Table of Contents
A Dixie Christmas
Reader Letter
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Author’s Note
Jinx Christmas
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
’Twas the Night
About the Author
Blurb
Two magnolias-and-mistletoe-inspired holiday stories from the bestselling author of more than thirty romantic, humorous novels.
Laughter and love combine in Sandra Hill’s BLUE CHRISTMAS—with a touch of Elvis magic. Wealthy Wall Street businessman Clayton Jessup III has only one reason for arriving in Memphis a few days before Christmas—to sell off his inheritance, an embarrassingly kitschy hotel named The Blue Suede Suites. His feelings for the Land of Elvis are dark: his long-dead Memphis mother abandoned him and his dad when Clay was a baby, and now Clay wants nothing to do with a southern legacy that couldn’t be more different from his sophisticated big-city life.
But then he steps in trouble—literally—when he confronts the bizarre group of Elvis impersonators who’ve set up a living Nativity scene on his property. One slip of a wingtip in some sheep poop lands Clay in the care of gorgeous Annie Fallon, whose big-haired Elvis-girlfriend get-up can’t hide her wholesome, sexy appeal. Annie and her brothers have set up the Nativity scene to earn some badly needed money for their struggling dairy farm.
The last thing she needs is an angry Yankee with a concussion and a come-hither smile . . .
In JINX CHRISTMAS, sexy NASCAR star Lance Caslow makes a last-ditch effort to win back his ex-wife Brenda. Five years ago, his reckless pursuit of racetrack fame tore them apart and broke Brenda’s heart. Now Lance shows up in Louisiana determined to make things right this Christmas, not just for himself and Brenda, but for their young daughter, Patti.
He’s got his work cut out for him, and desperate measures are needed. Lance will do anything to prove he’s worthy of Brenda’s trust again—even join the Cajun Christmas show starring a raucous Cajun family whose menfolk dance for charity events in little more than a smile . . .
A Dixie Christmas
by
Sandra Hill
Bell Bridge Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
ISBN: 978-1-61194-080-0
eISBN: 978-1-61194-073-2
Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Blue Christmas copyright 1998 by Sandra Hill
Originally published as “Fever” in the Blue Christmas anthology
Jinx Christmas copyright 1999 by Sandra Hill
We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers.
Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo credits:
Legs and Background - © Madartists | Dreamstime.com
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Reader Letter
Dear Readers:
A wise editor once told me that in the best of all books the reader should both laugh and cry. That’s what I wish for you with JINX CHRISTMAS and BLUE CHRISTMAS, a lot of smiles and perhaps a tear here and there. The holiday season is made for poignancy and humor.
BLUE CHRISTMAS, a stand-alone story, was originally published in 1998 as “Fever” in the long out-of-print anthology, BLUE CHRISTMAS. It has been tweaked and updated, as has the short novella JINX CHRISTMAS, which has never been published, but was available for a short time on my website. JINX CHRISTMAS can stand alone, as well, although it is linked loosely with my Cajun/Jinx series. See my website for more details.
I also hope you’ll check out my anthology ’TWAS THE NIGHT, which is available in print, ebook, and unabridged audiobook at Audible.com, Amazon.com and iTunes. The book was written Round-Robin style with Trish Jensen and Kate Holmes (aka Anne Avery), so that it reads more like a novel than an anthology. It is a tweaked and updated version of our laugh-out-loud funny HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS.
Authors often cringe at having to go back and reread their old books, but I must say with a shameless lack of humility that these books are really good. And they can be read over and over each holiday season.
Let me know what you think of this anthology. I welcome reader letters. And come visit my website (www.sandrahill.net) and my Facebook page (Sandra Hill Author) for details on past and coming books, videos, genealogy charts and other good stuff.
Wishing you the happiest Christmas ever, and, as always, wishing you smiles in your reading,
—Sandra Hill
Dedication
This anthology is dedicated to my four sons and three grandchildren who love my love of the Christmas season. I’m not saying I over-decorate, but I do put up a Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving and I do wax with nostalgia over each and every special ornament uncovered, including all the handmade mice that Grandma Campbell made. I need at least four weeks to savor the anticipation of this blessed day.
But especially this book is dedicated to my son Rob who once asked me when he was a little boy: “Are God and Santa Claus related?”
Doesn’t that say it all?
Chapter One
They should have named it “Heartbreak Hotel.”
“Oh, my gawd! It’s George Strait.”
“Where? Where? Oooh, oooh, oooh! I swear, Mabel, I’m so excited I’m gonna pee my pants.”
Clayton Jessup, III was about to enter his suite at the Blue Suede Suites when he heard the high-pitched squeals of the two blue-haired ladies in matching neon pink, “Elvis Lives” sweat shirts.
