Page 38 of A Very Naughty Christmas

Soft-spoken, polite, and a southern lady to the core, her mama was a lot like Emmaline Goodwin in those same ways. And in others, as different from her as could be. Both had no trouble speaking their minds when defending something important, like family. It was done courteously, of course, with a ‘bless your heart’ often thrown in to offset anything that might be construed as unladylike. Because everyone below the Mason-Dixon line knew, said with the right inflection, ‘bless your heart’ could leave someone wondering if they’d been dealt a backhanded compliment or an expression of genuine concern. But they dared not ask for clarification, as that would be considered rude.

With a bittersweet mix of emotions, Dixie was reminded of her mother whenever she spoke with Miss Emmaline, at least the younger version of Mama, before the years of struggling had taken its toll. These sentimental moments occurred with precise regularity, each Wednesday at twelve forty-five p.m. on the dot. Come rain or shine, following her weekly wash and set at Nadeen’s House of Beauty, Mrs. G’s Rolls Royce would pull up to the curb in front of Pete’s and her gentleman driver would escort her inside to her usual window booth. She would spend the next two hours enjoying a late lunch, always ordering the daily special, a tall glass of sweet tea, and for dessert, a slice of Pete’s pie: apple, blueberry, or if they had it, peach, which was Miss Emmaline’s favorite. Her real purpose was to hold court as the citizens of Dry Creek came up to say hello and share a tidbit of gossip, or when the lunch rush slowed down, to watch the hubbub, as she called it, on the busy main street out her window.

One of the many particularly glaring differences between her mama and Mrs. Goodwin was that Mama had always been poor as a church mouse, where Miss Emmaline was purported to be the richest woman in Asheville, not counting the absentee Vanderbilt heirs. Another was their ages with Emmaline at ninety, still spry and sharp of mind. So much so that she attended twice-weekly church services, sat on several charity councils, and was the secretary of the local preservation society. And although she had a housekeeper and chauffeur, continued to live alone. Indeed, she would smack any one of her thirty-some combined children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren who suggested otherwise.

Mama on the other hand was about half her age at fifty, but seemed older. Like Mrs. G., she was a fan of jazz music from the swing era, thirty years ahead of her mother’s time, but in what Emmaline called her heyday. And where the older woman had a spark for life at the beginning of her tenth decade of life, her mother was often melancholy these days. This meant she wasn’t very sociable, and it made Dixie sad knowing that she hadn’t always been that way, at least not until her husband went away and broke her heart.

“I must say, now that I think of it, Mrs. Claus needs her wire-rimmed spectacles, doesn’t she, dear?”

Mrs. G’s question snapped her out of her reverie. Immediately, she keyed in on her version of Santa’s better half. She’d done her up with a glowing round face, her silvery white curls peeking out from under the ruffle of her mob cap, and with a twinkle in her blue eyes. Dixie smiled. It wasn’t the shortage of reindeer that made her feel as though something was missing, it was the omitted spectacles and Emmaline had put her finger right on it.

“So she does,” she said while giving her friend’s narrow shoulders a gentle one-armed squeeze.

Leaning over the table crowded with her supplies, her pink-tipped fingers hovered over the rainbow of liquid chalk pens, before selecting one each in gray, white, and red. In seconds, she gave the myopic first wife of the North Pole what she was lacking: round wire-rimmed frames and a red bow to adorn her white cap.

Covering her pens, she put her hands on her hips. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” the older woman said. “Sheer perfection. It wouldn’t be Christmas at Pete’s without your art. How many years is it now?”

“Ten. I started here my freshman year in college and haven’t missed doing the holiday windows since.”

“A full decade,” she breathed. “How the time flies. But why are you still here? I thought you were finishing up your art degree. Shouldn’t you be painting landscapes in Europe, or working with a design company or something?”

Dixie sighed, not wanting to talk about it. “Soon,” she murmured as she began cleaning up her mess and storing her leftover paints. She’d need them for touchups until it all came down the day after the New Year arrived.

“Soon,” the old woman echoed with a grumble. “So you said last year, and the year before that. It’s the tuition. I know it is impolite to discuss money, but have you applied for the nontraditional student scholarship that I mentioned?”

“I did, Mrs. G., though never heard back. Don’t fret, I’ll finish one day.”

“In the meantime, you are stuck here on your feet all day working yourself into a future of plantar fasciitis and varicose veins. Your legs will be like a road map at forty if you’re not careful.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you wearing those support stockings I recommended?”

Dixie barely kept from cringing at the mental picture of thick, opaque, butt ugly beige hose beneath her traditional zip-up pinafore uniform dress. Her boss, Pete Rutherford, the namesake and owner of Pete’s Diner, was nothing if not old-fashioned. He thought waitresses should dress like Alice, from some show by the same name from the seventies he was always going on about it. And wouldn’t that be attractive? Her tips would surely suffer. Yet MissEmmaline meant well, so she gave her a noncommittal reply. “I love the way you grandmother me.”

“Well,” the harrumph that followed this single word was classic, “someone needs to.” Then she got that look about her and Dixie prepared to run for cover, knowing exactly what was coming next. “You need a husband.”

Direct hit! Here we go again.

This same topic came up every week, as unfailingly as her old friend’s visits. The approach each time was different, whether through news of a ‘lucky’ young girl who was recently engaged to be married, like it was the defining moment in every woman’s life, or with some other innocuous opener anywhere from the weather to, of all things, support hose.

“I appreciate your concern, Mrs. G., but this is the twenty-first century. Women don’t need a man to hold their hand to get through life.”

“Don’t you want a family?”

“I’d love to have children. I just don’t want to have to put up with a husband’s bullsh—um, I mean, bull, to get them.”

She almost added that a marriage license wasn’t a prerequisite to pregnancy these days, all a girl needed was an agreeable sperm donor, although she didn’t want to shock the fine southern Baptist who attended twice-weekly worship services and Bible study every Wednesday evening.

Dixie would have liked to have a man in her life. Someone charming, who would come in and sweep her up in his big strong arms, and take her away from the grueling twelve-hour shifts. Her ideal man loved her, married her, and gave her two children, raised by two loving parents in a happy home. She also wanted something that didn’t exist: a guarantee that he would be true and not stray like all the men in her life, leaving her to raise those babies all alone when he decided his responsibilities weren’t the good time he’d bargained for—like her daddy had done.

To keep her friend from seeing how deeply this conversation affected her, she hefted the box with her paint supplies, propping it under one arm and against her hip, then started for the rear of the diner. Miss Emmaline didn’t let her off so easily, though, laying her wizened hand on her forearm as she passed.

“You can’t judge all men by a disastrous few,” she advised, her blue eyes clear and bright as they gazed up at her while imparting her words of wisdom. “My Harvey was a good man: loving, kind, and faithful. We had fifty happy years together.”

Dixie settled her free hand on top of hers and squeezed it gently. “You were one of the lucky ones, hon. In my lifetime, I haven’t been blessed to have good fortune shine on me, so I don’t expect it to change at this late date.”

“Twenty-eight is hardly ancient, dear. And I am an expert on what is. Besides, it’snever too late. I didn’t meet Harvey until I was older than you are now. It was this time of year, only a few weeks before Christmas, and we had a whole lifetime of love and happiness. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Perfect came walking through that door one day soon, as you’ve always dreamed.”

“Who said I dream anything of the kind?”

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