Page 39 of A Very Naughty Christmas

Her already wrinkled brow furrowed deeper. “I know you, Dixie Culbertson. You’re a lot like me. You put on a good front, like romance and love aren’t important to you, when they’re actually as vital as the air you breathe and the water you drink. In fact, I bet you go home every night, draw yourself a hot bath, maybe pour a glass of wine, and then curl up with a good book that has one of those sexy half-naked hunks on the cover.”

Dixie’s jaw dropped open.

“In my day we had Fabio. Mm,” she sighed dreamily, like a teenager with a crush. “Now he was a hunk. There wasn’t a woman alive who didn’t dream of running her hands over that broad chest or through his gorgeous wealth of golden hair.”

“Mrs. G.! What would Pastor Evans say if he heard such talk?”

She waved off her shock. “What the preacher doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, it’s words on paper, and there’s no harm in that. It’s not as though I’m going out to Highway 26 and lifting my skirt to flag down a trucker.” She glanced around as if checking for spies as she lowered her voice, unnecessary in the empty diner. “Have you read about that Christian Grey?”

Land’s sake, Dixie groaned inwardly,please say this genteel southern lady has not readFifty Shades.

“Rich, handsome, powerful; if you ask me, that silly girl shouldn’t have walked away. So what if he liked to lay down the law, if you ask me, that’s something men these days don’t do near enough of.” She shook her head. “Take my Harvey. He was all man and didn’t mind showing it. Not that I was a shrinking violet by any means; still, I let him wear the pants, or so he thought. I remember one time, when he was displeased with me, that he didn’t blink an eye about taking me over his—”

The door opened just then and she was literally saved by the bell. Sleigh bells, that is. The jingling sound announcing their timely arrival, the sweetest sound Dixie had ever heard. With unflagging relief, she waved in the young man and woman who had spared her from the retelling of a spanking story from a nonagenarian. Yikes! She didn’t know if recovery from such an event was possible.

“Take a seat anywhere, folks. I’ll be right with you.”

“I should let you get to work,” Miss Emmaline said, giving Dixie hope of a permanent reprieve, then ruined it by adding, “I’ll finish my story next week.” She patted her arm and gave a sly wink. “Be prepared to blush; it’s quite juicy.”

Biting back a ‘heaven forbid,’ Dixie hoped when next Wednesday came around, she’d have long forgotten where she’d left off. Turning to retrieve her purse, Miss Emmaline bumped into her as she passed, but her sleight of hand technique was entirely deficient because Dixie felt her slip something into her front uniform pocket. In truth, she was so quickly onto the sly old woman that she retrieved what she’d left before Mrs. G.’s fingers had entirely come out.

Unfolding the bill, she found Benjamin Franklin staring up at her. “You know I can’t accept this.”

“What? A tip?” She harrumphed again, a common practice. “Every waitress deserves something extra for good service.”

“You had the special and a slice of apple pie, Mrs. G. No waitress deserves a two-thousand percent gratuity.”

“You do. Besides, that tip isn’t only for this meal, but the glorious artwork that I’ll get to enjoy for the next month or so.” She began to walk away.

“I can’t, really.”

“You can, and I’ll not take no for an answer.” In her high dudgeon, it came out as, “Ah’ll not take no fo-ah an an-suh.” Her lilting southern accent was charming and melodic, like the strains of an acoustic guitar. Dixie had often been cognizant of how her own drawl was harsh and far from refined, making her sound like one of the backwoods hicks the area was known for.

Shaking her head, she smiled after her. The woman was as dear and as stubborn as all get-out. At least she knew why Emmaline had taken such a liking to her; she thought they were alike, at least when they’d been of an age, which now spanned over sixty years. Yet Dixie didn’t see it at all.

Where Mrs. G. was a lady, refined and used to the finer things in life like imported champagne and her Rolls Royce, Dixie came from the other side of the tracks, way on the other side. The main staple at her house growing up had been soup beans and cornbread, not lobster and caviar. And when the occasion warranted, their PBR came in a can, not a bottle. And more than a decade out of high school, her circumstances hadn’t changed much. When she left the diner tonight, if the rain was coming down like it was now, instead of a driver pulling up to the curb and holding an umbrella over her head for her to safely, and dryly, enter her vehicle, Dixie would be slogging through the puddles as she walked home from work. Further, instead of heading to a hilltop mansion, her humble abode was a crappy two-room apartment over the flower store four blocks away.

She frowned, seeing Emmaline digging through her purse at the door. Was she searching for keys? Dixie strained to see through the painted windows to the curb and her surprise quickly turned to concern. She didn’t see the Rolls and her driver.

“Did you come here by yourself?”

“Yes, Walter went home early for the holidays to see his first grandchild.”

“But they’re calling for sleet turning to snow and it’s almost dark. You told me you don’t see well with the glare of the oncoming headlights.”

“Not to worry. I’ll be home before it gets dark and well ahead of the big freeze.” Still digging through her grandmotherly type pocketbook, the kind with the two short straps, one of which rested in the crook of her elbow while the other hung free, she searched for something. “Where did I put that darn rain bonnet?”

“Take the umbrella, Mrs. G.”

She stopped and glanced toward the coatrack. “No one ever came back for it?”

“Nope. So long unclaimed, it’s yours for the taking.”

“I couldn’t,” she said, tilting her head and glancing briefly at the lovely taupe umbrella with its lace overlay. They’d taken notice of it over two weeks ago and waited anxiously to see who would return to retrieve what looked more like a sun parasol than a tool for foul weather. However, the lace was made of vinyl—they’d both long since checked it out—and the underlay was sturdy, making it well-equipped to do the job, especially today when the drizzle wouldn’t stop.

Stubbornly, she shook her head and with a small wistful sigh went back to digging. “It’s so pretty, I’m certain someone will come for it. Ah, here it is.”

As she carefully laid the clear bonnet over her freshly done hair and tied the thin plastic strings beneath her chin, a truck went by and sent a shower of water up on the sidewalk, the spray hitting the door with a loud splat. Dixie still wasn’t convinced it was a good idea for her to be driving home. “The roads will be slick; let me call someone for you. One of your grandchildren, maybe?”

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