A Down-Home Savannah Christmas

by Nancy Robards Thompson

  A couple of cars whooshed by and the delivery truck for the Chat Noir Café slowed as it lumbered around the corner. The brakes whistled and Elle could picture it parking next to the inn’s kitchen door. There was something soothing in all the sameness, the sounds and smells, still knowing her neighbors after all this time and to have them welcome her home without mentioning the Great Wedding Debacle.

  In Atlanta, she could be as anonymous as she wanted to be. In Savannah, there was no hiding. Elle felt compelled to hold her chin up and prove that she was better off on her own. She could take care of herself; she didn’t need a man to take care of her. In fact, it had become a point of pride that she remained free and unencumbered, free do to what she wanted when she wanted, without having to answer to anyone.

  Roger had done her a favor by setting her free.

  Elizabeth glanced at her watch. The guests would arrive in about an hour. Since she’d kept Gigi and her mom away from their work last night, Elle wanted to get down there and pitch in.

  She cast one last wistful glance at the gorgeous, changing morning light glowing in Forsyth Park. Now fingers of silver and gold filtered through the ancient live oaks, painting an ethereal picture. That was when she caught a glimpse of a man jogging past the fountain.

  Without her contact lenses, she had to squint to bring the details of his masculine form into semisoft focus. But that didn’t matter. He looked fine, even from this distance. She leaned against the wrought iron railing and drank in the blurry, virile beauty of him. Taking care of herself may have become a point of pride, but she still appreciated a hot guy.

  This hot guy was definitely worth the second glance.

  He was tall and lean, with dark hair that might have been a tad too long, and broad, muscled shoulders that looked to be the natural by-product of honest, hard work.

  Nice.

  Something vaguely familiar emerged through the soft focus.

  Wait.

  Did she know him? In a town where everyone knew everyone, except for the tourists, it was likely. She did a quick mental inventory of the various places their paths might have crossed. She quickly crossed off her Atlanta circles, people who worked with her at Stapleton Elementary School and the parents of the students in the art classes she taught at the school.

  Even though Savannah was home—she was born and raised here—she hadn’t spent much time here over the past few years. Not since she’d graduated from Savannah College of Art and Design and moved to Atlanta to teach art after the wedding was called off.

  She mentally lined through her list of Savannah neighbors, and the various SCAD-related groups he could’ve belonged to and found herself reaching all the way back to her days at Savannah Country Day School.

  The jogger stopped on the sidewalk across the street from the inn and peered up at her.

  Her stomach clenched.

  Wait.

  Oh, crap.

  Is that...? Oh, no, is that Daniel Quindlin?

  She turned away too fast. The clumsy motion made her spoon fall off the saucer and clatter on the balcony’s wooden floorboards. Feeling foolish, she bent down and retrieved it.

  What’s wrong with you? He probably saw you do that. Of course he saw you do that.

  With a deep breath, she straightened, pulling herself up to her full height and pushing her shoulders back before she stole another glance.

  Oh, God. It was him.

  Her stomach lurched and she gritted her teeth against a gamut of perplexing emotions. If the pretty sunrise and everything familiar had been an omen of good things to come, Daniel Quindlin was standing there staring up at her like a harbinger of doom.

  What was he doing in Savannah? When had he returned? She would’ve thought her mother or grandmother would’ve warned her.

  Not that it mattered. When they were in high school, he’d made it very clear that Savannah was the last place on earth he wanted to be.

  He stared at her for a moment before he lifted a hand in greeting.

  Elizabeth’s heart thudded and heat burned her cheeks. Why? She had no reason to feel embarrassed or care what Daniel Quindlin thought of her. She raked her hand into her hair, trying to casually smooth the humidity-induced bedhead that she hadn’t bothered to fuss with before she’d stepped out here with her coffee.

  This was Savannah. Not Atlanta. And knowing everyone in town—or at least most of the historical district—was the breaks of being a sixth-generation Savannah native.

  She knew better.

  Head held high and cheeks still burning, she pulled her hand out of her hair and gave a quick wave to prove that she was fine, that all these years after he’d succeeded in talking Roger out of marrying her and leaving her at the altar, humiliating her in front of God and everyone, she was perfectly fine.

  Common sense dictated that Roger couldn’t have been talked into doing anything he didn’t want to do. But she blamed Daniel for the way it all unfolded. Seeing him again after all these years reopened a wound she thought had healed.

  Shortly before the ceremony had started, Jane had gone to her car to get a safety pin. She’d passed by the choir room and had overheard Daniel telling Roger he had no business getting married. She’d heard him say, “It’s better to get out now than to get a divorce later.”

  Jane had beaten herself up for not telling Elizabeth, for letting her walk down that aisle. But Roger had sounded so resolute when he’d told Daniel, “Stay out of my business,” and Jane thought Roger was fine. That Daniel was being a jackass.

  A few minutes later, when Roger was waiting for Elizabeth at the front of the church and everything seemed to be going as planned, she’d made the snap decision to not say anything to Elle.

