Her Best Christmas Ever

By hook or by crook, they’d have their holiday dinner.

If there was one thing he’d learned since running away from the orphanage and hitching a ride back to Texas when he was thirteen years old, it was that money could buy anything.

Doc had been right. The specialists at the hospital in Wexler had determined that both Connie and the baby were doing great. The resident obstetrician had said they could stay overnight, if she wanted to. But Connie had been eager to get home. With a new storm headed their way, they could get stranded in town, and she wanted to spend Thanksgiving at the ranch.

Greg had seemed a little uneasy about her checking out, but the doctor had assured him that an overnight stay was merely an option. So Greg had relented and brought them both home, using the car seat Connie had been storing in her closet, along with the other new baby things she’d purchased earlier.

Now, as she stood at the bedroom window on Thursday morning and surveyed the clearing skies, she realized that Doc and the weatherman had been wrong. The rain that followed the first storm hadn’t struck nearly as hard as predicted. At least, not in Brighton Valley.

Houston, on the other hand, had taken the brunt of the storm. According to Greg, who’d been watching the news as well as the Weather Channel, there were flight delays and travel warnings, so it seemed even more likely that the Clayton family Thanksgiving would be held on Friday or Saturday instead of today.

Connie had planned to go all out with the decorations this year, especially with the candles and the centerpiece, since it would have been her very first attempt to fuss over a holiday the way her mother always did.

But with Amanda’s birth and Greg’s insistence that she take it easy, she decided to go light this year and do things up big next time around. That is, if she was still living on the Rocking C.

And, of course, there was always Christmas.

Her mother made an even bigger production out of that particular holiday, even though she’d spent more time on the set of In the Kitchen with Dinah than she had at home. A habit that Connie had grown to resent.

To be honest, it was nice to use the baby as an excuse not to go home this year. Connie had grown tired of painting on a happy face and pretending that there was nothing she liked better than being in front of a camera for the holidays and pretending to be a member of one of the happiest families in America.

Once upon a time, before Connie’s father had died, she had been. Back then, her mother had baked a ton of cookies and goodies, trimmed the hearth and decorated the tree. Even on a shoestring, she’d been able to make their small, two-bedroom house in Houston the best place in the world to be.

But once her mother had taken that job at the television station, everything had changed.

Connie reminded herself that she had a daughter of her own now, a child for whom Connie would create their own family traditions. And if Amanda ever brought home little handmade ornaments and wall hangings and trimmings made out red-andgreen construction paper, they would be valued and given their rightful place of honor throughout the house—not set aside for the more lavish, store-bought trinkets.

Family ought to come first.

And now that Amanda was here, Connie vowed to make that a hard-and-fast rule.

When the baby made a gruntlike noise, Connie turned from her vantage point by the window and strode toward the small bassinette. Amanda had begun to squirm and root, a sign that undoubtedly meant she was hungry.

“Hey there, sweet baby.” Connie carefully picked up the newborn and placed a kiss upon her cheek. Then she carried her to the rocker, where she took a seat and unbuttoned her nightgown to offer her breast.

As Amanda began to nurse, Connie thought about all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

What would she have done the night before last if Greg hadn’t been here?

He’d been wonderful, both during the birth and afterward. In fact, he was always popping in to check on her and the baby.

“Hey.” His voice sounded from the doorway again. “Oops. Sorry.”

She glanced up, realizing he’d spotted her nursing. A flush on his cheeks let her know that he was either uneasy or embarrassed.

“It’s all right.” She offered him a smile. “After what we’ve been through together, I don’t think either of us should feel uncomfortable.”

“I guess you’re right.” His eyes zoomed in on Amanda.

Or was he noting the fullness of Connie’s breast?

Oh, for heaven’s sake. There wasn’t anything sexual about nursing a baby. And the fact that Connie had even let her thoughts stray in that direction was crazy.

“Look at her chow down,” Greg said.

Connie gazed at her daughter, saw her tiny jaws working to draw the colostrum into her mouth.

Greg was right. Amanda had certainly gotten the hang of nursing.

“By the way,” he said. “I’ve got Thanksgiving dinner all figured out.”

“How did you do that? Did you ask Sabrina or Tori for help?” She figured he might have when he called to tell them about the baby.

“I’m sure they would have. But the roads are a mess in certain areas, so Jared and Sabrina are playing it by ear. And I just talked to Matt an hour ago. He and Tori are at the airport, but their flight has been delayed due to weather.”

“What about Granny?”Connie asked. “Is she coming home?”

“No, she and Hilda are going to have dinner at the hotel this evening. But I hope they’ll all be able to make it home tomorrow. And when they do, I’ll have turkey and all the fixings in the oven.”

“You know how to bake a turkey?” she asked, suddenly feeling even more incompetent than she had while watching her mother buzz around the set of a mock kitchen, her makeup cover-model perfect and every hair in place.

“No, I have a better idea than that. Caroline, down at the diner, is going to whip up a feast for us whenever we need it.”

Connie smiled. At least he had the meal covered. And if truth be told, Caroline was going to do a much better job of it than Connie ever could have. After all, it was obvious that she hadn’t been blessed with the Martha Stewart/Julia Child genes.

Or rather, the Dinah Rawlings genes.

“So,” Greg said, “we’ll just have our own private Thanksgiving dinner tonight.”

“That sounds good. What’s on the menu?”

“Mac and cheese.” He grinned. “I found a box in the pantry. I hope you’re okay with that.”

When Joey, Sabrina’s young nephew, was living here, Granny had gone out and purchased a bunch of stuff that a kid would like. There was peanut butter and jelly, too.

If truth be told, Connie wasn’t a fan of processed foods, but she wouldn’t admit it. The fact that Greg was trying so hard to take care of her took precedence over a dish she’d never really liked.

“I’m not big on vegetables,” Greg said. “Would canned green beans be okay to go with that?”

“Sure.”

She expected him to turn and walk away, yet instead he continued to lean against the doorjamb, to watch her nurse the baby.

For some reason, it seemed as though he’d earned the right, so she didn’t let it bother her.

“You know,” Connie said, her heart going soft and warm, “you’ve really gone above and beyond the call of duty for a guy who came home for a much-needed vacation.”

He shrugged. “This hasn’t been the start of the holiday I’d been expecting, but I’m glad I was here two nights ago. It wouldn’t have been good for you to go through that alone.”