Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

“Sure it does. If he looks awful, there’s a fifty percent chance that your kids will look the same.”

  “Maybe he’s not that bad.”

  “Shy? Not good at meeting people? Smacks of ugliness to me.”

  “I’m not going to reproduce with the guy. I’m just going to play checkers.” At Nina’s questioning stare, Winnie added, “Ezra says that’s Trace’s favorite game. I agreed to look him up and invite him over for checkers when I get into town.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  That’s exactly what Winnie had thought

  And exactly why she’d agreed to befriend Trace Honeycutt and play a few token games of checkers with him.

  She eyed the second drawer filled with white bras. No lace or satin or anything remotely slinky. Just wide straps, lots of hooks and enough cup to slingshot a few dozen pesty birds. If there was one thing Winnie understood, it was boring.

  In the past, she’d never had the desire to learn makeup and clothes, never been entranced by a tube of lipstick or gone gaga over a certain blouse. Constant travel and a dozen different schools courtesy of Uncle Sam had kept her from bonding with other girls her age. She’d been so comfortable with her brother’s hand-me-down sweats and her no-fuss ponytail, that she’d never made the most of her feminine attributes.

  No more.

  While she might have agreed to play a few token games of checkers with boring Trace Honeycutt, the rest of her time was going to be spent living life. Really living. She was through sitting and waiting for the reliable hubby, the house in the suburbs, and the halfdozen adorable children. She wanted to broaden her horizons, explore her options, reach her full potential.

  She wanted vivacious, bold, exciting—while she was still young enough to enjoy it.

  “I have to do this.” She shoved aside the last of the boxes and sat down on the bed. “I need to.”

  “In that case—” Nina blinked away her own tears and reached for a white bakery box, a neon pink NINA printed across the lid “—I brought these from the bakery. My last-minute attempt to bribe you into staying.”

  “Your brownies are good, but not that good.” Winnie sank her teeth into thick, chewy chocolate. Heaven exploded on her tongue and she groaned. “On second thought…”

  “Forget it. You’re going.”

  “I thought you wanted me to stay.”

  “I do, but you need to go and what kind of a friend would I be if I stood in your way?” Nina retrieved a brownie for herself and held it up in the air. “Here’s to my best friend. May you be happy, healthy, find the man of your dreams, enjoy lots of wedded bliss and give me plenty of godchildren.”

  “Ditto,” she said, although she was personally only interested in the first two.

  While Winnie had nothing against men, she was no longer hanging her hopes and dreams on finding the man. If there even was such a thing, and after eight years and nothing to show for it but a few extra deductions on her 1040, she wasn’t placing any bets.

  Never again was she settling for just one man. From here on out, she intended to live life as a single, bold, vivacious, exciting woman who played the field, who flirted and dated and enjoyed men.

  The last thing Winnie wanted was to settle down.

  “YOU DID WHAT?” Trace Honeycutt pulled off his Stetson, mopped the perspiration from his face, and tried to concentrate on the call which had pulled him into the bunkhouse, away from the corral, Stomping Sonny and the best ride he’d had in the six months he’d been training at the Broken Heart Ranch.

  “I won you a woman,” declared the old man on the other end of the phone. “You shoulda seen me. I seen them double sixes coming down and, barn, I dominoed. It was a damned historic event, that’s what it was!”

  “If I didn’t know better,” Trace told Ezra, “I’d bet money you just said you won me a woman.” But, of course, he knew better.

  Sure, Ezra Honeycutt—ex-rodeo cowboy and the most stubborn, know-it-all eighty-five year old ever to rope cows or hustle dominoes at a Houston retirement ranch—had, in the past, won him wrestling tickets, the deed to a dried-up oil well and the bill of sale on an authentic corn hoe. Not that Trace grew corn, or had, in his thirty-five years, seen a hoe used to harvest it.

  A new pair of alligator boots, a saddle, or even a family of full-blooded hogs—none of the above would have surprised him. But these were the nineties. The nineteen-nineties, just a hair shy of the millennium. No way could Ezra have won a real flesh and blood—

  “Woman,” the old man’s voice confirmed the outrageous thought. “You heard me. I don’t got papers or nothin’, but I did have Jasper put it in writing so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “A woman?”

