A Dixie Christmas Read Online Free PDF Page B

been deathly quiet before, seeped into his consciousness. The slamming of a door. The clomp, clomp, clomp of boots on hardwood floors. Laughter and male voices. Water running. The never-ending blare of Elvis music, “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog  . . .” Good Lord! People have the nerve to call that caterwauling music. Humph!
     
    The cry of a baby emerged from down the hall  . . . from one of the other second floor bedrooms, he presumed—mixed with the soft crooning voice of an adult male, a mixture of lullaby and words of comfort. “Shhh, Jason. You’ve had a long day. What a good boy you were! Just let me finish with this diaper, then you can have your bottle. Aaah, I know, I know. You’re sleepy.” Gradually, the crying died down to a slow whimper, then silence, except for the creak, creak, creak of a rocker.
     
    From the deep recesses of Clay’s memory, an image emerged  . . . flickering and ethereal. A woman sitting in a high-backed rocking chair, holding an infant in her tender embrace. He even imagined the scent of baby powder mixed with a flowery substance. Perfume? The woman was singing a sweet, silly song to the baby about a Sandman coming with his bag of magic sleepy-time dust.
     
    A lump formed in Clay’s throat, and he could barely breathe.
     
    Could it have been his mother  . . . and him? No! His mother had left when he was barely one year old . . . and died not that long after. It was impossible that he could recall something from that age. Wasn’t it?
     
    With a snort of disgust, Clay tossed the quilt aside and sat up on the edge of the bed. He gritted his teeth to fight off the wooziness that accompanied waves of pain assaulting him from the back of his head and his bandaged ankle. Once the worst of the pain passed, he took in the fact that he was clothed only in boxers. Had he undressed himself? No, it had been the woman, Annie Fallon, and her Aunt Liza, a wiry, ancient version of the grandma on the Waltons. God, I’ve got a thing about the Waltons today. They’d helped him remove his clothing, then encouraged him to take a half pill before tucking him into the big bed.
     
    In fact, Clay had a distinct recollection of the old buzzard eyeballing his near nude body, cackling her appreciation, then telling Annie, “Not bad for a city slicker!”
     
    He also had a distinct recollection of Annie’s response. “Don’t go there, Aunt Liza. He’s an egotistical bozo with ice in his veins and a Scrooge personality disorder.”
     
    “Scrooge-smoodge. You could melt him down, sweetie. Might be a nifty idea for our Christmas good deed this year.”
     
    Annie had giggled. “I can see it now. The Fallon Family Christmas Good Deed 2011: Bring a Scrooge Home for the Holidays.”
     
    I am not a Scrooge. Not, not, not! I’m not icy, either. In fact, I’m hot, hot, hot . . . at least when the Tennessee Tart is around. Furthermore, nobody . . . especially not a bunch of hayseed farmers . . . better make me their good deed. I am not a pity case.
     
    Clay wanted nothing more than to be back home where his life was orderly and sane. He was going to sue the pants off these crackpots, but he had more important things on his mind right now. An empty stomach—which rumbled at the delicious scents wafting up from downstairs—and a full bladder.
     
    First things first. Clay pulled on his suit pants, gingerly, and made his way into the hall, using one crutch as a prop to avoid putting full weight on his injured ankle. Across the corridor, a boy of about thirteen  . . . the one who’d been a shepherd in the Nativity scene  . . . was propped against the pillows on one of the twin beds in the room, reading a biology book and writing in a class notebook. He wore jeans and a tee shirt that proclaimed, “Farmers Have Long Hoes.” His hair was wet from a recent shower and no longer sported the high pouf on top or duck’s ass in the back. The stereo to the side of his