first bite of her food when her phone rang, and the ringtone told her that it was her sister, Abigail, calling. She chewed fast, swallowed on her way to the chest of drawers where the phone was, and answered it on the fourth ring.

  “Good mornin’, Sis,” she said but her voice sounded hollow in her own ears.

  “Don’t you good-mornin’ me.” Abigail lit into her in her best older-sister mode, and her voice oozed with self-righteousness. “I called Granny this morning to see how she was doing, and she told me what you’ve done and where you are. I expect that you aren’t even coming home for the holidays, are you? You won’t even be here to see your nieces and nephews playing parts in the Christmas play this year, and…”