The Southern Comfort Christmas: A Heartwarming Christmas Romance (Windy CIty Romance Book 6)

by Barbara Lohr

  Table of Contents

  The Southern Comfort Christmas

  To My Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Newsletter

  The Southern Comfort Christmas

  Dedication

  Licensing

  Other Books by Barbara Lohr

  Acknowledgements

  The Southern Comfort Christmas

  By Barbara Lohr

  To My Readers

  So many of you have asked whatever happened to Harper and Cameron of Finding Southern Comfort. Their heartwarming love story continues here with The Southern Comfort Christmas! Be sure to sign up for my newsletter to stay updated about all the Kirkpatricks by going to my website www.BarbaraLohrAuthor.com .

  Chapter 1

  Georgina Darlington’s brow wrinkled. Harper Kirkpatrick figured fighting all that Botox wasn’t easy. “Oh dear, I’m afraid this just won’t do. No, no. This just won’t do at all.” Her client dismissed Harper’s hard work like yesterday’s grits.

  “But we talked about this for some time, Mrs. Darlington.” They’d never made it to a first name basis. Maybe they never would. A muscle twitched in Harper’s right eye. She was running out of time. The decorations were slated to go up next week. And Harper was going to be married in a month. Perspiration prickled along her hairline. No matter what, she had to sell this idea.

  Maybe Georgina had forgotten their earlier emails. “You wanted something different, new and fresh. And you were open to lime green and aqua, as you wrote in your emails. A really unique holiday color scheme, or so we thought then.”

  It damn well rocked. Georgina, snap out of it!

  Harper’s stomach growled and she sucked it in. No lunch today. This pre-wedding diet should help her fit into her mother’s wedding dress, which was about a size 0. “I attached some sample photos to the emails, remember?” Georgina’s expression was set in stone, and Harper clamped her lips shut. No way was she going to plead.

  “Oh, sugga. I do not recall that. I certainly do not.” A hand that had never touched dishwater or wielded a Swiffer waved away hours of Harper’s work. The bitch had just plain changed her mind. “You know I cannot abide emails.”

  Seeing red by this time and not the holiday kind, Harper struggled to remain composed. But she never knew when to stop. That was just a sad fact of her life. “Actually, I didn’t realize that or I wouldn’t have sent one. Your email address was on the card you gave me.” Harper pressed one hand to the twitching eye.

  Who didn’t email? But okay, this was the South. Things moved at a different pace down here. Like molasses in January. Curbing her Chicago practicality––and tongue––could be so hard. “You didn’t want the red and green you had last year. They were so, well, standard.” Boring. Dusty. Handed down from your parents.

  Taking a ladylike sip of her sweet tea, Georgina pursed her lips. This morning even the tea wasn’t measuring up. One more tablespoon of sugar was slowly stirred into the tall glass with a long-necked silver spoon. “Unique but tasteful. I mean, sugga, you may be from the North but down here we have to stay within some, well, boundaries.”

  The words hit Harper like a blowtorch. Georgina had just about called Harper Chicago white trash right to her face. Beneath her hot pink and green striped sweater, Harper’s heart galloped while her face burned. If only her eye would stop twitching. She could hardly catch her breath, she was so mad. Slowly reaching inside her bag, she fingered her purple inhaler.

  Another sip. Another teaspoon of sugar. Finally, a smile. Now Georgina Darlington, president of the Savannah Women’s Society, was pleased with her drink. But Harper was far from pleased. Infuriated was more like it.

  Feeling under siege, Harper gave it one last try. “But I ran the lime green and aqua color scheme past you. Dropped off the samples. Didn’t Leotia give them to you?” Too late, the arch of Georgina’s brows told Harper she’d thrown the housekeeper under the bus. Cripes, she didn’t mean to. But she’d already ordered the garlands, wreaths and holiday ornaments after agonizing for hours over vendor catalogues. Leotia had assured her the samples would reach the lady of the house.

