Once Upon a Christmas (11 page)

Lenora Worth

To Sandy Smith, a great friend and a faithful reader!

E
verything here is old.

Elise Melancon stood staring out at the bright red cardinals fighting over birdseed in the wintry courtyard of her grandmother’s gracious home and wondered why she’d agreed to meet her parents here at
Belle Terre
for her two-week Christmas vacation.

She could have been skiing in Vail, or traveling around Europe with friends. Instead, at her mother’s—well, more like her grandmother’s—insistence, Elise had decided to spend the entire holiday season with the family down in the southern most region of Louisiana.

But why had
Grand-mère
insisted? Elise wondered as she studied the bright red velveteen Christmas bows adorning the huge columns surrounding the house on all sides. And what was Elise to do with herself here in the bayous and swamps of south Louisiana for two whole weeks? Elise knew there would be the obligatory duties to keep her busy—the open-house Christmas gatherings,
the usual round of parties and holiday get-togethers, even the annual bonfire on the river. But those were traditions that meant more to her parents and her grandmother than they did to Elise.
Grand-mère
knew this about Elise, knew that being twenty-five and on the cusp of life meant more than just tradition. Didn’t it?

Elise thought about her life back in Shreveport. She had gone right out of college to a handpicked job as communications director for Melancon Oil and Gas. Although there was no one serious in her life, she dated interesting men and she had a great group of friends to hang around with. She’d even found a good church home, per her formidable grandmother’s parting instructions years ago when Elise and her parents had moved to Shreveport.

But was there more out there?

Elise glanced around the quiet halls of her grandmother’s home, her gaze taking in the large Douglas fir centered in the marble-floored entrance hall, its branches decorated with all her grandmother’s favorite antique Victorian ornaments. The whole house glowed with all the frills of the holidays—holly branches draped across the Hepplewhite sideboard in the dining room, magnolia leaves glistening across the Sheraton secretary in the front parlor, and frosted pinecones and cinnamon-scented candles centered on the long Duncan Phyfe dining table in the formal dining room.

This house had been in the Melancon family for generations. Built in 1845,
Belle Terre
—which meant “beautiful land” in French—had withstood the test of time, including the Civil War, hurricanes, river floods,
fires, yellow fever and everything else that fell under the heading of “acts of God.”

But through it all, God had been good to
Belle Terre.

Thirty rooms and ten thousand square feet, two-storied and starkly white, with squared, tall cypress columns that measured at least two feet around, and elegant outside central stairways leading up to the second floor, both front and back, it was more than just a house. This place was the local legend and about the only attraction in a village that was fast becoming a ghost town.

Elise didn’t see this old mansion as an attraction, even when it was all dressed and shining for the holidays. She only saw it as the house where her father and his four brothers had been born and raised, as the place where her dear grandparents had always lived. Elise remembered long summers of romping up and down these stairs, long summers of lounging in the rickety old swing out underneath the great live oaks that sat like giant green mushrooms throughout the back gardens. She remembered having two coming-out parties. One in Shreveport for the Plantation Ball, and one down here at
Belle Terre,
put on for her especially by
Grand-mère
Melancon so that she could show off her only granddaughter to all her society friends from New Orleans and Baton Rouge.

Elise remembered flowing white dresses on creamy-skinned debutantes, and lemon-scented magnolias floating in crystal bowls filled with water. She remembered giggling girls putting on their makeup in front of a one-hundred-year-old standing oval mirror in one of the many upstairs bedrooms. She remembered tiptoeing down
the curving oak stairs late at night, her pink cotton nightgown and robe flying out around her bare feet as she slipped out into the honeysuckle and wisteria-drenched gardens, just so she could stare up at a full Louisiana summer moon.

And she remembered how very much she loved and respected her grandmother, Betty Jean Melancon.

“And that is why I’m here now,
Grand-mère,
” Elise said out loud, her hushed words echoing out into the spacious family room at the center of the mansion. “Because of you.”

“I appreciate that,” her grandmother said from the hallway, causing Elise to whirl around.

“
Mamere,
I didn’t hear you there.”

“I’ve learned how to sneak around my own house, I can assure you,” Betty Jean said, the twinkle in her green eyes belying the stern words. “Now what are you mumbling about, child?”

