Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

  Never again.

  His gaze zeroed in on her lips.

  Kissable—damned kissable—if he’d been of the mind to kiss her, which he wasn’t, no matter that his jeans had suddenly shrunk about two sizes around his groin.

  Distance. That was the key. Lay low, stay one step ahead and stop looking.

  Because Winnie Becker with her flame-colored hair, lush curves and cherry-red lips could make the purest man think lustful thoughts. And Trace had always been a few sins past pure.

  “DID HE SAY where he might be going?” Winnie gave up her visual search and focused on Little Jim who was still very much focused on her.

  He winked. “Nope.”

  “Maybe he’s headed back to the ranch.” Winnie took another look around, her gaze going to the stack of feed sacks and the faint outline of… She blinked. Nothing. Yet she could have sworn she’d seen a shadow at the edge of one of the sacks a few moments ago. She stared harder.

  Hmm… nothing.

  Just a feeling, an awareness that rolled over her, leaving a path of tingling nerves and fluttering hormones and a distinct feeling that someone was, indeed, watching her.

  “…could go out for Mexican. Or Italian. Or Chinese. Whatever you want.”

  Her gaze swiveled back to Little Jim.

  He was the only person in the room, the only possible cause for the sudden urge to finger comb her hair and check her reflection in the cracked mirror hanging behind the counter.

  Little Jim?

  Her gaze swept him, from his baseball cap, down blue jean overalls and a white sleeveless T-shirt. More Farmer’s Almanac than GQ. Not the sort to make a woman orgasmic at first glance, and he didn’t look half as good as the men shown in the last Five B’s video, “B stands for Bedroom Know-how,” which she’d taken a sneak peek at last night.

  Even so, she couldn’t deny the strange fluttering in her stomach. Her heightened nerves. Her aching nipples and tingling thighs and… Boy, it was hot in here.

  “So,” he prodded as she tugged at the neckline of her sweater, “what’ll it be?”

  You, me, a bale of hay and a can of whipped cream—Not!

  She forced the crazy thoughts aside and let loose a shaky breath. “The only thing I’m up for right now is a really good plumber. My pipes are clogged.” She regretted the words the minute they left her mouth.

  “Well, well.” A gleam lit his eyes. “It’s your lucky day, sugar lips, ’cause I’m what you might call an expert when it comes to unclogging pipes.” He grabbed her hand and hauled her around the counter. “Come on out back and I’ll personally introduce you to Big Jim and the twins.”

  “OHHHHHH! AHHHHH! Big Jim, that feels sooo good.”

  “All in a day’s work,” came the man’s deep, satisfied drawl.

  Winnie pulled her hand from the stream of warm water, turned off the bathroom faucet and smiled up at Big Jim Montgomery, who, much to her relief, had turned out to be Little Jim’s father rather than a certain piece of his anatomy. Big Jim was also the best plumber in Nostalgia. The twins, his two identical eighteen-year-old sons, served as his apprentices.

  “I mean it.” Winnie dried off her hands. “You’re a prince among men.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “A king.”

  “That, too.”

  “My hero.”

  “Ditto. Here’s my bill, little lady.”

  Winnie took the invoice and thanked the Powers That Be. Things were finally coming together. Not killing Little Jim on the spot had been the best decision she’d ever made. While he might be obnoxious, he knew every repairman in town and by the close of business Wednesday, he’d hooked her up with everyone she needed to make Disaster Central liveable. Thursday, she’d had the tree removed from her living room. Today she had warm running water—

  The thought stalled as her gaze zeroed in on the amount.

  “Two thousand dollars?”

  “Now, now. Don’t get all mushy again. I give every new resident a five percent discount.” He started gathering up his tools. “Standard procedure.”

  “Two thousand dollars? To fix a sink?”

  “And a bathtub and the toilet. All your pipes were plugged, not to mention there was no main pipe on account of whoever pulled that tree out of your living room ripped up roots and the connection from the water tank outside.”

  “But this is outrageous.”

  “And then there’s the water tank itself. I got one word for you—corrosion. Not a plumber’s friend.”

  “It’s ridiculous.”