  “I know, I know. Too good to be true, but it’s the God’s honest. She’s all yours. So what do you think?”

  “Have you and Mr. Jacobs been making that apple cider with his grandson’s chemistry set?”

  “I ain’t touched a glass in weeks, not that I ain’t been tempted with a grandson as ornery as you. I’ve set you up on five dates in the past few months, and I’ll be damned if you ain’t messed up every single one of them. If I wasn’t the optimistic sonofagun I am, I’m liable to think you did it on purpose.”

  And how. “I don’t need you fixing me up, Gramps.” He cradled the cordless phone with his shoulder and pulled off his gloves.

  “’Course you don’t. Not anymore. Why, she’s perfect.”

  “There is no she.”

  “Sure there is. I won her, and you better not go off and pretend to be allergic to her like you did with that nice little clerk at the Piggly Wiggly last month…”

  How did he know?

  “…treat her right,” Ezra went on. “She’s a good girl and she’s all yours, son.”

  “She is not mine.” Trace reached for his belt buckle.

  “But you ain’t even seen her.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Or talked to her.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Or tasted her cooking. She sends old Jasper the best brownies I ever tast—”

  “Forget it.”

  “Now, now, you ain’t got to shout. It’s my eyes the doc’s been buggin’ me about, not my hearing. Bifocals,” the old man muttered. “As if I need any help. Why, my eyesight’s 20/20.”

  “Speaking of eyesight,” Trace said as he slid his belt free and started unbuttoning his shirt, “did you get the glasses?”

  “Right here in my pocket.”

  “Shouldn’t they be on your face?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the old man grumbled, obviously unhappy to have the conversation take a different turn. “Listen here, she comes from good stock. Her old grandpa’s ex-navy, but he’s as tough as any rodeo cowboy. Not as tough as yours truly, mind you, but nobody’s per—”

  “The glasses, Gramps,” Trace cut in, determined not to be distracted when it came to his grandpa’s health. “You’re supposed to be wearing them.”

  “Goshdangit, boy. A man makes an honest mistake, and suddenly, he’s an invalid.”

  “You propositioned Mrs. Winston’s sewing mannequin.”

  “She looked like a woman.”

  “To a man who needs glasses.”

  “Even felt like one.”

  “I’m not going near that one.”

  “All’s I’m saying is, it could’ve happened to any man.”

  “Wear the glasses.” Trace’s warning met with a string of curses before his grandpa seemed to come to some monumental decision. “I’ll wear the danged things, not that I really need to, mind you. But I’m all for sacrificing my own happiness to keep my only grandson happy. Why, there ain’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for you, boy. ’Cause I know in my heart that you’d do the same for your old grandpa—your really old grandpa. Which is why I know you’re going to accept my gift rather than hurt my feelings. Merry Christmas, boy!”

  Trace fished his shirt out of his jeans and walked toward the bathroom and a nice, hot shower.


  “I still can’t believe you actually bet on a woman.”

  “Jasper offered up his brand-spankin’ new John Deere,” Ezra explained. “He won it off Maxwell Peterson last week, but I told him straight out, my Trace don’t need a tractor ’cause he ain’t settled down. Yet. I says to him, ‘Jasper, my boy’s got five championships under his belt, a nice, solid bank account, everything a man could want, except a nice piece of land, a few head of cattle and a good—’”

  “—woman.”

  “Glad to hear you finally admit it Darlene says it’s better to verbalize your shortcomings. Tell it like it is.”

  “Darlene?”

  “The ladies’ bingo caller. Her son’s one of them psychologists. He’s got a mess of diplomas on his wall. Anyhow, I been tellin’ Darlene all about my—er, your problem.”

  “Gramps, I don’t have a problem.”

  “You’re thirty-five, for pity’s sake, and still traipsing from rodeo to rodeo.”

