Small Town Christmas

by Jill Shalvis

  Jane had retaliated by calling him Clayton P. This annoyed him. And annoying the man was too much fun, especially since he had humiliated her this morning and proven himself to be a mule-headed weasel with a pessimistic streak.

  Although he was resourceful, sort of like a Boy Scout, which was a troubling thought. He’d managed to find her a bright orange plastic poncho in his minivan. Clayton P. apparently took the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared,” very seriously, since he had a veritable warehouse of stuff in his van, from safety flares to fishing rods. Not the kind of collection of useful items she would expect from a guy who looked like he was bad to the bone.

  “Howdy, Wanda Jane,” Betty said. “New in town?”

  Well, duh. There were no more than a couple thousand souls living in Last Chance. What were the odds that a stranger walking into the Kountry Kitchen for the first time was actually new to town? Probably a dead certainty.

  “Yes, I am.” She gave Betty a sweet, down-home smile, which the waitress didn’t exactly return. “I’m looking for work,” Jane added. “You wouldn’t happen to have a need for an experienced waitress?”

  Clayton P. Rhodes put his coffee cup down hard enough to slosh the contents. The fiddler had already made it clear that he intended to run her out of town as soon as the storm ended. But Jane had other ideas.

  “Sorry, we don’t have any job openings,” Betty said. “But, you know, Dottie is always looking for help.”

  “Dottie? As in the proprietor of Dot’s Spot?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Betty did smile then, but it was phony enough to be featured on a piece of forged artwork.

  “You’re not working for Dottie,” Clayton P. announced as if he had a say in the matter, which he did not. Jane had decided to stay in Last Chance for a little while, because it looked like the kind of small town where Woody and the thugs after him would never dream of looking for her.

  “What can I get you, sugar?” Betty asked.

  “I’ll have the two-egg breakfast,” she said, snapping closed the menu. It cost only four dollars. Her mouth watered in anticipation, which was fitting because when she paid the bill she would be officially flat broke.

  No, check that, she would be officially in debt because she intended to pay Clayton P. back for the Cokes she drank last night and half of the motel, too. That way she could say she hadn’t sold her body for food and shelter. She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and tried not to look up at him.

  “I told you,” Clayton P. said in a low voice, once Betty had departed, “I’ll give you enough money to get you wherever you want to go.”

  Well, of course, he didn’t mean that. She doubted if he would pay her passage on a cruise to Bermuda, although she was tempted to ask, just to prove her point.

  “I want to stay here,” she said.

  “For goodness’ sake, why? This is a dying town.”

  Jane looked up at him as he frowned down at her. The fluorescent lights gleamed on his dark chestnut hair. He had nice hair, even when he wore it slicked back into a ponytail. But last night, with it falling down around his shoulders, he had looked hotter than Hades. She pushed the vision of him naked out of her head.

  “If it’s so bad, why don’t you take your negatory attitude and leave?” she asked.

  “Negatory attitude?” His brow lowered, and he looked sour. “What in the Sam Hill does that mean?”

  “Dr. Goodbody says pessimism can become a habit, blinding you to the bright side of even the worst disaster. You might try to focus on the positive things about Last Chance instead of the negative ones. And you didn’t answer my question. If it’s such a terrible place, why do you stay?”

  “You didn’t answer mine.” He didn’t stop frowning.

  “I’m staying because I have to. It’s pretty simple. And I aim to make the best of this disaster, just like Dr. Goodbody says.”

  “Little gal, you don’t—”

  “I’m not little, and I’m not a girl, so would you please call me Jane?”

  He gritted his teeth. She could tell by the way the muscles jumped in his oh-so-square jaw. “You don’t have to stay here, Jane. I’ll—”

  “Forget it. I’m not taking your money, okay?”

  He blinked at her for a couple of moments. “Look, if this is about what happened last night, I—”

  “Well, of course it’s about what happened last night. And I think it would be best, all the way around, if we put all that behind us,” she said. “It was enjoyable so far as it went. But we both know it was a big mistake and dwelling on it will unleash lots of negative psychic energy. And at the moment, I’m trying to be positive about the future.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that. So when the storm blows over, I’ll stake you to some cash so you can leave Last Chance behind. Trust me, this is not a positive place.”