Elise knew the best way to win over her keen grandmother was to be honest. “I want to know why you insisted I come here for Christmas.”

“I wanted everyone here with me this year,” her grandmother replied, her smile proper and practiced, her back straight as she stood with hands folded together over her gray St. John suit. “It’s been much too long since we’ve had Christmas at
Belle Terre.
”

“But why?” Elise moved around, her designer heels clicking on the aged hardwood floor near the tall windows. “I mean, we’ve been meeting at Mom and Dad’s in Shreveport for Christmas for the last…well, for a very long time now.”

They’d done it this way to take some of the burden off her grandmother, to help out with all the preparations in the four years since her grandfather had died. Maybe they’d made a mistake, assuming
Grand-mère
wasn’t capable anymore. After all, Elise’s parents had insisted they take over the duties once they’d opened the Shreveport office of Melancon Oil and bought their own spacious home in the historical Highland district of Shreveport. Her mother loved showing off and entertaining. And since the rest of the Melancon clan was scattered to the four winds, it had been hard to get them all together over the last few years anyway.

“It has been a long time since we’ve all gathered here,” Elise said, her brow lifting as she lowered her head to stare over at her grandmother.

“Too long,” Betty Jean said again, fingering the puffs of white-blonde hair atop her head, her eyes softening with memories. “I wanted everyone here and that’s final.”

Elise turned to stare at her grandmother. “You look frail. Are you ill? Is that why you summoned me here?”

“Goodness,” her grandmother huffed, “I am
old,
Boo. Old and tired. But I can assure you I’m fit as a fiddle.”

Elise smiled at being called “Boo.” It was a Cajun pet name for “darling” that her grandmother had always reserved just for her. Rushing across the Aubusson rug, Elise hugged her grandmother close.

“I won’t live much longer if you cut my breath off,” Betty Jean said in a gentle, chuckling protest. “And I will tell you exactly why you’re here, if you’ll just sit down with me and have a nice cup of tea.”

Elise backed away, still wary. “You never drink tea unless there is something on your mind.”

“I have something on my mind,” Betty Jean said, urging her toward a damask, high-backed peach-colored sofa, her lips tightening into a prim, no-nonsense line. “And I want you to listen good to me before you say no.”

Elise knew that look.
Grand-mère
could be intimidating, if one didn’t know how to handle her. The woman had served as a state Senator up in Baton Rouge for two terms, and that while raising five boys, some of whom had grown up to work in public service and politics themselves. Those boys had brought her fifteen grandchildren, all male except for Elise.
Grand-mère
could hunt, shoot and fish with the best of them, too. But she could also have a good time at any old
fais dodo,
whenever such a party was thrown together, which was often here in Cajun country. And she could out-pray anyone who attended the stone and cypress Bayou Branche cathedral down the road, her faith as strong and sheltering as the live oaks that graced the drive up to her home.

Betty Jean Melancon was the only woman Elise had ever known who could walk in one door wearing wading boots, khakis and a flannel shirt, and come out another door wearing pearls, a tailored wool sheath and black patent pumps, and look beautiful doing either. The thought of never seeing that face again frightened Elise.

“You’re dying. That’s it, isn’t it?” Elise asked now, already a great void in her heart at the thought.

“I told you, I’m fine,” her grandmother reminded her as she poured tea out of the highly polished silver service that had survived the Civil War hidden from the
Yankees in the rich loam near the back bayou. “This has nothing to do with dying, my dear. But…it has everything to do with living.”

“
Grand-mère,
you’re scaring me,” Elise replied, taking her tea in the delicate yellow-rose Royal Kent cup her grandmother handed her.

“Have a sugar cookie, Boo,” her grandmother said in response. “And listen while you chew. I only have a few minutes before your parents arrive, and you know how your mother is—all loudness and flash. We need this quiet time before my son brings that woman into my peaceful home.”

“Is this about mother then?” Elise asked, wondering what her mother Cissie and her grandmother Betty Jean could possibly be fighting about this time.

“No, not about her,” Betty Jean said, shaking her head in that ladylike way that told people to sit up and take notice. “It’s more about you.”

