A Savannah Christmas Wish

The door banged open.

Daniel shook his head, as if he’d awakened from a dream.

Cheryl, a B and B employee, pushed a cleaning cart into the bathroom. “Oh!”

“Hi, Cheryl.” Bess wadded up the bloody paper towels and tossed them in the garbage with shaking hands. “Daniel was cleaning my cut.”

“I’ll come back.” Cheryl pointed out the door.

“No.” Bess’s face had to be bright red. She risked looking at Daniel.

He stared at the floor. “We’re done.”

She and Daniel filed out of the bathroom together.

“Thank you,” she murmured as they walked into the ballroom.

“No problem.” He almost ran to the French doors, but stopped, shaking his head. “The engineer called. We’ve figured out how to add the balconies.”

“Fantastic.”

He stared anywhere but at her face. “So I’ll...I’ll let you know when the architect gets the blueprints back.”

“Great.”

“’Bye.” He hurried away, his boots clattering down the stairs. He sure was hell-bent on getting away from her.

* * *

DANIEL POUNDED THE steering wheel. He’d stroked Bess’s soft skin. Her earthy, flowery scent had wrapped around him, almost luring him to kiss her.

He was smarter than this. She wasn’t good for him. Hell, he’d planned to check on the work over at the Landing on Skidaway Island, but he’d forgotten because of Bess. This was what happened when he was around her. He forgot his priorities.

At least he hadn’t forgotten Mom’s invite to dinner. They could eat and have a pleasant evening. Maybe Pop had good news from his doctor.

Parking in front of his parents’ house, he released a deep breath. If Pop was better, everything could go back to normal. His dad could manage Carleton House—and Bess.

Daniel wouldn’t have to worry about not kissing her anymore.

As he locked his truck, Nathan’s truck pulled in behind him. Shoot. More aggravation.

“Hey, little bro.” Nathan bounded up the steps ahead of him.

Daniel’s shoulders tensed, and his fingers curled into fists. “What are you doing here?”

Nathan opened the door. “Mom wanted me here for dinner.”

Daniel paused in the hallway. Why make Nathan drive from Atlanta?

“Dinner’s ready,” their mother called from the kitchen.

Pop dozed in his recliner.

Nathan grabbed a beer from the fridge. He wiggled the bottle at Daniel. “Want one?”

“No.”

“Sit. Sit.” Debbie put a serving dish on a trivet on the table. “Samuel, dinner,” she called.

The recliner snapped upright with a thud. Pop came to the table. Was he dragging more? Were the purple bruises under his eyes darker than last week?

Daniel took his place at the scarred wooden table. Mom had pulled out the brightly colored place mats she’d bought on a Bahamas cruise. Her “happy” place mats, she called them. Cold fingers gripped the base of his spine.

“Sit,” she called in a too-cheerful voice. “Abby gave me her chicken piccata and mushrooms recipe.”

Setting out the platter, she waved. “Dig in.”

Mom’s tone reminded him of when Nathan had cut classes or been suspended in high school—she always lighten up the tense dinner conversation with chatter.

The food circled the table. Daniel’s stomach twisted. When he only took a small piece of chicken, Mom frowned.

“Is Abby feeding you, too?” she asked.

“Pop’s not around.” He forced a grin on his face. “Someone has to eat what she bakes.”

“Humph.” But she stared at Pop with sorrow-filled eyes.

“Thanks for coming.” Pop patted Nathan’s shoulder. “I know it’s a drive.”

“I didn’t come for you, old man.” Nathan held up his fork. “I came for Mom’s cooking.”

Pop laughed. Mom bit her lip. And as usual, Nathan was oblivious.

Daniel nudged his brother’s boot under the table.

Nathan glared at him.

He couldn’t pretend nothing was wrong. “What did the doctor say?” Daniel’s voice was as harsh as a ripsaw.

“We’ll eat first.” Mom’s eyes narrowed.

“I can’t.” Daniel’s silverware clattered on the table. “I can’t make small talk and joke around if something’s wrong.”

“You can’t do that when nothing’s wrong, either,” Nathan muttered.

“Enough. It’s not doom and gloom.” Pop set his fork down. “Doc Kramer has taken a boatload of blood and other...items I will not mention at your mother’s dinner table. I’m definitely anemic.”

“Anemia’s curable, right?” Daniel asked.