  “And that total includes the first aid kit and the rabies shots for Max and Matt. Damnedest thing. Never seen a bird attack anybody just for stepping up onto the front porch. Now dogs, that’s another story. And skunks.”

  She shook her head, her gaze flying over the figures. “Crazy.”

  “And armadillos. Vengeful creatures when they want to be.”

  “But I don’t have an extra two thousand dollars.” The sad state of the house was quickly draining her stash of cash, and she hadn’t even started a job search.

  “That’s two thousand and Fifteen dollars.” Big Jim snatched the invoice from her hand and scribbled another amount. “Forgot to add the iodine. Went through two bottles for Matt’s arm, and one for Max on the way to get the rabies shots.”

  “But I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “’Course you don’t. I don’t expect you’d be keeping that amount of cash on you. Though, come to think of it, Myrtle Higgins stuffed an entire mattress with dollar bills. She ain’t much for the fiduciary system.” He pulled on his cap. “First thing Monday will be fine. I have to get back out here and finish the toilet then anyway—that’s included in the bill, by the way. Rotted S pipe. So make sure you don’t flush.”

  Concern over the bill gave way to a vision of Winnie, a racoon and a pitch-black outhouse. “Can’t you fix it now? Replace the S pipe and whatever else?”

  “No can do.” Big Jim disappeared through the door and headed out to his truck.

  “Why not?” She turned pleading eyes to one of the twin boys busily packing up a toolbox. “You don’t have the part?”

  “Don’t have the time,” Matt told her as he slammed the lid shut.

  “It’s neady six,” Max added.

  “So?”

  “Annual Firehouse Christmas Party at seven sharp,” Matt explained. “Everybody in town’ll be there. It’s a Nostalgia tradition. Kids from all over the county are invited to visit with Santa. The town donates a mess of Christmas gifts and brings all kinds of home cooking. Everything from Mary Sue Jackson’s meat loaf, to Jenny Montgomery’s beer-battered onion rings, to old lady Willaby’s pickled pigs’ feet. Can’t get in the door without a dish.”

  Flushing, a small voice reminded her as she followed Big Jim and the twins outside. Say something.

  “Everybody, as in everybody?”

  “Whole town,” Big Jim called out as he slid into the truck and gunned the engine.

  She watched as the truck pulled away and stifled the urge to run after it. So she couldn’t flush. Flushing was a tad overrated. Noisy. Wet. The outhouse wasn’t that bad.

  Okay, it was bad, but she had more important things to worry about.

  Her aching feet.

  A stubborn bird.

  An outrageous plumbing bill.

  The fact that she still didn’t have a job.

  But more importantly, Winnie had to worry over what sort of dish she could scrounge up in the next half hour. Chances were the good people of Nostalgia wouldn’t consider nuked Skinny Ginny De-Lite Dinners as home cooking, and that’s all she’d stocked up on since D-day—the beginning of her dreaded diet.

  Her gaze shifted to what was left of the box of goodies Nina had packed for her. Brownies. Fudge. Pumpkin bread. Apple tarts. Hey, it wasn’t pickled pigs’ feet, but it would do.

  THE TOWN’S FIRE STATION and part-time bingo hall sat at the heart of Nostalgia’s business di
strict, right between the beauty parlor and the five-and-dime, both of which had closed up shop early in anticipation of the night ahead. Red and green lights blazed from the two-story building, while a life-sized mechanical Santa, complete with cowboy boots and a Stetson, tipped his hat at the people filtering into the place.

  Winnie took a deep breath, said a prayer that she didn’t split the skintight black skirt currently riding her not-so-slim thighs, and walked inside.

  A fiftyish brunette wearing a Christmas sweater, complete with glass ornament earrings and a Rudolph pin, greeted her at the door.