“Me? What have I done?”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” her grandmother responded before taking a sip of her cream-laced tea. “It’s what I need you to do in the short time you’re here.”

“Oh, and what is that?” Elise asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I have a project for you, Boo. I’ve thought about this and decided you are the right person for this job.”

“
Grand-mère,
what on earth are you talking about?” Elise asked, her cookie still balanced on the saucer of her teacup.

“Put that down and come to the side window with me,”
Betty Jean said, her glance holding a covert kind of amusement. “I want you to see something.”

Elise did as her grandmother asked, wondering if the old dear wanted her to take up gardening.

But what Elise saw there near the Cherokee roses moving up the latticework of the century-old gazebo caused her to gasp. “Who is that?”

“That,” her grandmother said with another chuckle, “is the project I want you to take on.”

Elise looked at the dark-skinned man working in the flower bed. He was tall and muscular, his hair the sun-streaked brown color of pecan shells, his clothes the washed gray and black that showed they’d been worn over and over again. Although it was chilly and drab outside, the man wore only a faded black T-shirt and work pants, and a little strip of rawhide in his too-long ponytail. “What…what do you want me to do…with
him?
”

Betty Jean held a hand to Elise’s teal cashmere sweater. “I want you to…reform him. In time for Christmas dinner here at
Belle Terre.
That gives you less than two weeks. I’d say you’d better get cracking.”

T
heo Galliano felt the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. Somebody was watching him. He could feel it in his bones. Dropping the rake he’d been using to remove winter-dry leaves from underneath the rose arbor, Theo turned around and looked straight into the tall windows lined up across the downstairs rooms of
Belle Terre.

And was met with two sets of curious eyes staring back out at him.

Mais?
Theo thought to himself. Well, Tee, what have you gone and done now, for the great
Mamere
herself to be staring at you with such determination?

And who, he wondered with a kind of delicious thread of warning moving down his spine, was that adorable young lady standing there all debutante proper beside Mrs. M? She had hair the color of rich harvest straw and big blue-green eyes that reminded Theo of the deepest waters of the Gulf.

But why was this beautiful creature staring at him as if he’d turned into a
cochon
with two heads?

Scratching his chin, Theo decided, with what his
maman
would say
was
the stubbornness of a two-headed pig, to meet this challenge head-on. He gave the two lovely women watching him a dashing smile and then he bowed deeply and with a bit of elaborate flourish. Lifting his head, he was rewarded with a return smile and a brisk wave from dear old Mrs. M, while her young friend only glared at him even harder, her eyes going wide with shock and confusion, her pretty mouth moving into an O-shaped kind of surprise.

Gesturing with a dirt-stained hand, Theo mouthed to Mrs. M, then pointed a finger to his chest, tapping it three times. “Do you need me?”

Mrs. M actually giggled in response and nodded. “Yes.”

Theo wiped his dirty hands on his equally dirty pants and started strolling toward the back porch, watching out of the corner of his eye as Mrs. M marched her young friend toward the French doors of the kitchen.

“Dis should be interesting,” Theo said under his breath. “Very interesting.”

“I won’t go out there,
Mamere,
” Elise said, tugging with both hands to get away from her grandmother’s surprisingly strong pull.

“Yes, you will,” Betty Jean responded, drenching her with that all-knowing, grandmotherly look. “You will mind your manners and you will behave in the way your
mama taught you. At least, I hope that air-brained flutter-ball taught you some manners.”

“Mamere!”
Elise exclaimed, disapproval echoing in the one word. “Why do you insist on calling my mother such horrid names.”

“If the shoe fits—” Betty Jean responded, still tugging.

“Oh, you are impossible,” Elise said on a hiss of air. “I am not going out there to socialize with that…that swamp rat!”

Betty Jean turned so fast, Elise heard the screeching of her black kidskin pumps hitting the hardwood floors of the kitchen. “Speaking of calling names! Listen to me, Boo. I don’t ask much of my family, and I have rarely asked you for such a favor. But you are the only person in the world I can trust to help this poor man out. Now, bear with me while I introduce you.” She smiled sweetly, but Elise saw the threat of a tirade underneath that gentle smile. “If you will just think about how important this is to Tee-do—”

“Tee-do? Tee-do?” Elise asked, horrified all over again. “What kind of name is that for a grown man?”