He glanced over his shoulder to see who was generating so much excitement and saw no one. Uh-oh! In an instant, he realized that they thought he was the George person . . . probably some Memphis celebrity. Even worse, they were pep-stepping briskly toward him with huge smiles plastered across their expectant faces, and autograph books drawn to the ready.
“Open the damn door,” he snarled at the wizened old bellhop, whose kidney-spotted hands were fumbling with the key.
“I’m tryin’, I’m tryin’. You don’t wanna get caught by any of these country music fanatics. Last week over on Beale Street, they tore off every bit of a construction worker’s clothes for souvenirs, right down to his skivvies, just ’cause they thought he was Kenny Chesney.”
“Who the hell is Kenny Chesney?”
“You’re kidding, right?” the bellhop said, casting him a sideways once-over of disbelief.
Clay grabbed the key out of the bellhop’s hand and inserted it himself. Just before the women were ready to pounce, gushing, “Oooh, George. Yoo hoo!”, the door swung open and they escaped. Leaning against the closed door, he exhaled with a loud whoosh of relief.
He heard one of the women say, “Mabel, I don’t think that was George. He wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat, and George never goes anywhere without his trademark cowboy
hat.”
“Maybe you’re right, Mildred,” Mabel said.
“Besides, he was too skinny to be George. He looked more like that Richard Gere. A younger version of Richard, I mean.”
Richard Gere? Me? Mildred needs a new set of bifocals.
“Richard Gere,” Mabel swooned. “Hmmm. Is it possible . . . ? Nah. That guy was taller and leaner than Richard Gere. Besides, Richard Gere is more likely to be off in Tibet with the Dolly Lay-ma, not in Memphis.”
“At least we saw Elvis’s ghost at Graceland today.”
Their voices were fading now; so Clay knew they were walking away.
Dropping his briefcase to the floor, he opened his closed eyes . . . and almost had a heart attack. “Holy shit! What is this?” he asked the bellhop.
“The Roustabout Suite,” the bellhop said proudly, shifting from foot to foot with excitement. The dingbat looked absolutely ridiculous in his old-fashioned, red, bellhop outfit, complete with a pillbox hat. “It’s the best one in The Blue Suede Suites, next to the Viva Las Vegas and the Blue Hawaii suites, of course. Families with children love it.”
“I do not have children,” Clay gritted out.
“Aaahh, that’s too bad. Some folks think the spirit of Elvis lives in this hotel. Seen ’em myself a time or two. Maybe if you pray to the Elvis spirit, he’ll intercede with the Good Lord to rev up your sperm count. Or if the problem is with the little lady, you could . . . uh, why is your face turnin’ purple?”
“I do not have children. I am not married. Mind your own damn business.”
“Oops!” the bellhop said, ducking his head sheepishly. “Sometimes I talk a mite too much, but I’m a firm believer in Southern hospitality. Yep. Better to be friendly and take a chance than . . .” The fool blathered on endlessly without a care for whether Clay was listening or not. Really, he should be home in a rocking chair, instead of parading around a hotel like an organ grinder’s monkey. Another “to do” item to add to his itinerary: check hotel’s retirement policy.
Clay turned his back on the rambling old man . . . and groaned inwardly as he recognized that his view from this angle wasn’t any better. The Roustabout Suite. Hell!
The split-level suite had a miniature merry-go-round in the sitting room. As the carousel horses circled, a pipe organ blasted out carnival music. A candy cotton machine was set up in one corner, and the blasted thing actually worked, if the sickly sweet odor was any indication. Candy apples lay on the bar counter beside a slurpee dispenser in the small kitchenette. The walls were papered with movie posters from the Elvis movie “Roustabout,” and the bed was an enlarged version of a tunnel-of-love car. On the bedside table sat a clown lamp and a clock in the form of a Ferris wheel. Up and down went the clown’s blinking eyes. Round and round went the clock’s illuminated dial. Mixed in with this eclectic collection were quality pieces of furniture, no doubt from the original hotel furnishings.
If Clay didn’t have a headache already, this room would surely give him the mother of all migraines. “You can’t seriously think I’d stay in this . . . this three-ring circus.”
“Well, it was the best we could do on such short notice,” the bellhop said, clearly affronted.
“Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Baaaa! Baaaa! Hee-haw!”
For a moment, Clay lowered his head, not sure he wanted to know what those sounds were, coming from outside. Walking briskly across the room, he glanced out the second-floor window . . . then did an amazed double take.
“Oh! Aren’t they cute?” the bellhop commented behind him.
“Humph!” Clay grumbled in disagreement. Pulling his electronic pocket organizer from his suit pocket, he clicked to the Memphis directory where he typed in his observations, punctuated with several more “Humph’s.” It was a word that seemed to slip out of his mouth a lot lately . . . a word his father had used all the time. Am I turning into a negative, stuffy version of my father now? Is that what I’ve come to?
“Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Baaaa! Baaaa! Hee-haw!”
