Leaving Blue Bayou

by JoAnn Ross

  Ben was good with children, she’d give the man that. After chatting easily with Emma for a moment, he took a pencil from the pocket of his red and green plaid shirt and quickly sketched something on a white paper napkin.

  Emma studied it with a seriousness way beyond her age, then bobbed her head and beamed.

  As the little girl returned back toward the kitchen, the napkin in hand, Daughtry dug into his dinner. Which was also the same thing he had every night, except on Wednesday, when, for some reason Beth couldn’t fathom, he’d switch out the coleslaw for baked beans.

  Her gaze drifted out the window. Although she would never admit it out loud, she was a bit concerned by the delay as well. Gabriel had blessedly escaped injury during all his years in the military, including two tours in Iraq and another in Afghanistan, but that didn’t mean that a mother ever stopped worrying about her child.

  Six

  From high atop the town, bathed in the rising moonlight that cast a bluish glow over the snow, the small town of Santa’s Village looked like the set of a model railroad. There appeared to be one main street—strung with, natch, bright red and green flashing lights—then a handful of others going off at ninety-degree angles. It was admittedly charming, if you liked the It’s a Wonderful Life approach to the season. Taking the moonlit scene in, she decided the entire village couldn’t be more than nine blocks square.

  Winter-bare trees in front yards were strung with fairy lights and electric candles flickered in windows.

  “Cute,” she murmured dryly as they passed by a giant statue of Santa welcoming visitors to “Santa’s Village, The Most Christmassy Town in America.”

  The part of her accustomed to editing her manuscripts wondered if Christmassy was even a word. The right arm, which had to be at least six feet from fingertip to shoulder, was automated to wave a manic greeting. It was, hands down, at the same time both the ugliest and scariest thing she’d ever laid eyes on.

  “Granted, he takes some getting used to,” Gabe said as he turned onto—what else?—Rudolph Road. “After about three months I just quit seeing him.”

  Holly figured it would take longer than that for her to stop seeing the oversize jolly old elf. As it was, she feared the scarily grinning Santa was going to appear in her nightmares. Looking a lot like Freddy Kruger wearing a pillow beneath a tacky red velvet suit.

  The sidewalks were lined with lighted pine trees, and more lights, which flashed merrily, had been strung across the streets. Every storefront seemed to be trying to outdo its neighbor.

  “Is the town decorated like this year round?” she asked.

  “Pretty much,” he allowed. “Though people do tend to crank things up a bit come Thanksgiving. Tourism has become a major industry here, especially since the timber business dropped off. Along with the Christmas junkies, we do get a lot of sportsmen and cross-country skiers.”

  “That’s nice.”

  Holly had never understood the appeal of strapping sticks to your boots and trudging through miles of snow, but she figured it took all kinds to make a world. After all, not everyone enjoyed murder mysteries either.

  They passed what she supposed must be the town square, boasting a white Victorian bandstand decorated in yet more white fairy lights. A towering Douglas fir blinked in multi-colors, a crèche topped by a star and lit by a floodlight shared space with a menorah that had to be eight feet tall, with flickering red bulbs atop the candles.

  “Nice to know Santa’s ecumenical,” she murmured.

  “We try.” When he made a left turn on Dasher Drive, Dog sat up and began paying attention. “Fortunately, the pagans signed on to the tree as their symbol and I’ve got a committee working on what to put up for Kwanzaa for next year.”

  “You have a committee?” Holly absently petted the huge head looming up through the space between the seats.

  He shrugged. “I’m mayor. Which isn’t any big deal,” he told her before she might suggest it was. “The previous owner of the inn had the job, so I sort of inherited it along with the mortgage.”

  “Well, that’s one way to avoid paying for a new election.”

  “There’s not that much to do,” he said. “Between the council, the school board, and the tourism bureau, the town pretty much runs itself. The main business has always been Kris Kringle’s Workshop.”

  “Okay. Now you’ve got to be pulling my leg.”