Betty Jean lifted her head to make sure the man hadn’t made it to the porch yet. “His
maman
gave him that nickname when he was just a baby. She called him her sweet little one. I can’t help it if it stuck.” Then she shrugged with an eloquence reserved for soirees and lunches at the club. “Anyway, his real name is Theo, short for Theodore, but we call him Tee now.”

“Oh well, I feel ever so much better about things, then,” Elise said, still bracing herself for this introduction.

Her grandmother had obviously suffered some sort of affliction—maybe a ministroke or a definite lack of short-term memory. Why else would she insist that Elise not only meet this brut, but also—what was the word
Grand-mère
had used—
reform
him?

“You will feel good about everything if you do this for me,” Betty Jean replied, pulling open the back door even as she said the words. “The Lord loves a cheerful giver. Tee is so very adorable, but he needs a little help in the social graces department.”

“Let him order a book off eBay, then,” Elise replied, dreading this with all her being, and maybe because of the way the man had looked at her…well, it made her feel all funny inside. As if a flock of geese had been set loose in her stomach.

“I can’t give him a book, darling,” her grandmother said in a low whisper. “I’m not even sure he can actually read. Well, I mean, I know he can read. We often discuss our favorite Bible passages. He has had a bit of formal education. I’m just not sure if he likes to read. Maybe you can encourage him in that area, too.”

“Oh, this is just lovely,” Elise said, wishing she’d just stayed in North Louisiana. “Why do
I
have to reform him anyway? What’s the big occasion?”

Her grandmother turned, pressed a finger to her lips. “His intended is coming home for Christmas and, well, things have been a bit strained since she went off to LSU. Maggie has apparently gotten too big for her britches, so to speak. We have to show her that Tee out there is a good and decent man, the same man she left back in the fall.”

It took Elise a minute to decipher her grandmother’s old-fashioned terms of explanation. “You mean, I have to get him ready for his girlfriend?”

“Exactly,” Betty Jean said, her smile beaming as she turned to greet the man coming up the back steps.

“Well, isn’t that just so special,” Elise said, her voice exaggerated and exasperated. “I get to train him, then turn him over to another woman.”

Betty Jean nodded, still smiling. “I said you were perfect for the job, didn’t I, suga’? Mercy, but you’ve sent some of the best packing without a backward glance. Knowing how prickly you are about men, I knew there’d be no chance of you and Tee falling for each other.”

“Perfect,” Elise said, her gaze sweeping over the blob of testosterone now standing with a goofy grin on the back porch. “Just perfect.”

She was just about as perfect as a woman could get, Theo decided as he did a lazy assessment of the woman standing with Mrs. Melancon. He liked the creamy tan of her fair skin, liked the way her hair ribboned in blonde folds down to her shoulders, liked the way the blue-green of her expensive sweater matched both her eyes and her shoes. In fact, he liked just about everything about this woman.

Then he did a double take. “You remind me of someone.”

The woman stared down at him with flared nostrils, as if he were a very ugly stinkbug.

“She does remind you of someone?” Mrs. M asked, her
smile putting out a thousand-watt brilliance. “Think real hard, Tee, and you’ll realize who this is.”

Tee thought real hard, glanced back up at them, did some comparisons, then let out a whoop and slapped a hand on his dusty pants. “
Mais, jamais d’la vie!
Never in my life would I have guessed, but yes, I see it right there in that pretty smile—and those eyes,
oui.
This is your granddaughter, isn’t it, Mrs. M?”

“It is, indeed,” Mrs. Melancon said, bobbing her head, even as she sent a definite poke to the dainty ribs of the shell-shocked woman standing with her. “This is our dear Elise Rachelle Melancon, Tee. She’s come home for Christmas.”

Elise mouthed an “ouch” then rubbed her now-bruised ribs. “
Mamere,
I’m perfectly capable of introducing myself.” Then she extended a well-manicured hand to Theo. “I’m Elise Melancon. It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Tee-do.”

Theo took her hand, careful not to dirty it up. “It’s just Tee now, Miss Elise. I used to be real little and real sweet, but now I’m just real sweet.” He followed that proud proclamation with a wide smile and a wink.

