A/N Ho! Ho! Ho! I'm back with some Bethyl Christmas Love. This story will take us to the first time Daryl and Beth meet, on Christmas Eve, and beyond.
I hope you enjoy!
00
It's just after nine p.m. Christmas Eve when Beth gets in her car, looks up, smiles and waves goodbye to Amy, as Amy looks down from her apartment window smiling and waving back.
They've had the best day ever, but gosh, Beth didn't mean to stay so late. She and Amy started watching Christmas movies and the time got away from her. She wishes they lived closer; she's dreading the twenty-mile drive home, especially alone in the dark.
She could have simply stayed the night, in fact Amy practically insisted that she stay, but Beth wants to get home, take a warm bath and sleep in her own bed. Tomorrow's Christmas and although this year she'll be spending it alone for the very first time, she has big plans. She's going to lay around in her jammies all day, bundled up on the sofa while enjoying the twinkling lights on her tiny Christmas tree and reading the new book she's been dying to start on. There will be hot chocolate with plenty of marshmallows, and she'll nibble on some of the Christmas cookies she and Amy made.
She tells herself being alone won't be bad at all, it will be relaxing and peaceful and she's going to enjoy every minute of it.
Her mind is everywhere except on her driving, between that and her fumbling with the radio to find a station playing Christmas songs, and trying to get the defrost and the heater set just right, she makes a wrong turn, traveling a good distance before realizing her mistake. Now she's wondering how exactly she got on this old two-lane highway.
Her stomach tightens when she realizes she doesn't recognize a thing, and gee, it's so darn dark. There are no streetlights, and only an occasional car driving by in the opposite direction, or one passing her going way too fast. It's true of course, she is driving very slow, but she's so nervous, and she's starting to get kind of scared.
She tells herself everything is going to be just fine, that eventually she'll come to an intersection with a road name that she recognizes and everything will be okay. Then suddenly it occurs to her, yes of course. She shakes her head and mumbles, "Silly," she'll just get out her phone and map the directions home.
She pulls over and reaches in her purse, but oh no! She doesn't have her phone! This can't be happening. She must have left it at Amy's. Yes, she remembers now. The battery was getting low and she asked to plug it into Amy's charger, and then never thought about it again. Until now. She's furious with herself, but there's nothing that can be done about it except to get back on the road and either keep going forward toward home or turn around and get back to Amy's.
Beth decides to keep driving in the direction of home. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning before Amy goes to her family's house, she'll drive back to the apartment and get her phone.
So much for her perfectly planned Christmas of laying around in her jammies. Maybe she can do that New Year's Day.
With that thought it begins to snow, those big fluffy snowflakes that always fool a person. They seem so pretty and innocent, then they pile up and soon it's a disaster. Beth is beginning to feel even more desperate to get home, and she's relieved when she finally sees some bright lights up ahead on the right. Hopefully it's a gas station or a convenience store where she can get directions.
As she gets closer, she sees it's a roadhouse with several motorcycles and pickup trucks still parked out front. She slows way down, almost to a stop. The lot is full of people getting on those great big motorcycles and into pickup trucks, and wow, they sure look like a rough bunch. With that thought the big lighted bar sign goes dark and everyone starts riding off.
Beth's car's not moving at all, she prefers to have those motorcycle people be on their way first, then she'll be on her way. She's also decided she will not be stopping at a biker bar to ask for directions. It's not because she has something against bikers, she's just plain scared to death of them. There's that, and before the big sign went off, she saw the name of the place, "Dirty Dixon's." She's never even been inside a bar, and a biker bar with a name like that probably shouldn't be the first one she visits. She makes a quick decision to stick to the original plan of driving until she comes to an intersection or a turn off that she recognizes.
She's about a mile and a half past the roadhouse when two deer, a doe and her fawn, come running out of nowhere and they're right in front of her. She does the thing you're never supposed to do in these situations, she slams on the brakes. The car swerves, it feels like her back end went in one direction and the front went another. Before she's sure what went where, the car is off the road and in the barrow ditch.