  “I’m not taking your money. I told you that already. Taking your money would make what happened last night even worse than it already is.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, you tried to roll me this morning.” He leaned back in the booth, a miserable look on his face.

  “No, I didn’t. And it seems the only way to make that point clear is to get a job and pay you back for your expenses. That way I won’t have anything heavy weighing down my karma, you know?”

  “Karma?”

  “You know, like a spiritual scorecard. Last night, I slipped, and I—”

  “Honey, I owe you something for last night. And I’m sorry about this morning.” He sat there looking unhappy. She pitied him, but not enough to take his money. Taking his money would be a big mistake. He would get the idea he owned her or something, and she most definitely didn’t want him thinking that. She was independent. She could fend for herself.

  Jane reached out and touched his hand where it rested on the Formica tabletop. His skin was warm and a little rough. Touching him reminded her of the way he’d touched her last night, and her stomach clutched.

  She withdrew her hand. “Look, I heard you in the bathroom, and it’s okay. Whatever got to you last night, I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

  “You heard me?” His voice cracked in alarm.

  She shrugged. “I tried not to listen. Honest. But you weren’t exactly quiet about it. So anyway, the point is, you don’t owe me anything for last night, and you shouldn’t feel guilty about your feelings either. Like you said, it was just a case of runaway lust.”

  His ears got red. It was kind of sexy the way he blushed like that. Clayton P. was kind of sweet for a negative person with lots of emotional baggage. He must have something heavy weighing him down, since he’d gone into the bathroom and cried.

  Despite the zinging of her hormones, she could resist him. That was the important thing right now.

  He lifted his coffee mug and took a sip, his gaze drifting away from her. They sat in awkward silence for a few minutes while Jane studied her surroundings. The Kountry Kitchen looked like something out of a 1950s family TV show set in some quaint little town where everyone was nice to everyone else. It had polished chrome everywhere, booths and stools covered in red vinyl, a linoleum checkerboard floor, and a gray Formica lunch counter. On this dark and windy Thursday morning, the place was empty, except for a table of old geezers wearing overalls and Country Pride Chicken hats.

  That changed a moment later as the front door opened to the sound of an old-fashioned tinkling bell. A big man wearing a plastic-covered Stetson and a full-length, shiny black raincoat stepped across the threshold and shook himself. Rainwater poured off his shoulders and splattered in a big puddle on the floor.

  He took off his hat, exposing close-cropped dark hair, graying at the temples. His face had fine, almost perfect features.

  The guy took off his raincoat, and Jane realized he was a cop—a big cop, wearing a bulletproof vest and carrying about fifty pounds of weaponry and communications on his utility belt. Barney Fife this guy was not.

  The cop hung his coat and hat on a peg by the door
and headed down the line of booths with the coiled grace of a big predator. The radio on his belt made a crackling noise, and his shoes, which looked shiny bright despite the rain outside, had a little squeak to them. He headed right for them.

  Fear blew through Jane. What if the thugs had killed Woody and his body had turned up someplace bearing incriminating evidence? What if Woody was into something illegal and not just a gambler with a bunch of sharks on his tail? Negative thoughts of being interrogated about her stupid liaison with Woody West danced right through her mind.

  She looked up at the cop and told herself to think happy thoughts, but there was something kind of dead in his green eyes that made all the positive energy inside her condense into a big knot right in her stomach.

  “Hey, Stony,” Betty said, as she arrived with Jane’s two-egg breakfast and the fiddler’s biscuits. Betty gave the policeman the same adoring look she had given Clayton P. earlier. The cop was just as immune.

  “Hey, Betty,” he said in a voice so deep it sounded like it came right out of the center of the earth.

  “The usual?” the waitress asked.

  “Nope. Just coffee, I’ve only got a minute. Route 70 is washed out down over to Sweden, and the county needs backup to set up a roadblock. Make it to go, would you, darlin’?”