  “Although it’s a very fine leg—which seems to go all the way up to Canada, by the way—and there are a lot of things I’d like to do to it . . . beginning with starting at the ankle and nibbling my way up it . . . actually, I’m not.”

  “You’re going to be disappointed regarding the nibbling,” she said firmly. Just because he’d saved her from possibly freezing to death didn’t mean she was going to show her gratitude by getting horizontal with him. “As for the workshop, if you are telling the truth, I’m starting to wonder what Kool-Aid you all are drinking here in this charming little hamlet.”

  His chuckle was deep and rich and stirred places in Holly she’d forgotten could be stirred. “Sam Fraiser’s the seventh-generation owner, and although he’s never actually laid claim to the title, a lot of people, and kids, in town believe he’s the ‘real’ Santa Claus.

  “Anyway, the workshop had been facing some lean years, make that decades, but all the problems with imports have made the shop’s more traditional toys—like wooden planes, trains, and cars—more in demand. In fact, he got written up in the Wall Street Journal and Business Week last month.”

  “Okay.” She gave the so-called Santa reluctant points. “That’s admittedly impressive.”

  “A lot of people think so. Though the Fraisers have never been in the business for fame. In fact, my sister Rachel, who works as his accountant and business manager, says producers from Ellen, GMA, and CBS News Sunday Morning have called in the past few weeks, wanting him to appear on their shows, but he’s turned them all down.”

  Holly had met writers who would run over their dear old grannies for such an opportunity.

  “So, what is he? Some sort of hermit? Or another Unabomber in hiding?”

  “Gotta love a woman with a twisted mind.” Again Holly found his deep chuckle way too appealing for comfort. “Actually, he told them it was his busy season.”

  “Of course it is,” Holly said, not bothering to keep the sarcasm from sharpening her tone. “After all, he’s got a big trip coming up.”

  “That’s what he reminded them.”

  Forget about falling down the rabbit hole. Holly had just decided that somehow she’d gone into another dimension and landed in the Twilight Zone when he turned one more corner and the Ho Ho Ho Inn came into view.

  You couldn’t miss it. With those flashing red ten-foot-tall letters. But she’d been expecting some sort of tacky little motel-looking place. The type where you’d expect to find animal heads hanging on cheap paneled walls. Granted, the inside could still meet expectations, but the exterior was a surprise.

  It was actually a compound of log and stone buildings nestled in a grove of fir trees. The lodge itself had a roof that soared two and a half stories high. The front was all glass and jutted forward like the prow of an ancient sailing ship. Perhaps a dozen smaller cabins were scattered around in the woods. Close enough to give a sense of a community, but far enough apart to allow privacy, if that’s what a guest had come here seeking.

  “Okay, I’m impressed.”

  “You were expecting, perhaps, the Bates Motel?” Rather than seeming to take offense, his voice held that humor she was beginning to find all too appealing.

  “Something like that,” she admitted.

  “According to old-timers, the original main inn was more along those lines. But it burned down two years ago after it was hit by lightning. The owners had plans drawn up and had begun construction when they decided they didn’t want to make that much of a commitment at that point in their lives. So, they put it up for sale just when I got out of the service an
d was looking to make a lifestyle change. The top two floors are living area. I had soundproofing put in between the floors that allows me to live above the store without getting any of the downstairs noise.”

  “Lucky you.” A warm, welcoming yellow light gleamed forth from the windows. “And it’s stunning. But you’ve got to admit the signage is a little tacky.”

  “More than a little,” he agreed. “The thing is, it fits the town’s building code. I could’ve left the flashing lights off, but decided to put them back up because my daughter loves them.”

  “Your daughter?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled up in front of the lodge, parking between an ancient VW bus that had been painted in geometric squares reminiscent of the Partridge Family tour bus and a trendy Lexus crossover. “Emma’s five. Needless to say, she finds all the kitsch in the town to her liking.”