What Beth does next is have a good cry. After she dries her eyes and blows her nose, she tries to drive the car out of the ditch. That only seems to make things worse. She has another good cry and then decides she'll have to walk back to the roadhouse, maybe someone will still be there. She tries not to think about what kind of someone that might be.
As soon as she steps out of the car she wishes she had something warm with her besides this dumb gray sweater. It's not warm enough for the sudden change in weather, but it's all she has. If she survives this situation, she'll do what her brother in law Glenn has always told her to do, she'll put an emergency kit in the trunk with some food, water, a coat, flashlight, a blanket and matches. She remembers thinking he's just a big worrywart. Now she wishes she had listened.
All she has is a Tupperware container with Christmas cookies and her purse. All that's in her purse are a wallet containing a twenty-dollar bill, a hairbrush, a purse pack of Kleenex, a pen, lip balm, a ponytail tie, a few coins, her car keys, and one stick of gum. She puts the purse cross body, takes a deep breath and whispers to herself, "This is it."
The wind has picked up and it feels like it's biting at her, and my gosh, it's so dark. What she needs even more than a coat right now is a flashlight. She decides the best thing to do will be to stay in the barrow ditch. It's dug out and free of brush, and it follows the road. The other thought foremost in her mind is, if she hears a car or truck coming she can just hunker down in the ditch until they pass. A biker bar is a scary thought, but for some reason a random guy driving by in a car, and stopping to question her, and whatever else, is even scarier than bikers.
She should walk more slowly, be more careful and feel along with her foot to make sure the path is clear before each step, but it's just too darn cold and she's desperate to get out of the weather. She begins jogging toward the roadhouse, and finally it comes into view. Oh, thank God. Beth completely quits thinking and breaks into a fast run, she's so anxious to get there. Disaster strikes when the toe of her boot hits a rock and Beth goes down, first falling hard on her knees and then forward.
In what is a natural reaction she extends her arms, hands out to try and break her fall. Her knees hit so hard she's afraid something broke, and when her palms hit it feels like they're on fire as they scrape along the dirt and rocks, and God only knows what else. She lets out a screech as her forehead and cheek hit something hard and immediately she feels warm liquid trickling down her face. Oh my gosh, she's bleeding.
The pain is excruciating and tears begin running down her cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt as she somehow manages to push herself up and into a standing position again. Oh ouch! Her pants are torn, and she can feel blood running from her knees, they burn and the left one feels like she twisted it or something. Everything's a mess, everything hurts, and she's never been so cold.
She has to force herself to keep walking, it's her only hope. She's sure she'll die if she's out in the cold much longer. Please God, please, someone has to be at the roadhouse to help.
Daryl Dixon restrains himself from physically pushing the last of his customers out the door, "C'mon now guys, ya know we close early on Christmas Eve, get on home." Finally, the last of them are out. He quickly shuts the heavy wood door, locks and bolts it, then flips the switch to turn off the sign. The darkness of the lot usually inspires stragglers to finally get going.
As he listens to the sounds of bikes and pickups coming to life, he's glad to know some of the fellas who have had a little more booze than they can handle, will be catching rides home from buddies who managed to control themselves a little better.
Daryl doesn't begrudge a man a drink, shit no, those guys drinking is how he makes a living, and he enjoys a drink himself, more than one, but he doesn't much like the idea of drunks leaving his bar and getting out on the highway on a bike or in a vehicle. He's made more than one of them sleep it off on the stock room floor before he lets them drive.
Damn this felt like one long ass night. Christmas Eve and a bar full of bikers, things get a little crazy. He gets it. Sometimes it seems like holidays are made for drinking. They're tough on some folks too, especially a lot of his customers. These guys are hard ass bikers through and through, but most of them are also alone and that seems to hit hard this time of year when everything's supposed to be about family and being all fun and festive. Not that any of them would ever admit to that, they act out instead. Drinking more, getting louder, and generally being a pain in the ass.
Spending holidays alone doesn't bother Daryl. He has no good Christmas memories to feel all nostalgic about. Everything that ever happened to him as a kid on Christmas was bad and he has no desire to relive those times.
