ROMANCE: Holiday Romance: Her Christmas Surprise (Sweet Clean Holiday Romance) (Holiday Bride Book 1)

by Mercy Levy

  Dressed in their winter’s warmest, Bea, Alma, and Margaret set out to visit a friend that Bea and Alma had been dying to introduce their young relative to. The cab took them into the heart of town and stopped in front of a restaurant, which was surprisingly busy for both the weather, and the holiday.

  “Are there many businesses open?” Meg asked. “In Baton Rouge, we never go into town on Christmas. We wouldn’t even have time, with all the friends there are to be visited, and then the feast to be prepared…” Meg trailed off as Alma stepped to one side and she came face to face with the most handsome man she’d ever seen.

  The stranger smiled at her, and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners made her knees melt like butter in the pan. She turned her gaze toward the ground and blushed demurely, which made his smile even broader. She would have fairly swooned had she seen the brilliant flash of white teeth that made his skin look even darker by comparison, and the way his hazel eyes sparkled at the freckles that stood out over her pretty cold-rouged cheeks. He took her hand and held it to his lips, gently brushing the back of it with the whisper of a kiss.

  Shocked, her eyes flew up to meet his, and his frank perusal of her caused the color to rush back to her face again. An exasperated sigh escaped her lips and he chuckled, still holding her hand. She coughed politely and stared pointedly at the captive appendage, but the handsome man pretended ignorance until Alma took pity on her poor bemused cousin.

  “Don’t you take Mr. Larabie seriously, Margaret. He has no shame when it comes to pretty girls.” The man chuckled and finally released Meg from his warm, callused grip.

  “She’s mostly telling the truth. I do appreciate a well-turned lady. But, there is a special place in my heart for a redhead with pale skin and spray of freckles.” Meg put a hand over her nose.

  “Those, are the result of not being a proper lady, and letting the sun touch my skin. My mama would just die if she heard you mention them.” Mr. Larabie nodded.

  “She thinks that those adorable freckles are proof you aren’t perfect, and they’re going to stop you from getting a proper husband.”

  “So, I’ve been told,” Meg chuckled.

  “Well, I couldn’t agree more. A fine, beautiful, imperfect young lady such as yourself should not be with anyone so boring as to be ‘proper’. As for myself, I am hardly, if ever proper. I would be happy to escort you around this fine establishment, so that no one gets the wrong idea, and thinks that you’re available for courting.” His eyelid drooped in a slow wink and Meg stammered. She was entirely unaccustomed to such brazen flirtation.

  “William Larabie, you leave my poor innocent niece alone. She is in no state to be fending a rogue like you off.” Aunt Bea clutched Meg by the shoulders and drew her further into the restaurant.

  “Will owns the place, and abuses his position whenever he can get away with it.” William scoffed and gestured to a table near the back of the dining room. The ladies sat and perused menus, while William pulled up a chair and sat on it backward, facing the three women and folding his arms on the high wooden back.

  “I wondered what I had done wrong, to have lost my favorite regulars.” Will sighed. “Where is Mr. Chilton? He isn’t travelling in this cold weather, is he?” Will frowned, and Alma shook her head.

  “No, I almost wish he was. He has a cough that just won’t leave him. The doctor says he needs to stay indoors, and in bed, as much as possible.” William gestured to a young man in a white shirt and a long black apron, which was tied about his waist.

  “While the Chilton ladies are finished their meal, please packaged up some fresh pumpernickel and a tureen of our creole chicken soup to be delivered to Mr. Chilton. Thank you, Carmine.” He turned back to the ladies and addressed Meg directly. “You’re accent reminds me of home. Are you from New Orleans? Thibodaux?” Meg smiled shyly.

  “Baton Rouge, sir, though my mother is from Thibodaux.”

  “Ah, it shows in the way you speak. You must spend a great deal of time with your mama.”

  “I do. She was never one for nannies, despite my father’s concerns that she spoiled me.” Meg grinned. “Which she does to this day, of course.” Aunt Bea and Alma both chimed in with chuckles of agreement.

