A muscle in Sam’s jaw ticked, but other than that, he showed no outward signs of defeat. “You see, this is where you’re both wrong,” he ground out. “It won’t matter a lick to the readers. It will only heighten their curiosity, makin’ them wonder what the ‘Georgie-Boy G-string’ really looks like under the jeans.”
Claude seemed to consider that notion, albeit briefly. “But I think George Finklestein from Georgie-Boy Underthings wants photographs of his wife’s creations.” He smiled brightly. “She’s already a sensation in Europe, you know.”
Sam gritted his teeth in an effort to stop himself from wrapping the damned g- string in question around Claude’s throat and wrenching it tightly. “What does George Finklestein know ‘bout what women want to see?” he roared belligerently.
Gwenyth raised a regal brow. “His underwear line was voted #1 by women readers in five different magazines last year.”
Sam deflected that comeback with a wave of his hand. “What do women know ‘bout what they want to see?”
Huffing, Gwenyth decided that enough was enough. “Out.” Glowering at her husband, she pointed toward the studio door. “Now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Please, Sam.” She implored him with her eyes. “Let me finish my job here so we can go home and celebrate Christmas Eve with the family, okay?”
Muttering something about stay-at-home wives and what a man really needs, Sam finally relented with a begrudging nod. “Alright,” he growled, “but make this quick. And Claude!” he snapped.
“Sir?”
“Make sure you keep the family jewels in the safe deposit box.”
Chapter 20
Christmas Eve had always meant food, family, and friends at the Jones estate and this Christmas Eve was no different. Willy and Verlene hosted a holiday dinner that could put Martha Stewart to shame. Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, collard greens, yams, cakes and pies—they had it all.
And again as always, each of the grandchildren brought a guest with them. Harry brought Monique, Gwenyth brought along Candy, and Sam invited Marc. The eight of them gathered around the dining room table, and after Willy said grace, they proceeded to eat until they were all close to busting at the seams.
Sam, who had looked forward to Christmas Eve dinners with the Jones’ since he was a kid, had an even better time of it this year than he’d had back then. Perhaps it was because, as an adult, he was now better able to appreciate the close-knit family gatherings. Or perhaps it was because his marriage to Gwen made him feel as though he truly belonged here. Either way, Sam mused, it didn’t matter. What was important was the fact that they were all here, celebrating the holidays together.
“So Marc,” Granddad Willy began as he scooped out a helping of his wife’s mashed potatoes and gravy onto his plate, “I understand you’re an accountant, son.”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“Good field?”
Marc grinned engagingly. “Monetarily, yes. Unfortunately, it’s also quite boring.”
The guests at the table laughed. Sam gave Marc a good-natured slap on the back.
“To be honest, Willy, Marc and I are talkin’ ‘bout openin’ up our own restaurant when my contract with the Crusaders is up.”
Willy grunted. “Ain’t that what all retired ball players do, son?”
Sam smiled, unashamed. “Yep. I’m thinkin’ so.” He held his hands out, palms up, as if surrendering to the inevitable. “Who am I to alter tradition?”
Verlene chuckled. The Jones family matriarch looked radiant tonight in her red and green outfit that matched her husband’s. But whereas Granddad Willy’s holiday ensemble, which consisted of green trousers and a red tee-shirt that read,Come sit on Santa’s lap, made him look like a perverted caricature of Santa Claus, Verlene still managed to reek of elegance. “Who indeed. What sort of a restaurant are you two boys planning to open up?”
Sam squirmed restlessly in his seat. He and Marc had only discussed the preliminaries, so he hadn’t yet mentioned any of this to Gwenyth. Sam could only hope that his wife would be supportive instead of feeling slighted in the decision-making process. He cleared his throat. “Well to be honest, this is all in the rough draft stage, but since Marc and I are both fans of archeology, we were thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ along those lines.”
Gwenyth’s fork came to a halt halfway in between her plate and her mouth. “No kidding? You’ve never mentioned this to me before.”
To Sam’s relief, his wife’s reaction was one of interest instead of anger. He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding in. “Like I said, Cupcake, it’s still in the plannin’ stages. I didn’t want to say anything about it until we had more to go on.”
Gwenyth waved that statement away with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t be silly. Tell us what the two of you are thinking about.”
Candy glanced up from the rather serious job of buttering a roll. “Yeah Sam, tell us.”
Harry scratched his chin. He absently noted that Monique was cutting up his ham into bite-sized pieces for him to eat before he turned to Sam and Marc and inclined his head. “I might be interested in getting in on this. Lord knows I need something to fall back on.”
