A Down-Home Savannah Christmas Read online

  He chased away her fiancé

  And waited for her return

  Like snow falling in Savannah, Georgia, the odds of Elle Clark falling for Daniel Quindlin are slim to none. First, she isn’t home to stay. And second, Daniel caused Elle’s fiancé to leave her at the altar. Even if he had her best interests at heart, falling for her arch nemesis just isn’t natural. Well, neither is a white Christmas in Savannah...

  “When did you decide that being the rebel wasn’t the way to go?”

  He studied her face for a moment, drinking in the contours and planes.

  “There just comes a time when you either choose to grow up or continue down that senseless self-destructive path to nowhere. It also comes from finding something you’re good at. Something you’re passionate about.” He swiveled the chair and leaned back in it. “For me it was renovating old houses. I liked the irony of it. I used to break things, but now I fix them.”

  A look of dawning washed over her pretty face and he wanted to kiss her. The same way he had all those years ago.

  “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

  Elle held his gaze and drew her bottom lip between her two front teeth. He wondered if she was remembering that kiss and wanting to relive it, like he was doing.

  “Why did you feel the need to break up my wedding, Daniel?”

  Well, there it was. The million-dollar question that he had both dreaded and wanted to plow into headfirst just to clear the air. Because until they had talked about it and it was out of the way, there would be no moving forward in the direction he was certain they were destined to go.

  THE SAVANNAH SISTERS: One historic inn, two meddling matchmakers, three Savannah sisters

  Dear Reader,

  To me, family is everything. Mine is a close-knit bunch. It shouldn’t come as a surprise when I tell you that I drew on what I know when I wrote A Down-Home Savannah Christmas.

  The story’s heroine, Elle Clark, leaned on her family when she was stood up at the altar. They supported her when she decided to leave Savannah for a fresh start. Now she’s home again, and she’s come face-to-face with Daniel Quindlin, the best man in her wedding, who she believes convinced her groom to run. She’s relying on her family more than ever to shield her from her nemesis. The problem is, they’re determined to help her see that Daniel actually is the best man...for her.

  This is the first book in my three-book Savannah Sisters miniseries. I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it.

  Warmly,

  Nancy

  A Down-Home Savannah Christmas

  Nancy Robards Thompson

  National bestselling author Nancy Robards Thompson holds a degree in journalism. She worked as a newspaper reporter until she realized reporting “just the facts” bored her silly. Now that she has much more content to report to her muse, Nancy loves writing women’s fiction and romance full-time. Critics have deemed her work “funny, smart and observant.” She resides in Florida with her husband and daughter. You can reach her at Facebook.com/nrobardsthompson.

  Books by Nancy Robards Thompson

  Harlequin Special Edition

  Celebration, TX

  The Cowboy’s Runaway Bride

  A Bride, a Barn, and a Baby

  The Cowboy Who Got Away

  The Fortunes of Texas: The Lost Fortunes

  A Fortunate Arrangement

  The Fortunes of Texas: Rulebreakers

  Maddie Fortune’s Perfect Man

  The Fortunes of Texas: The Secret Fortunes

  Fortune’s Surprise Engagement

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  This book is dedicated to Jay Robards

  and Russell Prock, adopted Savannah sons.

  JJ, thank you for answering my endless stream of questions and debating whether that smell was paper mills, pluff mud or something more...impolite. Thank you for being the very best tour guide.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Holiday by Candlelight by Laurel Greer

  Chapter One

  Bridezilla.

  Elizabeth Clark’s husband-to-be had called her Bridezilla. Right in the middle of their rehearsal dinner.

  She’d simply worried aloud to her sisters, Jane and Kate, about the flowers for the ceremony and whether the florist had understood that she wanted the tall arrangements behind the dais, not in front of it where they would block the guests’ view of the wedding party. She didn’t think Roger was paying attention, since he was seated at the opposite end of the table for twelve.

  He must have been, because he called out, “Relax, Bridezilla. Just go with the flow.”

  There was an edge to his voice, and it carried down the length of the table, past their guests, who had fallen silent in the wake of his words. After Elle had processed the barb, she’d chosen to believe he was trying to be funny.

  Sometimes Roger’s humor missed the mark and sounded caustic. On the occasions when she reminded him to check his tone, an argument usually ensued. Tonight, on this night when she needed everything to be perfect, she decided to let his quip slide.

  She was a good sport. She and Roger were deeply in love.

  Even so, she couldn’t help saying to no one in particular and everyone in general, “Grooms are lucky. They simply have to show up on their wedding day and everything is done. Poof! Like magic.”

  She sent Roger an air kiss and a good-natured eye roll.

  Everyone, except Roger, followed her lead and laughed.

  That was when she thought she’d glimpsed something dark in his eyes.

  * * *

  Over the next twenty-four hours, every niggling doubt and fear that Elizabeth had caged in the wayback of her consciousness had commando-crawled its way to freedom.

