breathed, turning to stare directly into his eyes.
“Will you come back to my hotel room with me?”
Annie continued to stare into his eyes, unwavering. She had to know what he was asking. Finally, she nodded, leaning closer to place her lips against his, softly. “I have to go back to the farm tonight, though. There’s the four a.m. milking before we return to Memphis for the Nativity Scene.”
He stiffened at the thought of the woman he loved demeaning herself in that ridiculous sideshow. “Annie, stay home at the farm tomorrow. Give up the Nativity Scene venture. Let me help you . . . and your family . . . financially.”
She immediately bristled. “No! The Fallon Family doesn’t accept charity.”
He should have known she’d balk. But, dammit, how was she going to reconcile accepting his money after they were married? “Whatever you say, sweetheart. It was only a suggestion,” he conceded, for now .
She softened at his half-hearted apology. “I want to be with you, Clay,” she whispered.
“Not half as much as I want to be with you.”
Clay barely noticed the piano player, the singing crowd, or the loud surroundings of the club. All he could think about was Annie and the fact they were going to be together tonight. It appeared as if it would turn out all right, after all. No more celestial big toes.
He hoped.
He rousted her about, all right, and she rousted him, too…
Annie was nervous, but exhilarated, as they entered the foyer of The Blue Suede Suites.
It was only ten o’clock and the hotel lobby still buzzed with activity, its guests coming in for the evening, or just going out, in some cases. As myriad as Memphis itself, the guests ranged from sedately dressed businessmen to a group of Amazing Soaring Elvi. But mostly there were tourists come to view the spectacle that was Memphis, the adopted home of Elvis . . . like those two middle-aged women over there in neon pink “Elvis Lives” sweatshirts who were eyeing Clay as if they thought he might be someone famous.
“They think I’m George,” Clay informed her dryly, noticing her line of vision.
“George who?”
Clay shrugged. “Damned if I know. Straight, or Strayed, or something like that.”
Annie burst out in laughter. “George Strait?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
Annie hugged the big dolt. “How could anyone in the modern world not know George Strait? Clay, you are too, too precious.”
He grinned at her calling him precious, then took her hand and led her around the massive Christmas tree in the center of the lobby. It was decorated with sparkling lights and priceless rock star memorabilia left by the various musicians who’d stayed in this hotel over the years. A gold-plated guitar pick from Chet Atkins. Guitar strings tied into a bow, from Hank Williams. A silver star that had once adorned the dressing room of Eddie Arnold. Pearl earrings from Tammy Wynette.
“Have you ever seen such a gaudy tree in all your life?”
“Clay, you need a major attitude adjustment.”
“And you’re the one to give it to me, aren’t you, Annie-love,” he said, flicking her chin playfully. “Come on. I need to pick up something at the desk.”
David and Marion Bloom, the long-time managers, nodded at Clay as he approached, and then at Annie, too. The refined couple, who resembled David Niven and Ingrid Bergman, right down to the thin mustache and the neatly coiled French twist hairdo, respectively, were probably surprised to see Annie with their boss, but they didn’t betray their reactions by so much as a lifted eyebrow.
“Did an express mail package come for me today?” Clay asked.
“Yes, sir,” David Bloom said, drawing a cardboard mailer out of a drawer behind the desk.
“And I have all those tax statements you asked me to gather together when you called this afternoon,” Marion Bloom added.
Clay
“Will you come back to my hotel room with me?”
Annie continued to stare into his eyes, unwavering. She had to know what he was asking. Finally, she nodded, leaning closer to place her lips against his, softly. “I have to go back to the farm tonight, though. There’s the four a.m. milking before we return to Memphis for the Nativity Scene.”
He stiffened at the thought of the woman he loved demeaning herself in that ridiculous sideshow. “Annie, stay home at the farm tomorrow. Give up the Nativity Scene venture. Let me help you . . . and your family . . . financially.”
She immediately bristled. “No! The Fallon Family doesn’t accept charity.”
He should have known she’d balk. But, dammit, how was she going to reconcile accepting his money after they were married? “Whatever you say, sweetheart. It was only a suggestion,” he conceded, for now .
She softened at his half-hearted apology. “I want to be with you, Clay,” she whispered.
“Not half as much as I want to be with you.”
Clay barely noticed the piano player, the singing crowd, or the loud surroundings of the club. All he could think about was Annie and the fact they were going to be together tonight. It appeared as if it would turn out all right, after all. No more celestial big toes.
He hoped.
He rousted her about, all right, and she rousted him, too…
Annie was nervous, but exhilarated, as they entered the foyer of The Blue Suede Suites.
It was only ten o’clock and the hotel lobby still buzzed with activity, its guests coming in for the evening, or just going out, in some cases. As myriad as Memphis itself, the guests ranged from sedately dressed businessmen to a group of Amazing Soaring Elvi. But mostly there were tourists come to view the spectacle that was Memphis, the adopted home of Elvis . . . like those two middle-aged women over there in neon pink “Elvis Lives” sweatshirts who were eyeing Clay as if they thought he might be someone famous.
“They think I’m George,” Clay informed her dryly, noticing her line of vision.
“George who?”
Clay shrugged. “Damned if I know. Straight, or Strayed, or something like that.”
Annie burst out in laughter. “George Strait?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
Annie hugged the big dolt. “How could anyone in the modern world not know George Strait? Clay, you are too, too precious.”
He grinned at her calling him precious, then took her hand and led her around the massive Christmas tree in the center of the lobby. It was decorated with sparkling lights and priceless rock star memorabilia left by the various musicians who’d stayed in this hotel over the years. A gold-plated guitar pick from Chet Atkins. Guitar strings tied into a bow, from Hank Williams. A silver star that had once adorned the dressing room of Eddie Arnold. Pearl earrings from Tammy Wynette.
“Have you ever seen such a gaudy tree in all your life?”
“Clay, you need a major attitude adjustment.”
“And you’re the one to give it to me, aren’t you, Annie-love,” he said, flicking her chin playfully. “Come on. I need to pick up something at the desk.”
David and Marion Bloom, the long-time managers, nodded at Clay as he approached, and then at Annie, too. The refined couple, who resembled David Niven and Ingrid Bergman, right down to the thin mustache and the neatly coiled French twist hairdo, respectively, were probably surprised to see Annie with their boss, but they didn’t betray their reactions by so much as a lifted eyebrow.
“Did an express mail package come for me today?” Clay asked.
“Yes, sir,” David Bloom said, drawing a cardboard mailer out of a drawer behind the desk.
“And I have all those tax statements you asked me to gather together when you called this afternoon,” Marion Bloom added.
Clay
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