  And maybe they had.

  Hadn’t Cameron warned Harper? “If you’re going to work with southern belles darlin’, be ready to pay the toll.”

  According to Cameron, the men were long suffering and not any more reliable. They could dig in their heels about a stained glass transom or an ugly family heirloom they insisted on incorporating. Her interior design business had started with Cameron when she was the nanny for Bella, the widower’s little girl. What started out to be fun and exciting, often a collaborative venture, sometimes turned into trial by fire. This was one of those times.

  The sun drilled through the leaded glass windows. She didn’t need a mirror to know her neck was turning pink. In stressful situations like this, her Irish Kirkpatrick skin didn’t do her any favors.

  Spread out on the Darlingtons’ dining room table that gleamed under the crystal chandelier, the garland samples were a lighter, fresher green than the usual Christmas choices. Sure, the lowcountry look Harper had pulled together was a departure from the customary apple red and spruce green. Instead, her uniquely colorful samples lay like a wanton northern trollop who’d sadly misjudged her client—not that she was taking this personally. Glittery lime green and aqua ornaments. Oyster shells and palmetto leaves. Sand dollars and starfish. How excited she’d been when the plan came together in all its splendor on her drawing board.

  Was this just one more thing she’d gotten wrong? The Darlingtons had a huge party scheduled for the first Saturday in December, so this project had to move along. Had those nods and appreciative sighs in earlier meetings merely indicated that Georgina’s mind was elsewhere?

  Harper’s mind felt fried and both eyes burned. Last night she’d worked hours finishing the sketches of the main rooms in the mansion, along with the hallways, doors, and pillars. Glory be, she’d even taken time with the four powder rooms. This project would shine, showcasing a distinctive holiday theme that would provide additional flare to her portfolio.

  If Harper blew it, she wouldn’t get the referrals Georgina had broadly hinted at when they began working together in September. Stomach plummeting, she glanced outside. Gray moss hung listlessly from the live oak trees that arched over the driveway and portico. She'd been hung out to dry.

  “We talked about all of this in a follow-up call.” Why hadn’t she sent notes after that last phone conversation? For a sickening second she was right back in SCAD, the Savannah College of Art and Design, letting key points slide and procrastinating. Too busy to tie up loose ends that always came back to bite her in the behind.

  Bella Bennett and her feeding disorder might be the only project Harper had seen through successfully to the end. Her heart warmed at the thought of her achievement. Glancing back at her client quickly iced her spine.

  Georgina
threw her a vacuous smile. “That last time we talked? Frankly, my mind’s a blank.” No kidding.

  “I was rushing off to an appointment that day, as usual.” Her martyred words suggested the committees of Savannah could not function without her. The hysterical laugh building inside Harper felt alarming. But Georgina was off, running through an exhaustive list of her community duties. As the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked the morning away, Harper sat at the table that would seat twelve and kept smiling. The words flowed around her, sticky with insincerity, sucking her into the Christmas from hell.

  And this was just one of her difficult clients. Brittany Bedford was next.

  “You do understand, don’t you dear?” Batting her eyes, Georgina paused.

  “Yes, of course.” Useless to argue. Harper waved a white flag of surrender. “I’ll get back to you with some revisions.” Sometimes she marveled that the South hadn’t won the War of Aggression, as they called it. They might have done better if they'd left it all up to the women.

  “When will I see those revisions, dear? Oh, I do hope that will be soon with Thanksgiving next week and all.” Georgina waited.

  “Within a week.” Schedules and plans tumbled in Harper’s head.

  Georgina's mouth wrinkled into a tight bud. How did the woman’s husband ever kiss her? Cameron knew Montgomery Darlington, who apparently was just as persnickety as his wife.

  “Early next week. I’ll email you. Or call.” Harper had just sealed her doom. The coming weekend would be hellacious. Georgina’s satisfied smile in place, they wrapped up. After sweeping together her samples and sketches, Harper fit them into the portfolio marked Darlington. Somehow, she made it to the door without bonking Georgina over the head with the weighty package.