  “Welcome to Nostalgia, sugar. I’m Harriet Blinn, the mayor and wife of the town’s fire chief.” She took the platter of goodies from Winnie. “That’s my Walter right over there.” She pointed to a man dressed like a leprechaun. Dutifully, he handed presents to a smiling Santa Claus who did his duty with an eager line of children. “The costume shop over in Willard is the only one for fifty miles. Somebody cleaned them out of Christmas, so it was either Halloween or St. Paddy’s Day—Hey, Mort! Where you been keeping yourself?” A few words, and her attention shifted back to Winnie. “Now where was I? Yes, we’re so glad to have you—hey, there, Jacob!” Her gaze bounced back to Winnie. “I have to tell you, it’s about high time someone set up house out at old Ezra’s place—Jeanine Shriver, if you aren’t a sight with that new hairdo! A mess,” she said to Winnie.

  “It looks kind of nice to me.” A little big, but then most of the hairdos in attendance were.

  “Ezra’s place? No, no, it’s falling down. Though I did hear you got that tree uprooted—Connie Mae Walters! If you don’t make the prettiest blonde, then I don’t know who does! Now, you just make yourself at home, dear,” she said to Winnie. “And if you need anything, you just holler—Martha Sue Willaby, you come on over here right this minute and say hi!”

  “Actually, I’m looking for Trace Honeycutt. Is he here yet?”

  “Why, of course—Jackson Montgomery Mc-Clure, you handsome devil!”

  “Where is he?” Winnie asked as Harriet’s attention ping-ponged back to her.

  “Why, right over—Eli Nichols, you old coot!”

  “Right over…?” Winnie expected something specific like, right over by the punch bowl, or right over near the band, or right over by the men’s room. Instead, she got a quick, “Right over yonder,” before Harriet turned to grab an incoming Jell-O mold and shake hands with the owner.

  Over yonder.

  Real specific.

  Winnie stared at the other half of the room where Harriet’s leprechaun shuffled kids between the pile of presents and Santa. Old St. Nick wiped the tears of a frightened five-year-old, handed her a candy cane and reached for the next child.

  Speaking of tears… Winnie blinked and wiped at the moisture that squeezed from her left eye, still irritated from a vicious encounter with her new mascara wand. This vixen business had turned out to be much tougher than she’d ever imagined.

  “Hey, you made it.” One of Big Jim’s twins greeted her.

  “You said everybody, so here I am.”

  “Glad to have you.” He scanned the room. “Hey, you seen a little gal about so high? Blond hair? Blue eyes? Name’s Lacey Mae Langford. Boris here,” he indicated the Paul Bunyan look-alike standing next to him, “has been looking everywhere for her.”

  “Her pa’s here,” Boris said, “but I’ve nearly turned this place inside out and I can’t find hide nor hair of her.”

  “Maybe you should try over yonder.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  It had to be a code. Something the kids probably learned in school. Reading, writing, and Texas directions.

  “Thanks so much for getting rid of him.” The compliment came from a large potted pine draped in red tinsel edging one of four large buffet tables. “I’ve been hiding back here so long, I’m growing roots. Wow,” the voice rushed on, “I just love your sweater. And those earrings, and that lipstick. You can’t get good lipstick around here.”

  “Uh, thanks.” Winnie had yet to meet a potted pine that needed lipstick, but it took all kinds.

  “Is that your natural hair? I could never get mine to curl like that. See? It’s as straight as a board.” A blond head ducked from behind a cluster of pine needles to reveal a curtain of straight, lustrous hair. Baby-blue eyes stared back at her.

  “Lacey Mae?”

  “Guilty.” The woman stepped free, her gaze pushing past Winnie to make sure the coast was clear. She held up a plate piled high with fudge. “Want some? Chocolate and more chocolate. Guaranteed to make the evening more pleasant.”

  “I take it you’re not having a good time.”

  “I’d rather be nailing horseshoes onto my feet.” Lacey Mae popped an entire square of fudge into her mouth and brightened. “Say, your hair really is gorgeous. You must have a dynamite hairdresser wherever you’re from. Boston, is it? That’s what folks are saying.”

  “I was actually born in Florida, then I moved to North Carolina. Then Mississippi and Hawaii and Michigan and… Let’s just say I’ve lived in forty-two out of fifty states, but I don’t really count those as home. I’ve lived in Boston for the past eight years.”

  “And you left to come here?” Lacey Mae popped another candy into her mouth. “Lordy, honey, why?”