  “I can imagine.” Memories of her own childhood Christmases in New York, which she’d buried deep inside her long ago, stirred. From habit, Holly rigidly tamped them down. It figured that the first guy she’d found appealing in months was not only married, but a player. “How does your wife feel about it?”

  “Wife?”

  He cut the engine and turned toward her, a quick spark firing in eyes that had turned to flint. The easy humor was gone and the mouth that had been so quick to smile was drawn into a hard, tough line. For the first time she could see the warrior dwelling inside the friendly Good Samaritan inn owner.

  “What the hell would I be doing hitting on another woman if I had a wife waiting for me at home?”

  She shrugged. “People cheat all the time. You wouldn’t be the first married person to fool around.”

  In fact, although she wasn’t prepared to share the fact, she’d lost her virginity her freshman year of college to her English Lit professor, who’d neglected to mention a wife who’d just happened to be away on sabbatical studying the Brontë sisters at University College, Oxford.

  The ironic thing about that whole sad affair was that at the time the Brontës had been her favorite authors, and the dark, broody, and overly temperamental professor had reminded her of Heathcliff.

  “Other people may cheat.” Something else came and went in Gabe’s eyes. Something Holly couldn’t quite read. “But not me. No way. No how.”

  He was suddenly looking at her as if she were a stray dog. No, worse than a stray, given the story of him having adopted that oversize mutt who was currently whining impatiently to get out of the SUV—he actually liked strays.

  “Okay.” She held up a hand. Obviously she’d misread the situation. “Since I just met you, I’ll have to take your word for it. But may I point out that you’re the one who hit on me. Talking about nibbling on ankles and such.” Just the thought of all the other body parts representing the “such” was enough to make her blood run a little hotter. “Then, out of the blue, you brought up your daughter.”

  “You’ve never heard of a single dad?”

  “Of course. I’ve just never actually met one.”

  The line of his jaw hardened. “Well, you have now.”

  Apparently he’d had enough of the conversation because after muttering a rude curse, he opened the door and climbed out. Not quite understanding how the mood had taken such a drastic turn, just because she’d made an understandable mistake, Holly didn’t wait for him to come around the front of the Expedition, but jumped out and placed a hand on his arm.

  “Look,” she said. “I’m sorry if I offended you. That wasn’t my intention.” She offered a smile of contrition. “Especially after you rescued me from turning into a popsicle.”

  He looked down at her hand. Then cursed again. It might’ve been mild for a Marine, but it still wasn’t a word Holly had said more than once, okay, maybe twice in her life.

  “Hell. While we’re sharing apologies here, let me offer you one for overreacting. My only excuse, not that I have much of one, is that you hit a hot button I didn’t realize I had.”

  As they stood there in the snow-covered parking lot, Gabe looking down at Holly, her looking up at him, something stirred in her. More complicated than lust, it felt uncomfortably like need.

  “Okay,” she said through lips that had gotten suddenly dry. “So, we’re even. No harm. No foul.”

  As quickly as the winter storm had swooped down over the mountains, his grin was back, quick and, dammit, sexy as sin. “Gotta love a woman who can use a sports metaphor. I don’t suppose you eat meat?”

  “I’ve been known to eat a bloody steak from time to time.”

  “How about carbs?”

  “A steak without a baked potato or fries is like a day without chocolate.” She shrugged. “What’s the point?”

  The air was biting, the snow continued to fall, but Holly was feeling warmer and warmer inside as his eyes swept over her face.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve watched ESPN on occasion?”

  She tossed her head. Flashed him a flirty smile she didn’t even know she had inside her. “I’ll see your ESPN and raise you. I happen to subscribe to the NFL network.”

  “Be still my heart.” He patted the front of the parka with that wide gloved hand that she was no longer worrying about breaking her neck. No, it was the other things she was imagining it doing that could prove really dangerous. “I’m not absolutely positive, but I think I may have just fallen in love.”