  Once outside, she sucked in a deep breath. End of November and fifty degrees. This was why she hadn’t moved back to Chicago after graduation. Rotten luck that the warmer weather kept the pollen and mold active. Her chest felt tight as she hurried to the SUV, stowing her portfolio in the back next to the two others.

  One down and two to go. Things couldn’t get much worse, could they?

  Needing a serious attitude adjustment, she punched on the radio. “Jingle Bell Rock” sheared her nerves. There should be a law that Christmas music could not be played before Thanksgiving. Her pulse raced, and she dug out her inhaler to take a couple of deep breaths.

  Hello, air. Do your job.

  But as she backed out of the driveway, she white-knuckled the steering wheel, endless lists scrolling through her head. She couldn't even think about everything that had to be done in the next week.

  Planning a wedding in Chicago when she lived in Savannah had not been easy. Thank goodness, her mother had insisted on organizing the entire affair. Organization had never been Harper’s forte. She was glad to leave important decisions to her mother, like whether they should have beans or asparagus.

  Had Mom picked up her wedding gown, in storage for the past thirty-five years? Alterations might be necessary—like letting it out four inches and spanning the distance with white lace. That had been her mother’s suggestion.

  “I’ll be Home for Christmas” came on the radio. As she drove, tears leaked from Harper’s eyes, and she dashed them away. Wheels squealing, she took a corner too fast and the portfolios rustled against each other. Yes, she wanted to be home, but Chicago wasn’t home anymore. Not really. Cameron’s mansion just off Victory Parkway had become her home.

  Catching the sparkle of the diamond on her left hand, she smiled. The tension in her neck eased. Anywhere Cameron was, that was home.

  His arms? Home.

  His lips? Home.

  His—whatever. Definitely home.

  She had to pull it together. Cripes, she’d been so emotional lately. When had she ever felt this stressed out? Like, never.

  What was she thinking when she took on these Christmas gigs? It’s not as if the wedding was a surprise. They’d been engaged since Valentine’s Day, for pity’s sake. Then the other weddings had come up—McKenna’s and then Selena’s. Why had they ever thought the holidays would be a great time to have the ceremony? Thank God McKenna, Harper’s older sister, was up in Chicago and could help their mother. “We’ll take care of everything. Don’t you worry about a thing,” her sister had assured her.

  Exactly. Because Mom had been waiting for the marriage of her youngest daughter forever. “You know, I can’t be running up there to check,” she’d told McKenna during one of their Sunday night calls. “Not with Bella and everything. And Cameron is busy with his own work. Are you sure you can handle this? Otherwise we can dial it down.”

  “Not to worry. I’ve got this. Don’t you see? Your wedding is the make-up for mine. Mom finally gets to plan a wedding in Chicago. You should see the lists taped to their refrigerator. She’s in her glory. My own destination wedding in Santa Fe was a huge disappointment.”

  “Are you kidding me? We loved it!” For Harper and Cameron, the five days in Santa Fe had been a perfect romantic getaway.

  “So did we. A wedding is a very personal thing, and we wanted to escape all the hoopla, the endless line of Oak Park firemen and policemen, the neighbors where we trick or treated for years.” Then McKenna seemed to remember that she was describing the wedding that awaited Harper and Cameron. “Not that all of that isn’t wonderful.”

  McKenna’s tone had switched from nostalgic to practical. A midwife at a Chicago hospital, she was like that. “We had a party later for our old friends and neighbors when we got back from Santa Fe. But now Mom gets to do it right, as she says. Your Oak Park wedding has become my redemption in her eyes. Thank you very much.”