  Betty bustled back to the kitchen, and the cop turned toward Jane. He put his hands on his utility belt and studied her for almost ten seconds without blinking.

  Ten seconds is a long time to endure a stare like that. She couldn’t look away, so she forced herself to look up into his granite face while she recited the mantra she used every night right before she dropped off to sleep. The mantra was supposed to clear her mind and make it possible for her to manifest self-confidence and positive energy in her life.

  “Hey, didn’t Momma ever tell you it’s not polite to stare,” Clayton P. said as he scooted his butt toward the wall, making room on the bench beside him. “Take a load off, bro.”

  Bro?

  The big cop dropped down onto the seat beside Clayton P., and that’s when Jane saw the shiny nameplate above his right breast pocket. It said S. Rhodes.

  Hoo boy. Unless she’d missed something, the term of endearment coupled with that surname on the cop’s chest meant he was Clayton P. Rhodes’s brother.

  This was not a positive sign.

  Clayton P. wasn’t nearly the bad boy she had, at first, taken him for. He had a relationship with the local law, which meant he wasn’t in trouble with it. More to the point, Clayton P. could turn her in for attempted robbery and get the local law’s full attention without too many questions asked.

  “Meet Wanda Jane Coblentz,” Clayton P. said. “She’s originally from West Virginia, and she’s just passing through.” He gave her a knowing smile, and his silver eyes sparkled with what looked like real amusement.

  Oh great, Clayton P. had just handed the cop her entire life story. She hadn’t been Wanda Jane Coblentz from West Virginia in more than seven years. And with good reason, too.

  She smiled at the cop. He didn’t react.

  “Stony is my brother. He’s the chief of police,” Clayton P. said.

  Stony Rhodes? Wow, the world had gotten wacky in the last twenty-four hours. She could not be dealing with a couple of guys whose names were Stony and Clay, could she? They probably had another brother stashed somewhere named Dusty.

  “Saw your van down at the Peach Blossom last night,” Stony Rhodes drawled. “And if I saw it, you can bet your bottom dollar Lillian Bray saw it, which means Momma will know about it before the morning is finished.”

  Clayton P.’s ears got red again, but he said not one word. Instead, he dove into a biscuit.

  The cop looked back up at her. “How old are you, darlin’?” he asked.

  Clayton P. nearly jumped out of his seat. “Old enough,” he said under his breath.

  “Uh-huh,” the cop said, and that little grunt conveyed a world of censure. Compared to his older brother, Clayton P. didn’t look like a Boy Scout at all. It kind of added to his allure, somehow, which was a development Jane found disturbing.

  Betty came back with a large Styrofoam cup of coffee. “It’s on the house,” she said, handing it off to Stony.

  Stony nodded as he stood. He turned to look down at his brother. “I was out to the golf course a little while ago. I’m a little worried about Jesus.”

  “Daddy and I tied him down yesterday. He should be okay.”

  Jane almost choked on her bacon. “You tied down Jesus?” she asked, looking from one to the other of them. “Pardon me, but what, pray tell, was He doing on a golf course? And please do not tell me some old joke about how He was golfing with God.”

  Stony chuckled, and something changed in his eyes. For a fleeting instant, she could have sworn the chief of police was made of flesh and blood.

  He turned toward Clayton P., who was not laughing. “This one’s got a sense of humor, doesn’t she?” he said as if she weren’t sitting there.

  Clayton looked up from his biscuits. “It’s a statue of Jesus—twenty feet tall.”

  “On a golf course?”

  Clayton P. squeezed his eyes shut and started to massage his temples with his index fingers, like this entire conversation had given him an Excedrin headache.

  “It’s a minigolf course,” Stony said.

  Clay dropped his hands to the tabletop. “You know what?” he said in a hoarse voice that conveyed pain, anger, and something else Jane couldn’t quite figure out. “I hope it rains so hard today that the ark floats away, Moses drowns, and the whale and Jonah find their way back to the sea.”