  Elle had understood. She had forgiven Jane. Actually, she’d never held it against her sister, because it hadn’t been her fault. The music had been playing. Roger had been in place, seemingly prepared to get married. What was Jane supposed to do? Stop the wedding over a snippet of conversation she hadn’t even been sure she’d heard right?

  For a solid year after the wedding Jane had beaten herself up, saying if she had one do-over, she would’ve confronted Roger and Daniel and asked them to clarify and she would’ve stopped Elle from walking down the aisle.

  For Jane’s sake, Elle had tried so hard to prove she was fine that she’d actually convinced herself she was.

  Until now.

  After all these years, the mere sight of Daniel Quindlin made her feel clumsy and out of control.

  But wait—why was she giving him so much power over her? When she thought about it that way, it was easier to push Daniel out of her mind and go inside to get ready for the day.

  She wasn’t going to get anything done if she stayed out here on the balcony all morning acting like a forlorn Juliet. Instead, she showered and dressed in a lightweight pink-and-green sweater and jeans. She took a couple of extra minutes to dry her hair, smooth it into a high ponytail and apply makeup.

  She felt more like herself as she walked down to the kitchen, greeting several guests that she passed on the grand staircase. In the lobby, she paused to admire the stately Christmas tree decorated with beloved family ornaments. It was standing sentry in its usual place of honor, the same spot it had occupied for as far back as Elle could remember.

  As usual, her mother and grandmother had transformed the inn into a tasteful Christmas wonderland with wreaths and red flower arrangements, gold beaded garlands, large nutcrackers and boxes wrapped to resemble large presents.

  No one was in the kitchen, but a large foil-covered serving pan from the Chat Noir waited on the kitchen’s long trestle table. The aroma of breakfast food made Elle’s stomach growl. After she washed her coffee cup and saucer and put them away, she lifted a corner of the foil that covered a large aluminum pan. A waft of steam carried the delectable scent of homemade biscuits. She inhale
d deeply and replaced the lid. She needed to get out of the kitchen before the temptation to help herself got the best of her.

  She pushed through the double doors and into the butler’s pantry, which connected the kitchen to the private dining room. Surely there was something in there she could do to help finish setting up for the breakfast meeting?

  With its oversize windows and wall of French doors, the inn’s dining room was one of her favorite places in the ten-thousand-square-foot house. The room was light and bright and offered a gorgeous view of the inn’s garden. This time of year the garden was still green, but the springtime bounty of roses, pink blossomed cherry sage, white pincushion flowers and cheery black-eyed Susans were replaced with voluptuous poinsettias and whimsical Christmas decorations.

  While most of the floral paintings that hung on the walls in the dining room were originals Elizabeth had painted while she was in art school, the scene through the French doors looked like a wall-sized holiday-themed painting that changed with the light.

  Her wedding reception would have been in that garden. She hadn’t even thought about it in all the times that she’d come home over the past six years. All it took was seeing the guy who’d instigated the breakup to make it all come flooding back.

  Now he knew she was home, and if he was any kind of gentleman he’d stay in his neighborhood—wherever he was living now—and out of hers. Forsyth Park was a huge green space. All he had to do was stay away from the Whitaker Street side.

  A memory flooded to the forefront. It was the day of the wedding, after Jane had helped her escape to the bride’s room. Daniel had had the nerve to come to the door. Of course, Jane, her protector, had shifted into full-on attack-dog mode. She hadn’t given him a chance to speak, or to explain or gloat or whatever he’d come to do.

  Elizabeth had been surrounded by her mother, her grandmother and her younger sister, Kate. They were fussing over her, each one doing her best to console her, while Jane played gatekeeper, answering knocks and taking messages and assuring the well-wishers she would convey their condolences.

  Then Daniel had knocked.

  Elle hadn’t even seen him, but she knew it was him by the how-dare-you tone of her sister’s voice. She’d swiftly stepped outside and the rest of the conversation had been muted, leaving Elizabeth to fill in the missing pieces. Her favorite version had Jane chasing Daniel away—literally. Striking a fear in him so raw that he’d turned and hightailed it away.

  It hadn’t really happened that way, of course, but on the rare occasion that she felt blue over the way things had ended, Elle imagined her sister chasing away the monster.

  Elle had even gone so far as to paint a picture of the scene in her art journal, a private book of sketches, doodles and experimental paintings that she showed to no one. The art journal was her catharsis. It was a private place where she could leave what was haunting her on the page and close the book.

  She took special care to ensure the painting of Jane, in her pale pink maid-of-honor gown, hadn’t looked like a bride chasing a groom in a church.

  Because a bride shouldn’t have to chase the man with whom she was supposed to spend the rest of her life. What kind of a marriage would that be?

  For the first six months or so, Elle had half expected Roger to come back all apologies and remorse, kicking himself for making the worst mistake of his life. She wouldn’t have taken him back, of course. But at first she’d imagined him walking through the door, contrite and blaming cold feet on a momentary loss of reason, begging her to give him another chance.

  She’d abandoned that foolish daydream in a hurry. She’d traded it in for the belief that she needed no one. She could take care of herself. Never again would she be so foolish.

  It hadn’t taken her long to get the job at Stapleton teaching first grade. Later, they’d created the art teacher position for her.