  “Antionette is a most diligent mother.” Beatrice declared. “She is also one of the loveliest renditions of ‘southern belle’ I’ve had the fortune to meet.” Alma nodded.

  “Margaret looks just like her, but for the freckles.” Will gasped.

  “Sullied by those damnable freckles. Whatever can a beautiful woman with hair that shines like liquid fire do, when she is cursed with those delectable freckles.” He teased drily.

  “I don’t know about anyone else, but I am famished.” Meg stated, ignoring both Will’s words, and the predatory look in his eyes. She was quite unused to such attention from a man. In Baton Rouge, the men and boys who came to court her were polite to a fault, gentlemanly and courteous. Not flirtatious and bold. She thought she should be infuriated. Instead, she was confused. Her pulse was racing, her color deepened to the crimson matching the velvet sash on her white dress, and low in her belly, she felt hot and achy. The last time she had felt such a way, was when she was only fourteen and had developed a terrible crush on Mr. Mason, a handsome business associate of her father.

  She glanced at Alma, worried that her intense feeling of attraction was too noticeable, thanks to her pale skin and easy blush, and her cousin jumped in to rescue her.

  “I’m starving, Mr. Larabie. Are you going to let us poor women eat, or are you going to torment my poor cousin out of her appetite?” Will laughed, and put up his hands in surrender. He took a long moment to scrutinize young Margaret from top to bottom, and finally stood up to leave when she let out an uncomfortable squeak.

  “Miss Chilton. I cannot express how glad I am to have made your acquaintance. I will harass you no longer. It would not do to have such a lovely creature faint from hunger, minutes away from the best Creole food north of the Mississippi.” He bowed his head at the shoulders and winked at Meg before dipping his head again toward aunt Bea. “I will have something nourishing and healthful delivered to your home before you leave. Mr. Chilton will be feeling better in no time, I assure you.”

  Aunt Bea thanked him and he walked away, leaving the ladies to choose their lunches. While they perused their menus, a server, dressed identically to the first, served them hot, bread in a covered basket. Meg inhaled the thick molasses fragrance and her mouth watered. A small serving dish of fresh whipped butter accompanied the bread, and before Meg had snuck a slice from the basket, another server came to their table and set glasses filled with garnet-colored liquid in front of each of them.

  Alma sipped from her glass, and her eyes closed as she savored the currant cordial slipping down her throat. She opened them slowly and cautioned her mother and cousin to be careful not to drink too much at once, and Meg looked at her beverage curiously. Whatever could be the harm in drinking the berry juice quickly? She watched her aunt take a sip from her glass and wince slightly, then smack her lips in satisfaction. She smiled at Meg, who felt obligated to try her own drink. It was, all at once, crisp, sweet, tangy, and warming, as the underlying alcohol bled through the flavors of currants, honey, and cinnamon.

  She glanced up at her aunt in surprise, but said nothing, as it seemed that nothing was exactly what was expected of her. The rich molasses flavor of the pumpernickel bread paired nicely with the drink, and Meg emptied her glass in short order, only to have it replaced with a full one as soon as she set it down.

  By the bottom of the second glass, Meg was relaxed and a little tipsy. She suddenly felt more confident and openly curious, and decided to ask her aunt how they could drink alcohol in a restaurant with the prohibition absolutely set on making sure this very thing could not happen. Before she got a word out, Will appeared at her elbow, as if she had conjured him with her thoughts.

  “Ladies, we have a better table for you, where your meals will be served,
if you wish.” He stated very formally, gesturing to the back of the dining room. He helped Meg to her feet, which was easier than she feared, after drinking the doctored cordial. With their hands on each of his elbows he escorted her and her cousin to a doorway, wide enough for them to pass through three-abreast, without difficulty. As she passed through, Meg felt a thrill down her spine, as she stared at the books, on shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, on every wall. There were novels and encyclopedias, books whose titles were in languages she’d never seen.

