Healing Beau (The Brothers of Beauford Bend Book 6) by Alicia Hunter Pace Page B

years back of a stroke—not surprising, given her age, but that didn’t make it any less painful.
    Beau gave Christian his Charmer smile. “Why don’t we just stay here? We could watch
Talladega Nights
again and eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
    “Sure,” she said cheerfully. “You go ahead and call Jackson and tell him that.”
    He could see it now. There would be helicopters circling Firefly Hall, and Jackson would have a bullhorn.
“Surrender to Christmas, now, Beau Beauford! Don’t make me come in there. I’ve got a Japanese fruitcake and I’m not afraid to make you eat it!”
    “Right. I’ll get dressed.”
    Christian nodded but no made no move to leave. They stared at each other for a full thirty seconds. “Well?” she said.
    “Well, what?”
    “Are you getting up or not?”
    He gave her an evil little grin and uncovered a leg. “I will. As long as you understand I sleep naked.”
    “Oh!” She threw up her hands and flew out the door.
    Maybe he should have just gotten up. He fantasized about that for a minute—which was better than thinking about Christmas.
    • • •
    Even though they’d just had breakfast, the aroma of turkey and ham in Beauford Bend’s kitchen was already making a lot of promises. Christian lovingly washed the last Haviland bread plate. Of all the china at Beauford Bend, this was her favorite set.
    After Gwen’s lavish breakfast of shrimp and grits, hot curried fruit, and homemade orange rolls, Neyland and Christian had insisted that the others go entertain the children while they made sure the kitchen was ready for Gwen to finish making lunch later.
    Though the other children were too young to understand that they were about to receive Santa’s bounty, four-year-old Julie had been begging for an hour to go back to her own house to get what she had coming.
    “Do you want me to dry?” Neyland asked.
    “No. We’ll leave them to air dry since we’ll use them again for lunch. The more dishes are handled, the more chance there is that they won’t survive another generation. That’s what Miss Amelia always said.” Beau had always wholeheartedly agreed because he didn’t like to dry dishes.
    Neyland wiped down the counters. “I’m surprised they survived this generation. Of course, they haven’t yet.”
    “Don’t you dare say that!” Christian rinsed the sink and hung the dishrag on the towel rack. “These dishes were some of the first Haviland made in Limoges for the U.S. market. They belonged to Octavia Wilson Beauford, who married Nelson Harris Beauford in 1859. She hid her nice things in the woods when General John M. Schofield paid a visit in November of 1864.”
    Neyland laughed as she set silver mint julep cups on a tray. “You sound like a tour guide.”
    “Every time I came for dinner here, Miss Amelia laid the table with a different set of china. She knew I loved it all as much as she did. She told me stories about the different sets while we washed them.” At the time, Christian had fantasized about presiding over Beauford Bend dinner tables as lady of the house—which was ridiculous, even taking out of the equation that Beau didn’t want her and never would. The line in front of her would have been long.
    Oh, well. She had her own house, her own table, and her own family china, even if most of the people who sat at her table paid to be there. Neyland opened a bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and began to pour shots into each cup.
    “Isn’t it a little early for that?” Christian asked.
    Neyland shrugged. “It’s Christmas. We’re Southerners. Why not?”
    Why not indeed? The others were in the family room waiting on her and Neyland to do Santa and exchange gifts. She could use a little fortification. Something wasn’t right with Beau. Outwardly, he was walking the holiday walk and talking the festive talk, but she could tell it was an act. He was tense and miserable.
    “You have a point.”
    “This is probably the last Christmas we’ll