  She’d moved to Atlanta and moved on with her life. Yeah, and losing that job had sent her back to where it all started. Running into Daniel in the place where everything fell apart wasn’t helping.

  Well, she wasn’t staying long. She’d only come home to regroup, to see her mother, Gigi—and maybe even her youngest sister, Kate, if she could get away from the salon where she cut hair. They were such strong women, and through them she would remember she was strong, too.

  She would make it through this temporary roadblock and she’d come out all the stronger for it.

  As she watched the red and gold garlands on the garden topiaries sway in the gentle morning breeze, she vowed to herself that she wouldn’t dwell on the past. This was a new chapter, a new page for her art journal.

  She turned away from the window and surveyed the festively decorated room to see what she could do to help. The tables and the speaker’s podium were already set up. Someone had set out holiday themed tablecloths, silverware and china plates and arranged the eclectic mix of porcelain coffee cups, similar to the one she’d drunk from this morning, on silver trays next to the sterling coffee urn. The tables needed to be dressed and set and the food from the Chat Noir needed to be set out.

  Where were her mother and Gigi?

  Elizabeth lit the Sterno pots to warm the water in the chafing dishes. When she was a kid that had always been her favorite job. Gigi had supervised, but she’d let Elizabeth light the little pots. The thrill she’d felt watching the purple jelly pop into an orange-and-blue flame was a visceral memory and it warmed her from the inside out.

  Making herself smile in the spirit of “fake it until you make it,” she picked up one of the tablecloths, gently unfolded it and spread it over the closest table. She smoothed the surface a little too hard, trying to get it to lie flat, and she realized Daniel Quindlin was still lurking in the recesses of her mind.

  If he was living in her head, it was because she was allowing him to be there. She needed to block him out. She needed to think of something worth dwelling on.

  She glanced around the dining room—she had to think of something worthy, like the women in her family who had come before her.

  Those women had made the delicate linens—like the one she’d nearly rubbed a hole in as she tried to smooth it out—by hand. Each generation had taken loving care to preserve these heirlooms and pass them down. They were guardians of the legacy. To Elle, the linens and the stories attached to them were nearly as important as the inn itself. The women from whom she and her sisters were descended had taken such pride in sharing their finery—the linen, china, crystal, the silver coffee service and chafing dishes—with the guests who’d stayed at the Forsyth. It was the little touches that made people feel at home and brought them back.

  Elizabeth heard the rattle of a food cart in the butler’s pantry.

  “There you are,” her mother, Zelda, said, after she butted open the doors and pulled the food cart through, a smile overtaking her face. “I’m so happy you’re home, baby girl, I can hardly stand it.”

  Her mother’s eyes searched Elizabeth’s face. Her unasked questions hung in the air.

  Last night, Elizabeth had been too tired to get into many of the details. She’d simply said there wasn’t money to fund the art department. She didn’t want her mother to worry about her. Zelda had been through her own trials and tribulations over the years. As long as the Forsyth Galloway Inn was in the family, Elle would always have a roof over her head and food to eat, but she would never have a lot of extra money. The inn gobbled up most of the proceeds, leaving very little left over. In fact, the place was looking a little tired, like it could use some attention. They still needed to fix the water damage sustained during the last hurricane, and even her beloved dining room would only benefit from a fresh coat of paint. All it took was money.

  Elle didn’t want Zelda worrying about what she would do for work if the county couldn’t place her in another position—or better yet—find a way to fund her job teaching art.


  “Thanks for starting the Sterno,” Zelda said as she lowered a tray of food into a chafing dish. “On my way down to the dining room, the Gibbons, who are in room twelve, stopped me and said they needed fresh towels. I went to the linen closet to get them some, but it’s empty. That’s strange because last night when I checked, we had at least three sets of washcloths, bath and hand towels. I wonder where they went?”

  Zelda frowned and raked a hand through her auburn curls. She was in her midfifties and still had a shape that most thirtysomethings would envy and a peaches-and-cream complexion that was pretty near flawless except for the worry crease at the bridge of her nose and the faint lines around her eyes.

  “I don’t know, Mom. I’m sorry. There were plenty of towels in my bathroom. I’d be happy to call the linen service and arrange for a delivery if you want.”

  Zelda waved her hand. “We had to cut linen service. We do the laundry in-house to save money. It’s a lot of extra work, but it’s part of the belt-tightening process.”

  Belt-tightening?

  Elizabeth was about to ask if everything was okay when Zelda chatted on.

  “You know, to afford this renovation we’re wanting to do. But anyway, I was downstairs a few minutes ago throwing in another load of towels. I did several yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t have a chance to fold them and put them away. But I know I saw towel sets in the downstairs linen closet last night.”

  “Someone must’ve helped themselves,” Elle said. “No worries. After we get the breakfast meeting set up, I’ll fold the towels for you, deliver a fresh set to the Gibbons’ room and restock the linen closet. I’m happy to help out while I’m here.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” The crease between her mother’s eyes eased a bit. It sounded as if she’d been working hard. Elizabeth wanted nothing more than to lighten her load. While her grandmother seemed to thrive in this business, her mother was more of an introvert.