  “Don’t get overly worked up,” she said as he opened the back of the Expedition and got out her things. “I only signed up because I was thinking about writing a book about a crazed fan who killed off players from rival teams.

  “Although that concept didn’t quite work out, I kept the network, because, while I couldn’t tell you an option play from a quarterback sneak, what’s not to love about hunky guys in shoulder pads with tight butts running around in spandex?”

  “I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “Now there’s a surprise.” Although the single former Marine Corps dad was certainly no Rambo, the testosterone he oozed was definitely of the heterosexual variety.

  Toughening herself against it—and him—she turned and began walking down the narrow path someone had shoveled from the parking lot to the front door.

  Seven

  The sweep of headlights flashed in the window.

  Over the sound of the wind in the tops of the trees, Beth heard a truck door open and shut. Then, surprisingly, another.

  The door to the combination inn/restaurant/bar opened a moment later and Gabriel entered with a woman who looked vaguely familiar.

  “It’s her!” Emma hissed.

  “Who?” Beth looked closer.

  “My present!”

  “What present?”

  “The one I decided I wanted more than a pony,” Emma insisted on an impatient huff. “My new mom!”

  “What?”

  “See.” The little girl shoved the napkin at her grandmother. “I had Mr. Daughtry draw her for me, so Santa would know exactly what she looked like.”

  Beth studied the pencil sketch, then looked back at the woman stamping the snow off a pair of calf-high chocolate-hued Uggs.

  Daughtry’s sketch wasn’t as detailed as a photograph. But there was no mistaking the resemblance. The artist had captured the pointed, stubborn chin, the wide mouth, which was smiling in the sketch, unlike the real woman whose intelligent green gaze was sweeping over the room.

  It was only a coincidence, Beth assured herself, as her granddaughter ran across the wooden floor to greet them. Just random luck. Just as it was only the chill of the night air that had caused the goosebumps to rise on her skin.

  Revealing a speed that belied his size, Dog streaked past Gabe into the inn just as Emma came barreling toward him.

  Then she skidded to a stop in front of Holly Berry, staring up at her with the awe that the adolescent boy Gabe had felt upon his first sight of a Playboy Playmate of the Month foldout.

  “Hi.” Her little voice was breathless, her face beatific.r />
  “Hi, yourself.”

  The woman won huge points with Gabe when she returned his daughter’s smile. Meanwhile, Dog came screeching to a halt with the scratching sound of claws on the wooden floor, rolled over, and waited for Emma to start scratching his stomach, as she always did.

  “I’m Emma.”

  “I’m Holly.”

  The little girl’s eyes lit up as Dog began wiggling on the floor, trying to get the attention he’d grown used to receiving. “Like Christmas Holly?”

  “Exactly like that. I was born on Christmas Eve, so although my mother was pushing for Caroline, my father, who was a huge fan of Christmas, won the argument.”

  “That’s cool.” Emma’s beaming smile could have lit up the town of Santa’s Village for a month. “Maybe your daddy would like to live here. This is the most Christmassy town in America.”

  “So I read on the sign.” When Dog, tired of being uncharacteristically ignored by his small owner, let out a deep rumbling bark, Holly absently began scratching his belly. “Unfortunately, my father died when I was young.”

  “That’s too bad.” Rosebud lips pulled into a pout Gabe recognized all too well. Even a five-year-old female, he’d discovered, could be every bit as capricious as the older variety, and Emma’s emotions could swing in a wide arc. “My daddy almost died in Afghanistan. But he saved a bunch of people in a big battle and got a medal.”

  “Well.” Holly glanced up at him. “That’s very heroic.”

  Gabe cringed inwardly. He hated talk of heroism. “I was just doing my job,” he insisted as he always did when either his mother or daughter brought it up. His father—having been a grunt in Nam—was wise enough to let sleeping dogs lie. So to speak. He took off the parka and hung it on the rack on the wall. “Same as any other Marine would’ve done.”