  Winnie shrugged. “Boston’s not that great. There’s traffic and smog and miles of concrete.”

  “And movie theaters and pizza parlors and malls,” Lacey Mae said reverently. “I’d kill to live within driving distance of a real mall.”

  “I never really thought of it like that before.” A wave of melancholy swept through her. “I think I will have a piece of fudge. Maybe two.”

  “Try three. Then after this, we’ll sneak over and hit the eggnog table. The stuff in the red bowl is Myrtle Watkins’ special recipe. Guaranteed to make you forget all your troubles and put hair on your legs.”

  “Sounds tempting.” Not. She hadn’t waxed in places only her gynecologist had seen to go ruining it all now. “Listen, I’d love to stay and chat, but—”

  “Oh, goody,” Lacey squealed. “Why, I know everybody in town. That’s Etta Mae Wilkins. She owns the Cut-N-Curl. And Susie Chadwick who just came back from Austin and her fifth boob job. And there’s Shermin. He’s president of First Nostalgia and the smartest man in town.”

  Winnie found herself staring at a carbon copy of Arthur—slick hair, conservative brown suit, black wire-rimmed glasses that screamed “geek”. As if he sensed them, he made a beeline their way.

  “Hey, Lacey.”

  Surprisingly Lacey didn’t take cover behind the pine. “Hey, Shermin.”

  When neither acknowledged her, Winnie put her hand forward. “I’m Winnie Becker. Lacey tells me you run the bank.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I know this probably isn’t the time, but I’d really like to talk to you about a loan. I just moved into Ezra Honeycutt’s old place and I’ve got a hole the size of Texas in my ceiling.”

  “Sure. Come in tomorrow and we’ll talk, but make sure you get in before eleven. I make house calls after that. Some of my customers can’t get in personally to do their banking, so I take the banking to them.”

  “How neighborly.”

  “That’s our motto at First Nostalgia. Say, Lacey, would you like to get some punch?”

  “Sure. Winnie, you want to come?”

  “No thanks. You two go on. I need to find Trace Honeycutt.”

  “Trace?” Lacey smiled, her blue eyes twinkling. “You’re looking for Trace? Why, he’s…” Lacey’s voice faded into a fearful, “Oh, no.”

  “Lacey Mae Langford! There you are, girl.” A large man with silvery hair and deeply tanned skin rushed toward them, Boris in tow.

  “Uh, hi, Daddy.” Lacey beamed at the old man. “Have you tried the double peanut butter fudge?”

  “Later, honey. Boris, here,” he clapped the huge man on his back, “has been looking everywhere for you. They’re ab
out to start the tobacco spit, and he’s a shoe-in to win.”

  “That’s tight.” Boris grinned. “And I need my best girl for good luck.”

  “But Shermin and I—”

  “Get lost, Shermin,” Boris snapped. He didn’t so much as glance at the man as he reached for Lacey’s hand. “Come on. Spit-off’s in thirty seconds.”

  “It was great to meet you.” Lacey shoved her fudge at Winnie as Boris pulled her forward. “Sorry, Shermin.”

  “What about Trace?” Winnie called after them.

  “He’s right over yonder!” Lacey said before the crowd swallowed her up.

  “Over yonder?” She turned to Shermin who stared after Lacey, a longing in his eyes.

  “Right over yonder,” he said before he left Winnie standing by herself.

  It was a conspiracy.

  She stared down at Lacey’s plate. Her stomach grumbled, not nearly satisfied with two pieces of fudge and a Skinny Ginny dinner barely an hour ago. You’ll hate yourself in the morning.

  True enough, but she wasn’t likely to make it until morning if she didn’t keep her strength up. She popped another piece into her mouth and nearly spit it back out when two large hands gripped her shoulders.

  “Cover me!”

  Big Jim’s voice boomed in her ears as he spun her around and wedged himself between Winnie, the potted pine and the buffet.

  “Just stand right there.” He reached for a plate and picked a fight with a stubborn turkey leg. “And keep your eyes on the ladies room.”

  “Ladies room?” She peered through a sea of big hair and cowboy hats.