Fruitcakes and Other Leftovers & Christmas, Texas Style

by Lori Copeland

“Not thataway.” He pointed. “Thataway.”

  More big hair and cowboy hats.

  “See the sign right between that brown Resistol and that set of pigtails? Keep your eyes right there and let me know if you see Shirley.” He reached for a platter piled high with fried chicken.

  “Shirley?”

  “The missus.” Five drumsticks and he turned toward a platter of corn fritters. “Short. Round. Blue dress. Looks like a blue VW bug.” He reached for some deviled eggs. “Shirley sees me and life as I know it is over and done with. Though I can’t say as how it’s been that great since she joined Fanny Fighters.” He growled. “Forty-eight days and five hours of nothing but baked and broiled and low fat. I’m wasting away, for land’s sake. I need real food. Something big and greasy, with heart attack written all over it.”

  She eyed his overflowing platter. “I’m sure there’s something there that qualifies.”

  “I should be so lucky.” He grabbed a handful of candied peanuts and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.

  “Just make sure you don’t keel over before you fix my toilet on Monday. And since we’re on the subject, about your bill—”

  “Big Jim?” Shirley’s voice rose above the murmur of the crowd.

  “Dang it. I told you to keep your eyes on that Resistol—”

  “Big Jim! That better not be you standing at that buffet!”

  “I was thinking you could give me a bigger discount,” Winnie rushed on. “Or maybe an installment plan.”

  “Later.” He grabbed a handful of hot wings and darted into the crowd.

  “Is that a yes?” Winnie called after him, but he didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. Not that he would. After all, he didn’t owe her. She owed him. Big time.

  On that depressing note, she popped another piece of fudge into her mouth. Her gaze moved to the opposite side of the room and scanned the crowd. Supposedly, the man was here. Somewhere. All she had to do was narrow down the possibilities.

  Too young. Too cute. Too old. Too female. Too…

  Her gaze halted on one man in particular. Short. Dumpy. Sitting in the corner all by himself while dozens of people mixed and mingled. The clincher, though, was when he shoved a handful of cookies into his mouth. Winnie glanced down at her own plate piled high with comfort candies. He might as well have been wearing a sign around his neck that read I’d Rather Be Playing Checkers.

  It was him. At last.

  4

  OKAY, SO IT WASN’T HIM.

  Winnie searched the crowd for the next half hour, until she found herself standing by the beverage table, barely resisting the urge to rush to the ladies room, scrub off her face, rip off her clothes and boot her inner vixen out into the cold. Her sweater was too tight, her skirt was too short, and she teared up just thinking about the Tiny Hiney currently riding high in no-man’s land.

  Time, she told herself. All she needed was a little more time. She’d get used to the new look and even start to like it.

  In the meantime, she was a woman on a mission.

  She grabbed the first familiar face she saw. It turned out to be Bea, transformed from Exterminator Barbie to the Holiday edition, complete with tight red dress and spikey red shoes. Bea definitely had the vixen thing going on.

  “Hey, sugar. Glad you could make it.”

  “Thanks. Listen—”

  “Have you tried the brownies?” Bea held up a plate overflowing with the goodies Winnie had brought. “Or the apple tarts? Why, they’re the best I’ve ever had. The best anyone’s ever had. Better than Sally Smith’s, and she’s won first place in every baking championship in the state.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You mean, you brought these?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait until Sally hears. She’ll be hopping mad when she realizes competition’s moved into the area. And speaking of moves, is Birdie still camping out on the porch?”

  “Among other things. Listen, have you seen Trace Honeycutt? And, please, please, please don’t say over yonder.”

  Bea laughed. “Why, I wouldn’t dream of saying that. He’s nowhere near over yonder. He’s actually just a skip and a holler to your left. Great eats. Talk to you later.”

  A skip and a holler. Life totally sucked.

  Winnie eyed the eggnog. It wasn’t as if things could get much worse. She reached for a cup.

  The first sip made her gasp. Warm. Sweet. And packed with a definite kick that she guessed had something to do with the guaranteed hair growth.