He's done a pretty good job of faking his holiday spirit though, that's good for business. He put Christmas lights and some kind of tinsel garland stuff all around the backbar, and a little fake tree about two feet tall is next to the cash register. His barmaid, Rosita, found it over at the WalMart. Pre lit, pre decorated and downright festive.
He closed up early tonight so Rosita and her boyfriend, his bouncer, Abe could get home and have a little Christmas Eve alone time. The bar's closed tomorrow for Christmas too, and no one is happier about that than him. He needs a day away.
Daryl enjoys having some quiet time with no one bugging him. He doesn't get enough of that, tomorrow he'll get it for at least half the day, his brother Merle will be by sometime around noon. Merle's picking up one of those complete holiday meal deals, all set to go, from the grocery. Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, rolls, some kind of veg, and even a pumpkin pie. Dinner for four, but Daryl's betting between the two of them, they eat it all. They do every year while watching a little football and drinking plenty of high-end whiskey.
There are still a few things to wrap up here at the bar before he walks over to his house, but right now Daryl's going to chill for a few minutes, starting with good music. He likes heavy metal and punk just fine, he prefers it in fact, but after hours of it combined with loud voices, the banging of pool balls and the bragging at the dartboard, he's burned out on the noise. He switches the music system to play some classic R&B. That ought to soothe his nerves.
He pours himself two fingers of Maker's Mark and draws a 16-ounce beer, then sits at the bar to enjoy them. He's got to count the cash drawer and tally up, lock the money in the safe, and then button this joint up tight, but all of that can wait while he takes a few minutes to come down from this crazy night. His eyes are closed as he gets into the music, and alternates between sipping the whiskey and sipping the beer, and then there's a tapping at the door. Angry about the interruption of his peace and quiet Daryl shoots what's left of the whiskey, slams the rest of his beer, and as he gets up to pour himself another of each, he gruffly hollers toward the door, "We're closed!"
The knocking doesn't stop, but it does seem to be getting more faint as Daryl shoots his second double Maker's and decides he's going to have to get a little harsher with whoever won't stop knocking at the door.
He's prepared to royally chew the ass of whoever it is that's ruining his few minutes of quiet time, and when he throws the door open he's already barking, "What the fuck asshole…" just as a small blonde woman falls forward, seeming to crumble right before him. He just manages to grab her before she hits the floor, picking her up in his arms and cradling her as he asks, "Hey, hey, what happened, girl?"
He fears the worst, some asshole got hold of her and did this. Shitbag. He carries her to the closest chair but she can barely sit up and man, she looks and feels frozen. This girl needs some warmth bad. Her skin has lost all color and her face is covered in dirt and blood, the knees of her pants are blown wide open and there's blood everywhere. Daryl makes a decision.
"Sit here now, I'll be right back." He checks the lock on the front door, everything else will have to wait, pulls the keys from his pocket so he won't have to dig for them while he's carrying her, pulls his coat off the hook and runs toward her, because dammit, she's starting to tip over, shit, she's going to fall off the chair. He wraps her in the heavy leather jacket, looks at her and it scares him how hurt and weak she appears, "C'mon girl, hang tough, we'll get ya warmed up."
Her eyes are barely open as she looks into his and tears start to fall. Crying chicks are not his field of expertise, all he knows to say is, "It's okay, I'ma get ya warmed up."
"So cold…"
"Yeah, we'll take care a that." Shit. What the fuck.
They exit out the backdoor, and with her in his arms it's awkward leaning down to lock it, but he gets the job done. He's stunned by the amount of snow on the ground and how fast fresh snow is falling. It was a cold evening when he came to work tonight, but dry. He moves toward his house as fast as he can carrying her in his arms.
His place is three or four hundred yards from the back of the bar, surrounded by trees and with an iron gate just wide enough for his pickup to drive through. Most people would never know the house is there, and Daryl never offers any information about that fact to anyone. He doesn't care for the idea of barflies dropping by, or anyone else for that matter. He sees enough people every day, when he's home he likes his privacy.
He gets to the gate and he's damn happy Merle talked him into going electronic, all he has to do is push the remote on his keyring and the gate swings open, as soon as they're through he pushes the button again and the gate closes behind them. His last obstacles are the porch steps and the lock on the front door.
