Page 68 of A Very Naughty Christmas

“Sure, on Saturday during the lunch rush. I tacked it up on the board.”

She pushed by him and ran to the wall-mounted bulletin board by the phone. It tooksifting through five days of messages to find the wadded-up napkin containing Pete’s Sanskrit shorthand.

Called out.

S.A.

Patchy signal.

KP

“Oh, my God!” she squealed. “He probably thinks I’m ignoring him.”

“Text him,” someone suggested.

“Call him,” another advised.

“Kill Pete.” This last shouted piece of advice came from Emmaline.

“Hey!” her boss protested. “I did what I was supposed to. The phone rang, I took a message—one that wasn’t diner related, I might add—then I wrote it down and stuck it there.” He pointed at the cluttered board. “It’s not my job to keep up with all of your social lives.”

As Pete stalked into the kitchen, she was dialing Kyle, getting his number from her useless out-of-minutes phone and using the diner extension, instead. Again, she got his answering service, but this time, she left a message.

“Tell Dr. Prescott when he checks in that I got the package and the message, today. Make sure he knows I got both today, that’s very important. And tell him I’ll be ready when he picks me up on Saturday.” She listened as the woman read the message back, then thanked her and hung up.

When Dixie returned to her friends and curious customers, she was over her crying spell and wiping her face.

“Hey, Dix,” Janice said. “I’m glad this is all figured out, but you forgot something.”

She frowned, her eyes going to the dress and the note she still held. “What’s that?”

Her friend held up a box that was labeled Valentino. “Shoes, girl!”

* * *

She got one more message from Kyle, on Thursday, again at the diner when she wasn’t there to speak to him directly. This time, Janice had taken the call and her message was written neatly—and legibly—on real paper. Of course, he didn’t say much that was personal through a third party, but he did say he was delayed by two other consultations while they had him there, which meant he wouldn’t be back until late Friday night.

But she didn’t hear from him then, or all day on Saturday. And she spent the fifty-dollar tip that Mrs. G. had slipped into her pocket this week on more minutes, to be sureshe wouldn’t miss him again. At four o’clock, she was standing in her robe and panties, putting her makeup on, unsure if her efforts would be a waste of time, though determined to have faith that he’d be there as promised.

When a buzzing sounded against the counter beside her at four-ten, she jumped. Her fingers were shaking so hard that when she opened her phone, she fumbled and dropped it, watching in horror as it bounced off the toilet seat. When it veered onto the floor rather than into the water, she almost collapsed in relief.

To keep it from happening again, she dropped onto the floor on her knees as she flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Dixie?”

“Kyle, land’s sake! I almost dropped the phone in the toilet and missed you again.”

“Sweetheart, I swear, I’m investing in satellite phones for two for next time.”

“I wanted to strangle Pete. I thought you had dumped me.”

There was silence on the other end. Oops, maybe she’d been too honest in her communication.

“Did you think after the two days we shared that I’d do that to you?”

“Um…”

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