  “I haven’t traipsed for six months.” And he had the crying muscles to prove it. Six months off the circuit, half of that spent flat on his back recovering from that last ride in Vegas, and he felt as if he’d been laid up for years. He throbbed. He ached. He creaked. But he sure as hell didn’t traipse.

  “You’re heading up to Denver and the National Western Stock Show in three weeks,” Ezra said accusingly, “and you sure as shootin’ will probably win, then it’ll be off to Houston and back to living out of your suitcase. I’m telling you, time’s running out, boy.”

  “Thirty-five isn’t old.”

  “But eighty-five is,” the old man grumbled. At least, that’s what Trace thought he heard, but then Ezra growled and snapped, “You need to think about the future.”

  “I don’t need a woman.” He reached into the shower, switched on the knob and snatched his arm back when ice-cold water pelted him.

  “No, you need a wife.”

  “I already had a wife.”

  “Damn, boy, it’s been nearly two years. Crawl back into that saddle and take another ride.”

  But Trace was still recovering from the last one. Darla Louise Jenkins. Three-time running rodeo queen, four-time Horse and Hay centerfold, and the sort of woman who attracted men like a bare bulb drew june bugs, and she’d had a wall of Stetsons to prove it. Trace had meant his to be the last when he’d poured out his love for her—make that his lust At the time, however, he’d wanted her and she’d wanted him, and in the heat of the moment, it sure had felt like the big L.

  But the truth had finally hit home after ten rocky months when he’d stopped off at her trailer—they still hadn’t had a chance to find their own place—and found a black velvet Stetson hanging in the hallway next to Darla’s autographed picture of John Wayne. Then he’d opened the bedroom door and seen the owner, naked as the day he was born and just as scared, in bed with his wife.

  An image that had haunted him all the way to Vegas and the National Finals Rodeo.

  “Women are too damned distracting,” he told Ezra as he chucked his pants.

  “That ain’t what you used to say. Girls here, girls there, girls everywhere.”

  “I learned my lesson, and I’m not interested.”

  “Sure you are. Everything’s already set.”

  “Gramps, listen to me.” He leaned in and adjusted the water temperature. “I don’t want a woman.” He’d had enough to last him a lifetime and then some. “I’m riding soon. I need to stay focused and I don’t need you fixing me up.”

  “I donated my old place,” Ezra went on. “Couldn’t bring myself to sell it when I moved here to Houston, so I boarded it up. Cain’t think of a more worthy cause to open the place back up again than my future great-grandbabies.”

  “Great-grandbabies? No way. You just tell Jasper Becker that you were kidding, that you don’t want his granddaughter, not that any woman in her right mind would go along with such a ridiculous agreement.”

  “She’s already on her way.”

  “What?”

  “Actually… What time is it, son?”

  “Put your glasses on and find out.”

  That comment met with a load of grumbling about ungrateful grandchildren before the sound grew muffled as a hand covered the receiver.

  A few seconds later, Trace heard Ezra’s muted voice. “Thank you, Livie, darlin’. Now,” the old man said, his voice loud and clear once again. “It’s nearly noon. I’d say it’s definitely your lucky day. She ain’t on her way.”

  “Thank God.”

  “She’s already there.”

  2

  WINNIE STOOD in the center of her new house, a huge box of going-away goodies from Nina cradled in her arms, and sighed. Her new, exciting life was definitely off to a good start.

  Unless, of course, you counted the flat tire she’d had just outside of town, or the apple truck that had dumped half its load on the hood of her Honda Civic, or the two wrong turns she’d taken trying to find her quaint new home.

  Or the fact that the place was more crude than quaint, with a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in the living room ceiling, water stains on the Sheetrock and a family of squirrels camping out in the shell of what had once been the kitchen stove.

  But Winnie wasn’t counting those things. She was embracing life, enjoying the twists and turns, the ups and downs, and making the most of every moment thanks to the Five B’s to Femininity—an instructional video series guaranteed to help even the homeliest woman “B” all she could be. According to video one, “B for Brain Power,” being a vixen was first and foremost a state of mind. It was also beauty, big hair, boobs and bedroom know-how, but Winnie hadn’t made it that far in the series. Yet.