  The call ended. Harper loved her older sister like crazy, but those final comments had been a downer. McKenna had mentioned all the elements that Harper felt ambivalent about. After all, at twenty-six, she hadn’t lived in the Oak Park house for eight years. Time and distance had caused a divide. Her friends were here now. Her heart was here. How she wished she felt better about this.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her she needed food. A quick glance at her phone told her she had forty minutes before meeting with Brittany Bedford. The last thing she wanted was to pass out on the Bedford’s sun porch. A quick lunch grabbed at Goose Feathers would give her time to regroup before the next meeting.

  Finding a place to park was never easy in downtown Savannah. Finally, she wedged the SUV into a tight spot near Ellis Square. It was easy to pick out the students by their tats, piercings and hip clothing. Being a student at SCAD gave you carte blanche. You could be as bizarre as you liked, and Harper had developed her own unique style. Smiling at the people rushing past in their lightweight jackets and sandals, she adjusted her hot pink head scarf.

  Within fifteen minutes, she was seated with her unsweetened tea and a warm panini breakfast sandwich that smelled like heaven. Sinking her teeth through the fresh crust, she savored the spicy slice of salami under the scrambled eggs. Chewing slowly, she glanced through the window of the French Bistro-themed cafe and tried to relax. She tried imagining Georgina in a warm circle of light. No good. Somehow that warm circle turned into a fiery pit. For a second, she was tempted to call Cameron for support. His comfort was always able to get her back on track.

  But hey, she was a big girl. Sometimes she thought she leaned on him too much, as if she were riding on his coattails. Building her own identity was important to her, but if her first call this morning was any indication, she was doing a crummy job with it. Keeping up with her deep breathing, Harper finished the panini, took her last sip of tea and cleared her table. With a quick trip to the ladies room, she reapplied her coral lipstick and adjusted her scarf. She didn't have time to do anything about that messy braid. Ten minutes later, she was driving south on Abercorn, humming along and bobbing her head to “All I Want for Christmas is You.”

  When she pulled up to the Bedford mansion on the posh street in Ardsley Park, the sun bounced off the ornate ironwork . Savannah a
rchitecture could spin Harper right back in time. Looking at the Doric arches and long windows, she could almost hear the rustle of hoop skirts. Thank goodness Cameron was part of the Preservation Society that had taken on saving historical Savannah for future generations. Together with some business partners, he was developing the Broughton Street Corridor, bringing in upscale shops and landscaping the street while preserving its historical character. She was so proud of him. The last thing the city needed was another parking garage––at least that was her take on it.

  Scooping portfolio number two from the back, she sprang up the steps. Hazel answered on the first ring, hair pulled back in a neat bun.

  “Good morning, Hazel.”

  “Miss Harper.” Hazel nodded. “Mrs. Bedford is expecting you. This way, please.”

  The heels of Harper’s black boots clicked on the marble floor. This would be where the day would turn around. Brittany would be the client who reinstated Harper’s faith in herself. Their meeting would remind her why she’d turned from fashion design to interior decor. Desperation had nothing to do with it, although every other career attempt had gone bust following her graduation.

  Well, every career but being a nanny. Although scary at first, being Bella’s nanny had fit her like one of the snug tops she managed to shrink in the dryer with frightening regularity. Snug but making her look oh, so good.

  Brittany Bedford was reading the paper in the side sunroom, lounging in a wicker chaise. The blue and aqua drapes and cushions looked very Vera Bradley. Standing, she waved Harper over to a glass-topped table. In her distinctive British accent, she said, “I just know you’ve thought of something that’s positively brilliant.” Anticipation sparked in her eyes and Harper’s spirits lifted. Now, this was more like it.

  “Oh, I think you’re going to like this, Mrs. Bedford.” How long did it take to be on a first name basis with one of these matrons? Why was she Miss Harper and Brittany got to be Mrs. Bedford?

  But soon Harper would be called Mrs. Bennett. Testing the name in her mind, she almost fell smack onto a coffee table. “Oops, sorry about that.” Usually her bruises only lasted a week. The boots helped.