  By the time she finished the cup, everything was going down smooth as silk and who really cared if she ruined her wax job? She grabbed two more cups, one to warm each hand, and headed in the general vicinity of Bea’s directions.

  “Have you seen…”

  Fifteen minutes later, after a trip to the rest room and more fruitless searching, she found herself outside.

  Her gaze panned the empty picnic area located behind the station. He wasn’t out here, despite what that last cowboy had told her. No one was out here. They were all inside. Eating. Drinking. Laughing.

  Santa had wrapped up a little while ago with a grand send-off out in front of the station where he’d climbed into a black Chevy pickup truck—what she figured had to be the Texas version of a sleigh—and hightailed it back up Interstate 10, no doubt headed for the North Pole.

  The kids had all climbed aboard the fire truck after that. Winnie could hear the distant whine as the truck cruised around the small town. Meanwhile, the festivities picked up, progressing from good eats to a little waltzing.

  Winnie reached for the door and found it locked from the inside. So much for living it up.

  The radio wailed. Laughter rose. And Shirley’s voice floated out on the crisp night air.

  “…tell you to stay away from that buffet!”

  To make Winnie’s life even more miserable, Big Jim would probably be dead by Monday. Nix her toilet ever flushing again.

  Not that she could manage to pay him.

  Or put her mascara on without stabbing herself in the eye.

  Or wear skimpy lingerie without feeling like she was walking around with a bad case of hives and a permanent wedgie.

  Without another thought, she downed the rest of her second cup of eggnog and went to work on the third.

  HE’D DONE SOMETHING in a past life.

  Rape.

  Pillage.

  Murder.

  Stealing that bathrobe from that fancy hotel when he’d won his third PRCA championship.

  Okay, so that last one had been this life, and obviously a major transgression if tonight was any indication.

  First, he’d spent hours cooped up in a Santa suit, sweaty and miserable, fearful of being discovered. But backing out when he’d given his word hadn’t been an option, not with the kids depending on him and Shermin about a foot too small to fill the outfit, even with a couple of extra pillows. Then his clean getaway had been screwed up when his Chevy had blown a brand-new tire not a mile outside of town. His spare had been flat, the closest gas station closed, and he’d had no choice but to hightail it back here, hoping to sneak in, borrow Spunk’s truck and get the hell out of Dodge undiscovered.

  And now this.

  Her.

  Trace stared through the dangling white curls of his wig across the playground at the woman who sat on a picnic table a few yards away. His gaze shot past her toward the back door. If she kept her head down, he could circle around.

  Several steps and he almost had it Just…one… more…

  The thought faded as she lifted her head. Moonlight bathed her face and he glimpsed a lone tear trailing down her cheek. Crying. She was sitting outside, all by her lonesome, crying.

  Not that he cared. No sirree. He wouldn’t marry the woman. No matter how much she obviously had her heart set on it.

  No matter how soft all those bright red curls looked.

  His fingers itched and Trace shot a murderous glare at his left hand. Don’t even think
it. You’re not touching .

  If Trace had been a smart man, he would have made a run for it then and there. A crying woman meant trouble. Make that a beautiful crying woman, and he was in for sure disaster.

  She wiped at the tear, but another followed, winding a glistening trail down the creamiest-looking skin he’d ever seen. Smooth. Satiny.

  Need hit him hard in the gut, twisting, stirring… Not need, want, he reminded himself. There was a difference. Need was something you had to have, and Winnie Becker didn’t qualify. Sure he might want to touch her, badly, but there was no have to about it. No sirree.

  Which was exactly why he meant to keep walking, to open up the door and slip inside. A soft sniffle met his ear and he halted, his hand on the door handle.

  Hell’s bells, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t abandon her to her misery, not when he was well-equipped to deal with the situation. He’d stuffed his pockets full of tissue at the beginning of the evening in anticipation of the dozens of runny noses he was bound to encounter dressed as Santa.

  Walking past Winnie Becker now, with all those tears rolling down her creamy cheeks, would be like a fireman strolling past a fire, or a policeman walking by the scene of a crime.