  Now, as she stood with Roger at the altar in her picture-perfect white dress, in front of their friends and family, holding her flawless bouquet of white and blush peonies, ranunculus and heirloom roses, and listened to the minister proclaim marriage sacred—something that should not be entered into lightly and only after much consideration—her doubts and fears waged all-out warfare, like a terrifying premonition that Elle watched come to life in slow motion.

  The minister asked, “Do you, Roger, take Elizabeth to be your wife?”

  Roger paused for what seemed an eternity. Elizabeth watched the color drain from his face and then he reached up and tugged at his shirt collar, causing his bow tie to cock to the side like an uncanny smirk.

  A hiccup of nervous laughter echoed in the crowded church. Elizabeth tried to snare Roger’s gaze. If he would just look at her, they would take a deep breath together and everything would be fine. But Roger was staring off into the distance somewhere over her left shoulder, in an anxious trance.

  Stay with me, Roger. It’s just nerves. Everything will be fine.

  He’d never liked being the center of attention. She knew that about her husband-to-be, but for as far back as Elizabeth could remember, she’d dreamed of a humongous wedding. She’d wanted the big white dress, the court of bridesmaids and bushels of flowers.

  Most of all, she’d dreame
d that this day would be perfect. And it would be. They just had to get through their vows and to the other side of “I do” and everything would be fine.

  Elizabeth stole a glance at the 256 people who had gathered at the Independent Presbyterian Church of Savannah to watch the high school sweethearts marry.

  Rogabeth. Elloger. They’d been together so long that many already thought of them as one entity.

  The minister cleared his throat. “Roger, do you take Elizabeth to be your lawfully wedded wife? If so, please answer, ‘I do.’”

  Good God, was he holding his breath now?

  If Roger would just look at her, she’d silently remind him to breathe. And not to lock his knees.

  Come on, Roger. Don’t pass out on me now.

  Reverend Chambers put his hand on Roger’s arm. “Roger? We need an answer, son.”

  Roger opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but he snapped it shut again before he could make a sound.

  Now Elizabeth was the one holding her breath.

  She stole a glance at the congregation. Could a person actually die from self-suffocation...or humiliation?

  Breathing was overrated.

  Then again, nothing would wreck a wedding faster than the bride dying at the altar. She gulped a breath of air like a drowning swimmer who’d broken the surface.

  Now, if Roger would just answer, or nod, or something. Anything. Reverend Chambers could pronounce them husband and wife and they’d walk down the aisle arm in arm and out the doors at the front of the church. She’d fix his tie and they’d take pictures. They’d laugh about how he’d almost passed out in the middle of the ceremony and had given her a case of hives.

  Come on, Roger.

  Elizabeth was entertaining the thought of nudging him with the toe of her shoe. God knew her dress was big enough to hide the prod. But before she could do it, she locked gazes with Daniel Quindlin, best man.

  He reached out and gave Roger’s shoulder a firm shake.

  “Come on, man,” he said. “Do the right thing.”

  For a moment Elizabeth thought Daniel was trying to help. Until Roger found his voice. “I’m...sorry. I can’t do this. Daniel’s right, Elle. I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”

  Roger gave Daniel a resolute nod. “Thanks, man.”

  As the world moved in slow motion, Elle watched her groom exit through a side door. Her sister Jane slid her arm around Elle’s waist, propping her up and shielding her from the astonished faces greedily gobbling up the drama.

  Elle couldn’t feel her legs. Through the blood pulsing in her ears, she heard Jane hiss in a low, venomous voice, “How could you, Daniel? Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

  Six years later

  Elizabeth Clark had been back in Savannah less than twenty-four hours and already she was questioning whether coming home had been the right decision.

  Home was the Forsyth Galloway Inn, the sprawling mansion-turned-bed-and-breakfast on Whitaker Street that had been in her family for six generations—more than one hundred fifty years—and had been a thriving business since 1874. She’d grown up in the big Victorian house with its turret, ornate gingerbread and creaking mahogany floors. The place was simultaneously comforting and claustrophobic. It evoked a certain nostalgia, not so dissimilar to memories of Great-Aunt Gertie’s overzealous bear hugs. Everyone tried to avoid her hugs, until she’d cornered them and they had no choice but to be smothered in the pillow of her enormous bosom. But years later, when Great-Aunt Gertie and her propensity to invade personal space was gone, her hugs seemed kind of sweet, a throwback to simpler times.

  The Forsyth was Elizabeth’s smothering hug. When she was there, she couldn’t wait to get away from it but it always drew her back when times were tough. Like yesterday, when the bottom had fallen out of her life in Atlanta.

  It was the last day of school before the holiday break. Some of the teachers were making plans to go out after work for some holiday cheer, when Principal Wescott had buzzed Elle’s room and asked her to come to the office for a quick meeting.

