Page 53 of A Very Naughty Christmas

“Since you aren’t, I’ll give you an explanation instead, although I don’t owe you one. The painting is for my sister. She’s been searching for something to go over her new blue sofa in her living room. This will be perfect. The umbrella didn’t belong to a girlfriend or wife that I’m cheating on, but another female relative who asked me to drop in on my way through and see if she had left it. Further, I’m single. If I was in a committed relationship, I wouldn’t stray, that’s not my style. I also don’t trash-talk women in hallways as you thought you overheard. Spencer was lying through his teeth. All of us, except Parker, who was a virgin same as old Spence, knew it because they both became tongue-tied whenever a pretty girl came within ten feet of them. He was all talk and at the time could barely find his dick to take care of himself, let alone know what to do with it with a girl. We were purposely egging him on to see how much bullshit he would spew. We knew you were a good girl, Dixie, always did. It was unfortunate that you came in when you did and left too soon, or you would have heard us tell him that. And I would have told you all of this if you’d have returned one of my two dozen phone calls or let me explain all those years ago.”

He released her. It happened so fast she lost her balance and teetered up against the table. Next, he dropped a business card on the table with several bills, most of them hundreds. “Have the painting delivered to this address by your courier service.” He then turned to leave.

At the opening of the tent, he stopped and glanced her way, his regret plainly visible. “You were gorgeous that day, Dixie, breathing your fire on poor pathetic Spencer. I wanted nothing more than to haul you into my arms and kiss you, as much as I did a few minutes ago. Now you’ve answered the question I’ve been wondering about since that day, about what lay beneath all that you were back then. I’m sorry to say, I’m disappointed. You, my dear, are a snob. And sadly, despite all your beauty and that which you can create,” he gestured to the artwork around him, “you’ve closed your eyes to many good things around you—me included. And that’s not spoiled rich boy arrogance talking, but the truth. Unfortunately, you didn’t allow yourself the opportunity to learn that for yourself.”

Then he was gone, his parting words landing with the weight of an anvil on her chest.

* * *

“He still bought your painting after all of that?” Mrs. G. was listening raptly to the sad tale as Dixie wiped down the tables the following Wednesday.

“Yes, I was stunned.”

“It sounds like you had him pegged wrong, dear.”

She stopped and stared down at the scratched Formica. If her reflection hadn’t been so distorted in the old battered tabletop, it would have mirrored as much regret as Kyle’s expression had the last time she’d seen him. How had she been so wrong?

“You put him in the same basket with your father and all the other disreputable men in your life. There are good men out there, and it’s not fair to judge an entire gender by a sorry few. Not that you don’t have to be careful, because as the saying goes, sometimes you have to kiss a lot of horny toads before you find your perfect prince. However, you’ve admittedly kissed only a handful, my dear, not nearly enough to weed out all the toads.”

“Frogs.”

“Pardon?” Emmaline asked.

“You have to kiss a lot of frogs to find the prince.”

“Pfft,” she said, waving her off. “These are men we’re talking about. And none of them are going to be perfect. And, if you ask me, horny toad fits the male of our species much better than frogs.”

Dixie giggled, for the wizened old gal was right.

“There’s my ride,” her friend said as she eased out of the booth. “They’re calling for snow tonight after dark. You don’t have to work the late shift, do you?”

“No. I’m off at five o’clock today, right before the supper rush.”

“Good. Make sure you stop by the Save-a-Lot and pick up bread and milk on your way. They’re expecting up to two feet in the higher elevations by the time it’s all said anddone.”

It was a time-honored tradition for those in the mountains to arrive en masse at the grocery store to stock up at the merest hint of a snowflake. They even closed schools sometimes at the threat of snow in the forecast. And the D.O.T. trucks had been out putting down their special brine solution for the past few hours. Snow in the mountains, with the winding roads, hairpin turns, and steep embankments, was a different kind of reality than in the lowlands. Yet the folks who called the region God’s Country and would never consider leaving despite the inclement weather, were used to it. And like a hurricane in the tropics, folks prepared for the worst; in this case, to be blanketed with snow measured in feet, not inches, because when that happened no one, short of a 4WD, and sometimes not then, was going anywhere.

She nodded indulgently. “I’ll be sure to, thanks for reminding me.”

“You think I’m overreacting, but my rheumatism is acting up. We’re getting snow, mark my words.”

Mrs. G. waved as Walter opened the door and offered his arm to walk her out to her Rolls. Watching as he helped her in and rounded the hood to the street side, Dixie blinked as a light snow began to fall. Her gaze shot to the window where a smirking Emmaline was watching her. She had to laugh as the woman, as precocious as Shirley Temple as a five-year-old, winked as the car slowly drove away.

Chapter Six

What had started out as flurries at three o’clock had become four inches on slick covered roads by the end of her shift, at five. Maggie, who lived halfway up the mountain past Mars Hill, had called in twenty minutes ago, unable to get down her driveway. This meant Dixie was stuck at work until closing time at midnight, or until foot traffic stopped enough for Pete to close early, which he rarely did.

That call still hadn’t come at seven o’clock as she sat at the counter, bored out of her mind with the last customer having left an hour past, and nothing to do except watch the snow pile up at a rate of two inches per hour. The traffic that had slowed around dark had dwindled to only the occasional full-size SUV or emergency vehicle going by at a crawl. Even those skated through the intersection in front of Pete’s while she and Lester looked on and held their breath. Dixie would close her eyes at the last minute, waiting for the inevitable crunch of metal, but with so few out in the full force of the winter storm, they went through blessedly unscathed.

“I’m calling Pete,” Lester finally announced at seven-thirty. “This is ridiculous. If we don’t go soon, we’ll be stranded.”

“Not me. I’ve got boots in my locker and I’ll make snowshoes out of the breadbaskets before I stay here overnight.”

“Get ‘em, babe. I’m calling the boss man and telling him we’re out of here.”

Dixie grinned after the older man as she headed for the phone. At sixty-three, he’d come of age in the sixties, served through the last few years of the Vietnam war, watched disco live and die, and been through a decade of hair bands. He’d survived two wives, raised three wonderful children, wore a huge diamond stud earring, a perpetual ponytail—thinned over the years—had a mass of interesting tattoos, and had to be one of the most memorable characters she’d ever had the privilege of knowing. Too bad he was old enough to be her grandfather or else she’d have scooped him up because he was also one of the best men she knew.

As his low rumble echoed through the kitchen door, she began shutting down the front, switching off the coffeepot and turning off the lights. By the time Lester emerged from the back with his coat and gloves in hand, she had her own on, as well as her boots, and was swirling her scarf around her neck.

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