“Oh, Good Lord!” The headache that had been building all day finally exploded behind his eyes—a headache the size of the bizarre “inheritance” he’d come to Tennessee to investigate. Raking his fingers through his close-clipped hair, he gazed incredulously at the scene unfolding on the vacant lot below . . . a property he now happened to own, along with this corny hotel. Neither was his idea of good fortune.
“Hee-haw! Hee-haw! Baaaa! Baaaa! Hee-haw!”
“What the hell is going on?” he asked the bellhop who was now standing in the walk-in closet hanging Clay’s garment bag.
“A live Nativity scene.”
“Humph!” Clay arched a brow skeptically. It didn’t resemble any Nativity scene he’d ever witnessed.
“Did you say humbug?” the bellhop inquired.
“No, I didn’t say humbug,” he snapped, making a mental note to add an observation in the hotel file of his pocket organizer about the attitude of the staff. What does the imbecile think I am? A crotchety old man out of a Dickens’ novel? Hell, I’m only thirty-three years old. I’m not crotchety. My father was crotchety. I’m not. “I said humph. That’s an expression denoting . . . oh, never mind.”
He peered outside again. The bellhop was right. Five men, one woman, a baby, a donkey and two sheep were setting up shop in a scene reminiscent of a Monty Python parody, or a bad Saturday Night Live skit. The only thing missing was a camel or two.
Please, God. No camels, Clay prayed quickly, just in case. He wasn’t sure how many more shocks he could take today.
The trip this morning from his home in Princeton had been uneventful. He’d managed to clear a backlog of paperwork while his driver transported him in the smooth-riding, oversized Mercedes sedan to Newark Airport. He’d been thinking about ditching the gas guzzler ever since his father died six months ago, but now he had second thoughts. The first-class airline accommodations had been quiet, too, and conducive to work.
The nightmare had begun once he entered the Memphis International Airport terminal. Every refined, well-bred cell in his body had been assaulted by raucous sounds of tasteless music and by the even more tasteless souvenirs of every conceivable Elvis item in the world . . . everything from “Barbie Loves Elvis” dolls to “authentic” plastic mini-flasks of Elvis sweat.
The worst was to come, however.
When Clay had arrived at the hotel to investigate the last of his sizeable inheritance, consisting mostly of blue chip stocks and bonds, he found The Blue Suede Suites. How could his father . . . a conservative Wall Street investment banker, long-time supporter of the symphony, connoisseur of Old Master paintings . . . have bought a hotel named The Blue Suede Suites? And why, for God’s sake? More important, why had he kept it a secret since its purchase thirty-five years ago?
But that was beside the point now. His most immediate problem was the yahoos setting up camp outside. He hesitated to ask the impertinent bellhop another question, which was ridiculous. He was in essence his employee. “Who are they?”
The bellhop ambled over next to him. “The Fallons.”
“Are they entertainers?”
The bellhop laughed. “Nah. They’re dairy farmers.”
Dairy farmers? Don’t ask. You’ll get another stupid non-answer. “Well, they’re trespassing on my property. Tell the management when you go down to the lobby to evict them immediately.”
“Now, now, sir, don’t be actin’ hastily. They’re just poor orphans tryin’ to make a living, and—”
“Orphans? They’re a little old to be orphans,” he scoffed.
“—and besides, it was my idea.”
“Your idea?” Clay snorted. Really, he felt as if he’d fallen down some garden hole and landed on another planet.
“Yep. Last week, Annie Fallon was sittin’ in the Hound Dog Cafe downstairs, havin’ a cup of coffee, lookin’ fer all the world like she lost her best friend. She just came from the monthly Holstein Association meeting across the street. You know what Holsteins ar
e, dontcha?”
“Of course, I do,” he said with a sniff. They’re cows, aren’t they?
“Turns out Annie and her five brothers are in dire financial straits,” the bellhop rambled on, “and it occurred to me, and I tol’ her so, too, that with five brothers and a new baby . . . her brother Chet’s girlfriend dropped their sweet little boy in his lap, so to speak . . . well, they had just enough folks fer a Nativity scene, it bein’ Christmas and all. I can’t figure how the idea came to me. Like a miracle it was . . . an idea straight out of heaven, if ya ask me.” The old man took a deep, wheezy breath, then concluded, “You wouldn’t begrudge them a little enterprise like this, wouldja, especially at Christmastime?”
Clay didn’t believe in Christmas, never had, but that was none of this yokel’s business. “I don’t care if it’s the Fourth of July. Those . . . those squatters better be gone by the time I get down there, or someone is going to pay. Look at them,” he said, sputtering with outrage. “Bad enough they’re planting themselves on private land, but they have the nerve to act as if they own the damn place.” Hauling wooden frames off a pick-up truck, they were now erecting a three-sided shed, then strewing about the ground hay from two bales.