  Will released the ladies and walked over to a bookshelf near the center of the wall. He removed a thick old tome and released a switch that was hidden behind it, pivoting the whole six-foot vertical section of shelf inward to reveal another doorway with a staircase circling down. Meg’s palms dampened when Will motioned for her to lead the way down, but with a glance at Alma, she took one step, then another.

  Instead of a poorly lit dungeon, she walked into a room lit nearly to daylight with lanterns and small windows up high on the walls. The room was full of tables, some surrounded by men and women playing cards, others drinking amber liquid from tumblers as they chatted in padded booths.

  Meg perked up as a pianist began playing a lively tune, something that brought a smile to her face, even before the trumpet and the saxophone joined in. She was drawn to the small stage like a moth to lamplight watching the pianist’s fingers fly over the keys effortlessly. Her damnable blush crept up her neck and cheeks as she thought about the hours she spent miserable and bored, forced by her mother to practice until her fingers were stiff and too sore to use.

  The man paused, tipped his hat, and winked, then picked up his tempo, changing the tune again, without missing a beat. Meg started at a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Will, grinning down at her.

  “Tell me that you dance, darlin’ and you will make me a happy man.” He teased, holding out a hand for hers. She glanced back at the musicians and nodded. He swung her around and into his arms and she relaxed and let him lead. Her feet barely seemed to touch the wood plank floor as they spun and rocked in time to the jazz music that swung around them. When Will finally released her at the of the third or fourth song, Meg had only enough time to take her seat, before Alma had her on her feet again, teaching her all the popular dance steps, laughing and giggling when she couldn’t get it quite right.

  No one stared, no one frowned at her for her missteps, and when she was too tired to dance one more step, and her feet felt like they might fall off if she stood for one more second, she was invited to sit at a table with a group not much older than her. She listened as they talked about the revolution in eastern Europe, and the prohibition, and philosophy. Her brain was as sore and numb as her feet by the time her aunt tapped her on the shoulder and warned her that the cab to take them home was waiting upstairs. Will escorted her up the stairs, smiling as she excitedly chattered on about how wonderful his place was.

  “So, you really like it?” He asked, half teasing, as they stood on the curb, waiting for Alma and Bea to settle themselves in the carriage of the cab.

  “It was the most amazing, wondrous thing I’ve ever seen. I would’ve died happy just getting to stay in that library, but downstairs? My parents would never let me listen to jazz music back home, and your customers? Well, I mean there was that one man who tried to grab my waist and asked if I’d like to accompany him home, but everyone else was lovely, and intelligent and, and, I just hope I get to come back again!” She took a deep breath and he laughed and raised her hand to his lips.

  “You most certainly are welcome every day, any day, for long as I can keep you coming back. And don’t worry. That one particular fella won’t be.” He kissed her hand, his lips warm and soft against the quickly cooling skin on her hand, and helped her into the warm interior of the cab.

  “Is he like that with everyone?” Meg asked as soon as the carriage was moving.

  “Of course, at least all the new girls,” Alma replied. “Though, I’m sure your accent and southern sensibilities didn’t hurt.” Meg frowned.

  “I certainly have no need to be just another skirt to chase. But, he is a very good dancer, and all those books!” She sighed and closed her eyes. “He can never look at me that way again, he can ignore me completely, if he leaves me alone in that library.” Aunt Bea laughed and leaned forward in the cab to pat her niece on the leg.

  “I’m sure that if you tell him that, he’ll be only too happy to get you all the books you desire.” Alma drawled. “After all, there’s no faster way to a man’s heart than to tell him you only like him for his collection of literature.

  Meg rolled her eyes and pulled the curtain aside to look out the window. It was strange to think that right now, at home, her family would be walking about after dinner and enjoying the grounds and gardens, while she was fighting to stay warm in freezing temperatures so far away. Yet, the buildings and statues and frozen parks that had been so foreign to her upon her arrival, were as much home to her after two short weeks, as Louisiana had been all her life.