  He reached into his pocket, damned himself a thousand times and stepped toward her.

  “Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas, little darlin’.”

  At the sound of his voice, her head snapped up and a bright green gaze swiveled toward him. “Santa?”

  “Well, it ain’t the Easter Bunny, sugar.”

  “I mean, I know you’re Santa. You just surprised me. I didn’t hear you come out here.”

  “Santa’s light on his feet. Comes in handy when I’m doing the rooftop thing.”

  She smiled, then she frowned. Another tear slid free and Trace barely resisted the urge to reach out and catch the drop.

  Thankfully, he remembered the tissue in his hand and thrust it toward her before he did something he’d surely regret. “Why all the tears? A pretty thing like you should be inside, kicking up some dust and having herself a good time.”

  “I…” She bit back a sob and shook her head. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not pretty.”

  “Is that why you’re crying? You don’t think you’re pretty?”

  “It’s not me. It’s this.” She pulled her arms inside her sweater and shimmied and wiggled for several fast, furious heartbeats before her arms slid back out, a red lace bra clutched in one hand. “See?”

  He saw, all right. Her breasts full and snug and free beneath her sweater, her nipples pebbled from the cold.

  “See how pretty?”

  “Real pretty.”

  “Exactly. It’s pretty. I’m not.”

  “It?” Maybe them, but it hardly fit.

  “This.” She thrust the bra into his face. “A Miss Vixen Redlight Special. Guaranteed to make you fuller and perkier.”

  “You look like you’re doing just fine on your own.”

  Her expression brightened. “Really?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “You’re not a scout. You’re Santa Claus, and I’m plain. So-so. Average.” She downed the rest of her eggnog, the long swallow ending on a hiccup.

  Reality hit him as he stared at the bra, the glazed look in her eyes and the empty cup. Make that two empty cups. “You had two of these?”

  “Three.” Her brow furrowed. “Or was that four?”

  Trace took the cup and sniffed. “You ever drink eggnog before?”

  “Sure.” She waved a hand. “All the time.”

  “How about whiskey? You ever drink whiskey?”

  “Whiskey?” She shook her head. “Oh, no, I never touch the hard stu—” hiccup, “A glass of wine now and then.” Hiccup. “And I once drank two glasses of champagne—” hiccup, hiccup “—at my cousin’s wedding.” On the last word, her face fell and she burst into full-blown tears. Her shoulders shook, her beautiful breasts trembled and he knew with a dead certainty that he should cut his losses and get the hell out of there.

  He sat down on the edge of the table. “Tell old Santa why you’re so blue, darlin’.”

  She glanced up, eyes bright, and something shifted in Trace’s gut. “You want the long list or the short list?”

  “I’ve got a few minutes. You decide.”

  “My life.” She bit back a sob and another hiccup. “That’s what’s wrong.”

  “Maybe I should have gone for the short list.”

  “That is the short list. Life in general, from me to my job to my man, or lack thereof.” Hiccup. Bright green eyes shimmered at him. “I thought Arthur liked me the way I was, and the next thing I know, he’s giving roses to a double underwire with black lace trim.”

  “Arthur?”

  “My boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend.” She sniffed. “I’d really rather not talk about him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “A polyester-wearing, Dippity-Do-slicked geek, and my first real steady. Can you believe that? I mean, he was hardly Mr. Bonanza. I shouldn’t have given him the time of day.”

  “Mister who?”

  “Mr. Bonanza. Someone tall and rugged and romantic, just like Little Joe in the TV show. When I was little and I’d visit my Grandpa Jasper, we’d eat popcorn and watch Bonanza reruns every night. It was his favorite show, and so I grew up fantasizing about cowboys instead of white knights. Of course, the closest Arthur ever came to a horse was the merry-goround at Six Flags.” She sniffled. “We met back in college. He needed a social science credit and ended up in my abnormal psych class, but I’m sure you don’t need to hear this.”

  “You’re right. It’s really not my business—”

  “You see, we started studying together, which led to a date, which led to eight years of dates, which led to the big showdown last month when he didn’t pop the question.” She started crying again. “I really don’t think I can talk about this.”