Mrs. Melancon let out a hoot of laughter, then glanced with a nervous twitch of her smile toward her granddaughter. “He’s a real charmer, our Theo is.”

“What should I call you?” Elise asked, yanking her hand back. “What would you prefer, Theo or Tee?”

Theo couldn’t tell her what he’d prefer right now, because her
grand-mère
would box his ears at such thoughts. “I’m Theo Galliano,” he said, smiling up at them. “But you can call me Tee. I don’t mind one bit.”

“Call me Elise, then,” she replied, her nose so high in the air, Theo figured she’d catch a whiff of his
maman’s
gumbo clear over across the bayou.

“Okay, then. Well, it was very nice to meet you, Elise. You know, what with all those boys running around here when Mrs. M’s sons come to visit, you hold a special place in her heart, you being the only girl and all.”

Theo watched as the woman’s haughty expression changed to one of unwavering love for her grandmother. Watched and appreciated that sentiment. He loved her grandmother, too.

“Thank you, Tee,” Elise said, a smile finally cracking the frozen expression on her face. “It’s good to be home with
Mamere,
I have to admit. I mean, in spite of this hare-brained idea she has to—”

“Oh my, look at the time,” Betty Jean said, urging her pretty granddaughter around. “Your parents are due any minute now and I don’t have brunch ready.”

“But—” Elise said, clearly confused. “I thought—”

“You thought about the crescent rolls. I reckon they’re ready for the oven.”

Theo saw the warning look Mrs. Melancon gave Elise. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “Did you need me for something, Mrs. M?”

“Oh, no. Just wanted you to meet Elise. I hope you two can become better acquainted, say later today. Why don’t you come for supper tonight, Tee? Just a pot of shrimp Creole and some good homemade multigrain bread, and maybe apple pie for dessert?”

Theo had to shake his head. He’d had his share of
meals with Mrs. Melancon, but never when family was home. “You want me to come to supper, tonight?”

“Yes. Is seven okay for you?”

Theo looked at Elise, then turned back to her grandmother. “Mrs. M, are you trying to set me up with your lovely granddaughter here?”

Mrs. Melancon feigned surprise, but Theo saw the sparkle in her eyes. He also saw the soft blush moving down Elise Melancon’s neck.

“Heavens no, Theo. I just thought that…well…since you have company coming to town for the holidays, and since you told me last week that you might could use some help in the…social graces department, and well, since Elise has been to finishing school, not to mention being taught everything I know about etiquette, well, that she might give you a few pointers. That’s all.”

Theo felt the implications of that sidestepping explanation all the way down to his work boots. Then understanding dawned on him. “You mean, this is the ‘coach’ you told me you’d hire to help me learn manners? Is this the one, Mrs. M?”

Mrs. Melancon looked flustered for about two seconds, then lifted her head to a regal angle. “Yes, Theo, as a matter of fact, this is the very one. Elise had agreed to help teach you everything you need to know in order to show off for your Maggie. I hope you won’t be offended by this offer.”

Theo shook his head again. He didn’t know whether to be offended or tickled silly. And he didn’t know how to tell dear Mrs. M that he and Maggie had broken up just last night,
after he’d learned over the phone, no less, and in no uncertain terms, that she needed some time and space away from Theo.

Theo looked from Mrs. Melancon’s hopeful face to Elise Melancon’s doubtful one. He liked a good challenge. And he really, really liked Elise Melancon. What could it hurt if he went along with this unselfish gesture of kindness and let her show him the ways of her world—for just a little while?

And what could it hurt if he did learn a few manners to show snobby Maggie Aguillard he could change? No, Theo thought with a bit of mischief, it couldn’t hurt at all to have a little etiquette class with cute Elise Melancon.

She could show him manners and he…well, he could show her all about real life. And show Maggie a thing or two.

So he looked at Mrs. Melancon and shrugged.

“Maggie and I broke up. But maybe if I become a bit more refined, I can win her back,
oui?
”

“Oui,”
Mrs. Melancon replied, her head bobbing.

“Oh, all right,” Elise replied, her gaze sympathetic in spite of her tone.

What a joyous Christmas this was going to be.