  Jane picked up another slice of bacon and crunched. “There’s an ark, too?” she said around the food.

  “Life-sized,” Stony said. “Golfing for God is our one-and-only tourist attraction.”

  “Golfing for God?” she asked, looking from one to the other of them.

  “As opposed to golfing with Him,” Clayton P. said. “And it’s not a tourist attraction. It’s the local embarrassment. Unfortunately, our daddy is the proprietor.”

  The chief gave a little snort. “Amen to that.”

  “So you have to go, huh?” Clayton asked, changing the subject.

  “There’s a washout on Route 70. There’ll be more before the day’s out.”

  “Let me know if y’all need help. I’ll be down at the store,” Clayton P. said.

  “Probably do a brisk business in batteries and generators once the wind dies down. Will you keep an eye on Momma and the kids?”

  Clayton P. nodded. The cop turned and looked down at her. “Wanda Jane, huh?”

  “Jane for short.”

  “You come in last night on the nine-thirty bus from Atlanta?”

  She nodded. How did he know that?

  He nodded soberly. “Hope you don’t intend on doing any damage before you leave.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugged. “I reckon when a woman with the same name as a hurricane blows into town and maneuvers Clay to the Peach Blossom Motor Court within hours of her arrival, it’s a sure sign of trouble.” He leaned in. “And I don’t like trouble in my town.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and headed toward the door.

  Once he’d left, Jane turned toward Clayton P. “So that was your idea of reforming me, huh?”

  “Reckon so.”

  “Is the hurricane really named Jane?”

  “Where have you been the last couple of days?”

  “On a bus from Georgia. For the record, though, I think Jane is a stupid name for a hurricane.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She shrugged. “A hurricane should be named something exotic like Chantal or Jezebel. Jane is plain. No one takes a Jane seriously. And not taking a hurricane seriously is probably a big mistake.”

  He looked up from his coffee mug, a strange light in his eyes. Unlike his brother’s, Clayton’s eyes were not dead. In fact, now that she studi
ed them in the light of day, she could see they weren’t gray at all, but the palest shade of green with opalescent flecks in them. Iridescent fire burned in those flecks. That spark of fire had lured her into his arms last night.

  Her gaze dropped down to his mouth and got stuck there. She flashed on the memory of his kisses, and she wished for an Alzheimer’s moment. Unfortunately, her memory was good and deadly accurate.

  “I don’t know,” he said in his blurred drawl. “I wouldn’t exactly call you plain.”

  She dropped her gaze to her half-eaten breakfast. She had been a plain Jane once. She had run away from that awkward and confused girl. In many ways, she was still running.

  Clayton P. chuckled, and she glanced up. “Maybe the storm being named Jane is a sign,” he said.

  “You think?”

  His eyes darkened a little, and he looked down at his plate, filled now with crumbs. “You certainly blew into Dottie’s last night like a force of nature. I’ll give you that.” He pressed his index finger onto one of the crumbs and conveyed it to his mouth. Jane watched as his tongue darted out to take the crumb off his finger. Heat flashed through her.

  “So,” she said on a little puff of air. “Does this burg have a newspaper?”

  “Uh, no. Most folks read the Times and Democrat. It’s Orangeburg’s paper. Why?”

  “I need to check the help-wanted ads.” She smiled up at him as sweetly as she could, which was a good thing, because he suddenly looked like he was about to blow his stack.

  “Look, girl, will you wake up? We’re sitting on a flat piece of land that’s a few feet above sea level. Hurricane Jane may be a hundred miles away, but it’s supposed to drop something like fifteen inches of rain on us today. Before the day is out, we’ll lose power, half the roads will get washed out, and there will be trees down all over town. No one”—he leaned in—“is going to be conducting job interviews today.”

  She swallowed hard in the face of these dire projections. “You really are a glass-is-half-empty kind of person, aren’t you?”

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out. “Well,” he said, opening his eyes again and speaking as if she were mentally slow or something. “I realize you like to think positively, but…” His voice rose in pitch. “A hurricane is a frigging natural disaster.”