  One B at a time.

  Embracing her newfound optimism, she’d changed her first flat tire and left the apple spill with a crate of free fruit and five bucks in her pocket for a car wash. The two wrong turns had given her the opportunity to tour the area where she was going to make a fresh start.

  As for the house… She set the box of goodies on a rickety table and glanced overhead at the gaping hole. The sun peeked down through the branches of the intruding tree. At least it wasn’t rain—

  The thought stalled as a drop of wetness hit her cheek. A thick wetness. Warm. Gooey… Ugh.

  Her gaze skittered to the blackbird perched on one of the tree branches. Beady eyes stared down at her a second before another splat rained on her—Yikes.

  Winnie took a deep breath and tried to still her pounding heart. That was close. Another inch and—splat.

  She grabbed a fallen tree branch and held it threateningly. Not that she would actually hit the little devil. Unless he pooped again. A woman, especially one with half her savings invested in a new, vixen-like wardrobe, could only take so much.

  “We can do this easy, or we can do it rough. Your choice.”

  The comment met with a loud squawk and another splat.

  A sticky mustard-colored mess oozed over the toe of her new red pump. “That’s it, buddy. This is war.”

  WAGING WAR without a phone was hard work, she decided as she sat on the porch an hour later and waited for reinforcements.

  Winnie had been forced to drive a mile to her nearest neighbor, eighty-something-year-old Essie Calico, who’d been right in the middle of a Discovery Channel special on bird-watching and hadn’t been too thrilled about being disturbed. Winnie had had to bribe the old woman with some of Nina’s deluxe chocolate macadamia nut cookies. Then she’d had to double the offer in order to secure a second phone call—to the nursing home just to make sure things were going okay.

  On the way back, she’d taken a wrong turn and gotten lost for fifteen minutes. Fifteen long minutes, with her stomach growling its loss of all those chocolate macadamia cookies and her face itching from all the new foundation and powder she’d caked on that morning.

  If she could just wipe off a smidgen…

  “No.” She was doing this. She wanted to do it and once she p
erfected the beauty video, all this makeup stuff would be a piece of cake.

  Mmm…cake.

  She clenched her fingers inches shy of the going-away goodie box and retrieved her new compact from her purse. She’d retouch… One look and she snapped the compact closed. Everything was brighter, heavier and a lot more orange out here in the daylight. And she could have sworn she’d stayed in the lines when she’d put on the blasted stuff that morning—

  The honk of a horn shattered the thought.

  Winnie turned her attention to the hot pink van, a giant pair of mouse ears perched on top, that braked to a stop in her gravel drive.

  The van door opened and out stepped Barbie—a special edition, red-overall-clad Exterminator Barbie. She had blond hair, blue eyes, a fumigating pack strapped to her back and a nozzle gun protruding from the utility belt strapped around her tiny waist.

  “I’m sorry to call you out on a Saturday,” Winnie told Bea of Bea’s Bug Busters, the one and only pest control company listed in all five of Nostalgia’s yellow pages. It seemed Grandpa Jasper had been a little off on his claim that Nostalgia was a Houston in the making.

  Way, way off.

  “So,” Bea said as she reached the porch. “Where is the offending rodent?”

  “It’s not exactly a rodent.”

  “What exactly is it?”

  “A blackbird. Can you get rid of him?”

  Bea pointed to the logo on the front of her overalls: “Sauce ‘em or Toss ’em.” “Just call me the Terminator.”

  “I don’t want him terminated. I just want him moved.”

  “So you’re interested in Bea’s relocation plan?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Then toss ’im it is, and for a ten percent discount. I’m running a Christmas special.” Bea slid the gun nozzle back into her holster and reached into the front pocket of her overalls. She flicked the lid off a tube of lipstick and, without benefit of treasure map or mirror, touched up her lips with clean, perfect strokes.

  Winnie was in awe.

  Bea capped the lipstick, shoved it back home and grabbed the small net hanging from her opposite hip. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” she said, and walked into the house.