  The long and short of it was, her job as an art teacher had been eliminated. She knew her position was tenuous when they hired her two and a half years ago. The money for art education wasn’t in the school’s budget, but a group of tenacious parents thought art was important. Via the school’s foundation, they’d raised enough money to hire an art teacher for two years. The parents thought if they got the art program off the ground, the county would work it into the budget. That didn’t happen, and despite raising enough money to cover her salary for the first semester, the foundation finally realized the county wouldn’t budge and had redirected its efforts behind a new pet project.

  For the foreseeable future, the school didn’t have a job for her. Principal Wescott couldn’t make any promises, but she said she would try to find Elle another position after the first of the year. There would probably be something in the fall. Not in art, but it would probably be a teaching job.

  “In the meantime, I’ll understand if you need to look for another job.”

  Merry Christmas to her.

  The timing couldn’t have been worse. Elle had applied for a mortgage to buy a condo in the Buckhead area. She’d scrimped and saved and brown-bagged so many ramen-noodle-soup-and-peanut-butter-sandwich lunches that she couldn’t stomach the combo any longer. But it had been worth it to get the home of her dreams. She’d saved up enough for a down payment, she’d found the perfect place and the sellers had accepted her offer.Without a job, there was no way she would qualify for the mortgage. It had taken her a long time to find this condo—the perfect size, in the perfect area, at the perfect price. The sellers were building a house. They couldn’t hold it for her, and at that price, it wouldn’t be on the market long. Her own real estate agent had caught wind of the listing before it went public. They’d moved fast, but without a job, there was nothing she could do. She had to be honest with the lender about her change of employment status.

  Mortgage aside, she needed money to cover her expenses while she looked for a new job. She had enough money to cover living expenses for a few months, but after that, she would have to dip into her down payment savings.

  At least she had a little bit of leeway. Even so, she hadn’t been able to take a full deep breath until she’d packed her car and found herself fifty miles down I-75, heading straight into the big smothering bosom of Savannah and the Forsyth Galloway Inn.

  Now, after a fitful night’s sleep, she stood on the wrought iron balcony off her bedroom, sipping coffee from a china cup with a matching saucer and breathing in the heady morning air—that intoxicating punch of the humid subtropical flora, spiced with hints of sulfur from the river. She closed her eyes and inhaled the comforting perfume. No matter how long she stayed away, she could always count on Savannah smelling the same when she returned. She was counting on the sameness of it to help her get her head on straight.

  Even in December, Savannah was warm by northern winter standards.

  And then there was that sunrise.

  It dawned so brilliantly over Forsyth Park, which was decorated for the holidays with pine garlands and red bows wrapped around the old-fashioned light posts and swagged along the black iron fence surrounding the majestic fountain. The vision took Elle’s breath away. She was tempted to believe the magical scene was a sign that coming home had been the right move. She stood admiring the splendor of lavender, persimmon and amber blooming in the sky. The fickle breeze flirted with her hair and kissed her cheeks before it flitted away to toy with tangles of Spanish moss dripping from the ancient live oaks in the park across the street.

  She sighed and swallowed the last sip of coffee, which had gone cold and bitter.

  Yeah, that’s more like it.

  Cold and bitter. She laughed to herself.

  Despite how she wanted to believe this gl
orious morning with its painterly sky and philandering breeze was a sign of good things to come, she was a realist. Mother Nature wasn’t in the business of manufacturing miracles. This was merely proof that life went on—whether or not she had a job that would allow her to take care of herself and not rely on anyone else.

  Right now she needed to get dressed for the day and help her mom, Zelda, and her grandmother, Wiladean—or Gigi, as she and her sisters called her—prepare for the breakfast meeting they were hosting at the Forsyth.

  She hadn’t come home to vacation or freeload. She fully intended to make herself useful.

  Last night her family had been giddy when she’d walked in. The corners of Elle’s mouth turned up and her heart tugged at the thought. When she’d entered the inn, they’d been in the middle of setting up for this morning’s meeting, but they’d stopped what they were doing for hugs and tea. Because what would a homecoming—planned or impromptu—be without a steaming cup of tea?

  Of course, there had been questions—

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I just wanted to see you.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Well, I lost my job today, but everything will be fine. I hope.”

  It was the truth. Somehow, she would land on her feet. She would either find another position as an art teacher or come up with a brilliant career change.

  “Is that you, Elizabeth?” a voice called from the sidewalk below her balcony. Longtime neighbor Mercy Johnston was power walking in her black pencil skirt and athletic shoes, no doubt on her way to work at the Chatham County Courthouse.

  Elle waved.

  “Good to see ya back in town, hon.”

  “Thanks, Mercy,” Elizabeth said to the woman’s back as she continued past. “Have a good day.”

  Keeping her stride, Mercy acknowledged Elle with a flutter of her left hand.

  As Elle turned to go inside, she saw the lights flicker on inside the Cuppa Joe, the coffee shop that was located farther down the street. Another longtime neighbor, Lisa Reynolds, did a double take and waved as she opened the doors to the Angel Cakes Bakery, a few doors down from the Forsyth.