  “We’ll move on to a different sub—”

  “I wanted to get married and he didn’t,” she rushed on, “so I dumped him. But then he turned around and proposed to someone else because she was primped and pretty and probably wearing something even sexier than that.” She eyed the red bra. “And a Tiny Hiney. I’d bet money she was wearing a Tiny Hiney.”

  “A what?”

  “A thong.”

  “Arthur liked thongs?”

  “No. Yes. He did, but I didn’t know that.” She turned big, beautiful tear-filled green eyes on him. “I thought he liked me. The old, comfortable, give-me-sweats-or-give-me-death me.” She shook her head. “No more. Those days are over. No man is ever going to mistake me for plain Jane ever again. I’m getting in touch with my inner vixen,” she declared. “The part of me that likes makeup and sexy clothes and fancy bras and Tiny Hineys.” She shifted and wiggled and panic bolted through Trace.

  “Wait a second, you’re not going to—” The words stumbled into one another as she pulled something from her pocket.

  “I already did.” She thrust the material into his hand.

  He didn’t want to look. He wasn’t going to.

  His fingers tightened of their own accord and his eyes, the traitorous things, drank in the sight of red satin edged in lace.

  An image rushed through his mind. Silky red hair, a see-through bra and a matching thong—

  Whoa, cowboy.

  “Um, there’s something to be said for full-sized lingerie.” At her sharp look, he added, “I mean, some men might find that more attractive than a silly old scrap of lace.”

  “No man alive would trade a woman wearing a thong for someone prancing around in granny panties. Men are visual. It’s their nature.”

  And how, he thought, shifting uncomfortably, the image still wreaking havoc on his peace of mind and causing quite a stir down under. Only because he’d seen his fair share of thongs, and to go cold turkey after seeing so many… Well. there were bound to be repercussions when he got his first good look at one after all this time.


  “I should have known I was doomed for this. Cursed at birth. Take my name, for instance. Winnifred. Sure, it’s a good solid name, my great grandmother’s, but what man is going to go gaga over a Winnie when he can have a Roxanne or a Madonna or a Bambi, or something like that?”

  “I think Winnie’s nice.”

  “Nice? Flannel is nice. But who wants flannel when they can have satin? I don’t blame Arthur for straying.” She wiped at her face. “Okay, so I blame him. He’s a jerk. A geeky, noncommittal jerk. But at least he was my geeky, noncommittal jerk.” More tears slid down her cheeks. “A friendly face. A sympathetic ear, and he always smelled really nice.”

  “Cologne?”

  She nodded. “His sister worked in the fragrance department at Saks and she kept him stocked in freebies.” She sniffled. “And he was reliable, with a good job, a nice house. He even had a burial plot.”

  “And here I thought a fancy car did it for some women.”

  “It wasn’t me. It was my mom. She loved the whole concept of actually having deep enough roots that you knew where you were going to be buried. My family is career Navy, my mom’s family was career Navy. Constant travel. Arthur was stable and so my mom loved him on the spot. But I didn’t.” She seemed to gather her determination. “I don’t. I’m definitely better off without him.” She turned stricken eyes on Trace. “So why don’t I feel better?”

  He reached out and smoothed a red curl behind her ear. “I suspect it has something to do with the holidays. That and the fact that you’re all alone in a brand-new place. It’s kind of scary.”

  She nodded.

  “And a little exciting when you think about all the possibilities.”

  A thoughtful moment passed before a smile caught the corner of her mouth. “There are a lot of possibilities, aren’t there?”

  “Sure thing, honey. Nostalgia, Texas. Land of opportunity.”

  “I’m free to find a great job, be a certifiable vixen and hook up with a real cowboy, or at least someone who doesn’t wear polyester, slick his hair back and get excited over a spreadsheet.”

  “That’s the spirit.” What was he saying? He wanted her discouraged, not encouraged.

  “Besides, I’m not really alone alone.” Her green gaze caught his. “You’re here.”