Her Best Christmas Ever

Connie hadn’t needed the introduction. She’d known exactly who the tall, dark-haired man was. His handsome face had adorned the covers of several of her favorite CDs, and his voice had been a regular on KCOW, the radio station she’d always listened to when she’d lived near Galveston.

In fact, Greg might never understand why, but when she realized that her employer’s son was the Greg Clayton whose hits were tearing up the charts, Connie had nearly given two weeks notice and begun looking for a new job.

Not that Greg would have any idea who she was. Her singing career, as short-lived as it was, had been limited to gigs at seedy, two-bit bars. It had also been a surreal time in her life she wanted to forget.

After Ross’s last drunken rage, Connie had made up her mind that she wouldn’t ever let him hit her again. That she was going to make some changes in her life. Some big ones.

“Do you want to press charges?” the first officer on the scene that night had asked, as his partner called for an ambulance.

She’d nodded. “Yes, I do.”

The violence had started as a push here and a shove there. Over time, it had escalated to a twist of her arm, which had been so hard that she’d thought he might have broken something. At that point, she’d told herself she wouldn’t tolerate any more rough stuff.

The first time he actually struck her and split open her lip, he’d cried like a baby and been so remorseful that she’d softened and gone against her best judgement.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he’d said. “I just love you so much.” Then he’d apologized and promised it would never happen again.

It was a promise he hadn’t been able to keep.

Connie hadn’t grown up in a violent home, so the next time he’d blown up had been the last. She’d refused to live with a bully any longer.

As the officer read him his rights, Ross had grown even angrier. While being helped into the back of the patrol car, he’d yelled to Connie, “You’re going to be sorry for this.”

She’d been sorry already. Sorry for getting involved with him in the first place, sorry she hadn’t left him the very first time he’d raised his voice and had given her a shove.

A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, drawing her from the dark memories, and she padded to the window to peer out into the rain.

Her mother always said that this kind of day called for a pot of soup and homemade bread.

Connie agreed, even if she wasn’t all that good at whipping anything up in the kitchen that wasn’t a dessert. She was getting better at fixing meals, though, thanks to Granny’s insistence that she do the bulk of the cooking in spite of her limited experience.

“You’ve got to learn sometime,” the older woman had said, “especially since you’re going to be a mother in a few short months.”

Connie blew out a sigh and rubbed the small of her back, which had begun to ache all over again.

Had she done too much or pulled something? Or was this just one of the many discomforts associated with the last weeks of pregnancy?

For a moment, she wondered if she might be going into labor. After all, the books she’d read mentioned something about a backache. But it seemed as though she’d been plagued with a similar pain off and on for the past few days or so.

She had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, so she’d have to ask about it. Especially since it seemed to be hurting worse today than before.

Maybe sleeping on the soft sofa hadn’t been good for her.

Thinking that it might be better if she moved around a bit, she headed to the kitchen where Gregwas fixing sandwiches for them.

Earlier, she’d baked a cake, but she’d put off preparing anything else to eat until after she’d taken a nap, which made her feel somewhat remiss now. She’d been hired to cook the meals, so she didn’t want anyone to think she was slacking off. Neither did she want anyone to think that her pregnancy—or the baby—would hamper her ability to work and pull her own weight. She needed this job and a safe, out-of-the-way place to live.

As she stepped into the doorway, she found Greg standing at the counter, his long, dark hair pulled back with a strip of leather and hanging past his broad shoulders.

He was loading up slices of bread in Dagwood style, with ham, turkey, cheese, sliced tomatoes and whatever else he’d been able to find by rummaging in the fridge.

It was strange to see someone of his caliber standing so close, to see a talented, sexy man engaged in a run-of-the-mill task. He appeared to be one part cowboy, one part warrior, and she found herself in awe.

But she was determined not to fawn over him like a starstruck groupie.

“How about a piece of apple-spice cake?” she asked, shrugging off any misplaced attraction as she entered the kitchen.

“Sure, I’ve got a real sweet tooth, so that sounds great.” He glanced over his shoulder and tossed her his trademark smile, which did a real number on her hormones. And not the maternal kind.

Weird, she thought. Even nine months pregnant, with her thoughts and her body focused on a new baby and upcoming childbirth, she was still flattered by his attention in a male/female sort of way. But she did her best to ignore it and went to work.

After cutting two pieces of cake—one large and one small—she placed them on dessert plates.

“Let’s eat in the living room,” Greg said. “It’s getting chilly, and I want to start a fire. Besides, you’ll probably be more comfortable in there.”

He was right about that.

Ten minutes later, as several flames licked the logs Greg had stacked in the hearth, Connie reached for the afghan, wrapping it around her and the baby that slept in her womb. She’d decided to call her daughter Amanda, after a friend she’d once had, a neighbor girl who’d moved away the same summer Connie’s daddy had died.

It had been a cruel blow, a double whammy for a ten-year-old. And, for a while, she’d wondered if she could handle the heartbreak, the loneliness.

Eventually, the incredible sadness became bearable, but the loneliness never went away.

Outside the wind howled, and the rain came down in a steady sheet. Connie never had liked the wind. Not since watching The Wizard of Oz and hearing about Texas twisters that had wreaked havoc on entire cities.

“Do you have family?” Greg asked.

She turned her head, saw him watching her from across the sofa. “Yes. A mom and a sister.”

“Do they live around here?”

“Not too far.” She didn’t particularly want to talk about them. She’d never been a good liar, and since the truth hurt, she preferred to change the subject whenever possible.

“Granny said you didn’t want to take time off for the holiday.”

“I thought it might be best to stick close to my doctor in Brighton Valley.”

“You mean Doc Graham?” Greg asked. “He’s the only one in town, as far as I know.”

“Actually, Doc retired a couple of months back, and Dr. Bramblett took over his practice.”

“Are you okay with that?” Greg asked. “I know Doc is getting on in years. And most doctors his age would have retired a decade or more ago. But he’s got a solid reputation for having a good bedside manner and being a top-notch diagnostician, at least as far as small-town physicians go.”

“I know what you mean. And, yes, I was a little disappointed when he introduced me to Dr. Bramblett. But I really like her, too. It’ll be okay.”

Both doctors had assured her that she was healthy and that they had no reason to believe she’d have any problems. In fact, during her last exam, Dr. Bramblett had said that the baby was in perfect position—head down and dropped low in the pelvis.

Still, Connie had to admit she was a little nervous and scared about actually having the baby, even if she’d read everything she could get her hands on lately.