  She didn’t even mind the cold that nipped at her face and turned her nose red. At least in the cold, it was harder to see her freckles against pink, winter blushed cheeks. The cab ride was short, and peering out the window gave her an excuse to ignore Alma, who seemed unhappy with her after their time at William Larabie’s speakeasy. Her cousin took a little of the glow from the magic of the place. Margaret would have imagined a basement gambling den to be dark, dismal, and frightening in ambiance. Instead, it had been warm and inviting and full of laughter, and welcome.

  Thinking back, her fingers itched to play the piano at her aunt and uncle’s and try her hand at the lilting, rollicking jazz music she’s heard. She loved playing the piano, but hated the dreary, lumbering dirges her father thought were appropriate for a young lady. Her mother had been more understanding, and smuggled her a few folk tunes and Mozart pieces to play when her father was away on business, but nothing she had ever played made her toes twitch and her fingers dance the way that the pianist, a man by the name of “Jelly Roll” Morton had, along with his band.

  3.

  Aunt Bea had dozed off during the ride and Meg gently shook her awake as they arrived. She helped her aunt from the carriage and Alma walked with her into the house, wary of the new coat of ice that had formed while they were at the speakeasy. Meg didn’t want to ask in front of Alma, afraid that she’d mock her for her interest in the music that was associated with wantonness and illicit drinking, so she offered to walk with aunt Bea up to her quarters to check on uncle Daschle, while Alma checked on the supper fare in the abandoned kitchen.

  “Do you know, why William has to hide his gambling and hard liquor in the basement of the restaurant?” Aunt Bea asked Meg as they strolled arm in arm.

  “I know that prohibition means he could lose his business license or even go to jail if the police caught him. As fun as it was, I don’t know if it would be worth the risk to me.”

  “If it was just a business, you would be absolutely correct. But, this isn’t just his business. It’s a place for conscientious people to speak out against the wrongdoings of our government, and the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness, despite government intrusion that limits that.” Her aunt patted her on the arm again. “We don’t support William because we want to drink in a basement,” she chuckled. “We support the freedoms our country stands for.”

  Meg hugged her aunt hard. She’d wondered how she could enjoy a place that was so intent on moral decay and lowering one’s inhibitions. She and her aunt paused at the bedroom door.

  “I hope you and uncle both get some rest. I was wondering, would it be possible for me to use the pianoforte? I would very much like to go home and still play well-enough to avoid too much trouble with Mother.”

  “I saw those little fingers of yours wiggling and waving when you were listening to Jelly Roll play. He’s a master, isn’t he?” Aunt Bea smiled.

  “He is indeed. It mad
e me feel ashamed for failing to practice more often. His hands were a blur on the keys!” Aunt Bea patted Meg’s shoulder and agreed that she should practice to her heart’s content while she was in Hartford.

  “Just think, someday, that could be you playing on William’s stage.” She suggested. Meg’s eyes widened at the thought of being on stage. Not many women were able to be performers, and those that were, well they were usually of a certain, less desirable, reputation. Yet, as she heard those words, Meg realized that was exactly what she wanted to do. To play the lively rollicking jazz on stage, or the smooth, meandering tunes that made men and women want to sit at their tables and nurse a drink while they closed their eyes and were carried by the tune.

  She sat at the piano in the library and carefully plunked at the keys, relieved to find that it was in tune and playable. She ran through scales and pieces that she knew, and after a few minutes, grew brave enough to attempt some of the music she’d heard in the speakeasy. The fast songs were more difficult, but she found herself smiling as she rocked on the bench in time to a softer piece that she’d danced to with William. Her eyes closed and she played by feel, humming quietly along.

  She remembered how it felt for him to pull her in close and hold her, not tightly, but firm against his body, pressed against parts of him that she had been taught to pretend didn’t even exist. When the dance was done, there was a fire low in her stomach that she couldn’t deny or explain, but just playing the song brought it all back, and she flushed at the memory.

  “Well, you mademoiselle, are a woman of many gentle talents, aren’t you?” A soft masculine voice behind her made her start, and her hands slipped off the keyboard, palms hitting the bench seat on either side of her to steady her. She slowly turned her head and looked over her shoulder, and Will was standing there, in his heavy winter overcoat, his hat in his hands.