Their Unexpected Christmas Gift (The Stone Gap Inn Book 3)

by Shirley Jump

  For the foreseeable future, the school didn’t have a job for her. Principal Wescott couldn’t make any promises, but she said she would try to find Elle another position after the first of the year. There would probably be something in the fall. Not in art, but it would probably be a teaching job.

  “In the meantime, I’ll understand if you need to look for another job.”

  Merry Christmas to her.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse. Elle had applied for a mortgage to buy a condo in the Buckhead area. She’d scrimped and saved and brown-bagged so many ramen-noodle-soup-and-peanut-butter-sandwich lunches that she couldn’t stomach the combo any longer. But it had been worth it to get the home of her dreams. She’d saved up enough for a down payment, she’d found the perfect place and the sellers had accepted her offer.Without a job, there was no way she would qualify for the mortgage. It had taken her a long time to find this condo—the perfect size, in the perfect area, at the perfect price. The sellers were building a house. They couldn’t hold it for her, and at that price, it wouldn’t be on the market long. Her own real estate agent had caught wind of the listing before it went public. They’d moved fast, but without a job, there was nothing she could do. She had to be honest with the lender about her change of employment status.

  Mortgage aside, she needed money to cover her expenses while she looked for a new job. She had enough money to cover living expenses for a few months, but after that, she would have to dip into her down payment savings.

  At least she had a little bit of leeway. Even so, she hadn’t been able to take a full deep breath until she’d packed her car and found herself fifty miles down I-75, heading straight into the big smothering bosom of Savannah and the Forsyth Galloway Inn.

  Now, after a fitful night’s sleep, she stood on the wrought iron balcony off her bedroom, sipping coffee from a china cup with a matching saucer and breathing in the heady morning air—that intoxicating punch of the humid subtropical flora, spiced with hints of sulfur from the river. She closed her eyes and inhaled the comforting perfume. No matter how long she stayed away, she could always count on Savannah smelling the same when she returned. She was counting on the sameness of it to help her get her head on straight.

  Even in December, Savannah was warm by northern winter standards.

  And then there was that sunrise.

  It dawned so brilliantly over Forsyth Park, which was decorated for the holidays with pine garlands and red bows wrapped around the old-fashioned light posts and swagged along the black iron fence surrounding the majestic fountain. The vision took Elle’s breath away. She was tempted to believe the magical scene was a sign that coming home had been the right move. She stood admiring the splendor of lavender, persimmon and amber blooming in the sky. The fickle breeze flirted with her hair and kissed her cheeks before it flitted away to toy with tangles of Spanish moss dripping from the ancient live oaks in the park across the street.

  She sighed and swallowed the last sip of coffee, which had gone cold and bitter.

  Yeah, that’s more like it.

  Cold and bitter. She laughed to herself.

  Despite how she wanted to believe this glorious morning with its painterly sky and philandering breeze was a sign of good things to come, she was a realist. Mother Nature wasn’t in the business of manufacturing miracles. This was merely proof that life went on—whether or not she had a job that would allow her to take care of herself and not rely on anyone else.

  Right now she needed to get dressed for the day and help her mom, Zelda, and her grandmother, Wiladean—or Gigi, as she and her sisters called her—prepare for the breakfast meeting they were hosting at the Forsyth.

  She hadn’t come home to vacation or freeload. She fully intended to make herself useful.

  Last night her family had been giddy when she’d walked in. The corners of Elle’s mouth turned up and her heart tugged at the thought. When she’d entered the inn, they’d been in the middle of setting up for this morning’s meeting, but they’d stopped what they were doing for hugs and tea. Because what would a homecoming—planned or impromptu—be without a steaming cup of tea?

  Of course, there had been questions—

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to see you.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Well, I lost my job today, but everything will be fine. I hope.”

  It was the truth. Somehow, she would land on her feet. She would either find another position as an art teacher or come up with a brilliant career change.

  “Is that you, Elizabeth?” a voice called from the sidewalk below her balcony. Longtime neighbor Mercy Johnston was power walking in her black pencil skirt and athletic shoes, no doubt on her way to work at the Chatham County Courthouse.

  Elle waved.

  “Good to see ya back in town, hon.”

  “Thanks, Mercy,” Elizabeth said to the woman’s back as she continued past. “Have a good day.”

  Keeping her stride, Mercy acknowledged Elle with a flutter of her left hand.

  As Elle turned to go inside, she saw the lights flicker on inside the Cuppa Joe, the coffee shop that was located farther down the street. Another longtime neighbor, Lisa Reynolds, did a double take and waved as she opened the doors to the Angel Cakes Bakery, a few doors down from the Forsyth.

  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.

&
nbsp; 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 inhaled 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.