Finally, they're inside and he sets her down in the big wing chair by the woodstove. Thank God he filled the firebox with logs before he left. The house is warm and there is still plenty of hot coals. He loads more logs, and the fire takes off right away.
Damn, it smells good in here. Daryl put chili in the crockpot on low before he went to work and now his stomach is rumbling, but he's got to take care of this chick before he thinks about eating.
He grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and covers her with it, then scoots the chair, with her in it, closer to the fire. He's back in the kitchen then, nuking some water in a big coffee mug and he brings it to her, "Here, try'n drink this."
"What is it?"
He's exasperated now, "This ain't the time ta get picky." Then he softens, shit, she's hurt and scared and he's a fuckin' bully, "It's just hot water, ya need the warm and ya need the water, people get dehydrated in the cold same as they do in the heat."
She nods, whispers, "Thank you," and begins to sip. He's right, until she started drinking she didn't realize how thirsty she is. She quickly empties the mug.
He's been standing above her, waiting while she drank, and as she hands him back the mug he sets it on the hearth, and says, "I'll get ya another in a minute," then bends down on one knee in front of her. "Okay, let's see what we got here."
She's been watching him, curious about this very rough looking man with his long hair and whiskered face, and scars, scars on his face, and oh my gosh, he has tattoos on his hands. Surprisingly though, as rough as he looks, and as harsh and gravelly as his voice sounds, his touch is soft and gentle.
"Just gonna look at what we got here, k?" He lifts the blanket, and she startles.
He stops, his eyes look up at her and he says, "I got no interest in hurtin' ya. If I did, I wouldn't have carried your ass all the way home. I'da hurt ya right there in the bar. Got it?"
Shit, there he goes being a bully again. He tries to smile because for some reason he thinks that will help her quit worrying, but smiling doesn't always come easy for Daryl. Still, she seems like the kind of woman a man ought to smile at and reassure. He does his best, "I ain't try'n ta hurt ya. I just wanna see what we need ta do here so I can help ya out. I got a way a gettin' injured a lot myself, that's why I keep a fully stocked first aid kit, and I know how ta use it."
Beth's tired, she's in terrible pain and she's afraid. She doesn't know this man and here she is in his house. Alone. As far as she can tell, it's just the two of them. Anything could happen. But he's being kind and thoughtful, and maybe it's all those things that have tears coming to her eyes again, "Okay," she sniffles.
Shit, here come the tears again. He doesn't know what else to say, so he says, "Sorry," and lays the blanket on her legs, just up past her knees. Damn it's hot in front of this fire, but she needs the heat so he peels off his vest, tosses it aside, and next his shirt.
"What are you doing?!" She's afraid again, my gosh, is he going to take all his clothes off ?
Now he's pissed again, "What am I doin'? I'm tryin' ta save us both. It's hotter than fuck in here. You need the warmth but I'm about ta die of heatstroke."
She whispers, "I'm sorry."
He looks up and into her eyes again, fuck him, "I'm sorry too."
Beth does her best to stay quiet and just let him do what needs to be done. For gosh sake, he's trying to help her. He's leaning right above her, checking out the cuts on her face, and she can't help but see. My gosh, he's got tattoos on his chest, his arms, the inside of his arms, and oh my, those arms are something else. Wow. Now that she's really seen him she knows the reason he was able to so easily carry her. But there's something else, something that gives her a twinge of sadness. There are more scars. On his arms, chest, hands, and she wonders if they all came from fighting.
He's concentrating on her injuries. That pretty face. Fuck. There might be some scarring. The skin that's left on her knees is raw and torn, and there's dirt and blood everywhere, "We're gonna hafta clean these injuries up real good before we do anythin' else. Ya can't risk infection." He bites his lower lip, shrugs and says, "I'm sorry, but the cleanin' part is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch. Ya want a shot a whiskey?"
"I don't know if I should. I've never had alcohol."
He snorts, "No shit? Never, huh? Well, I ain't gonna be the one ta lead ya down a bad path. I's just offerin'."
She's always been curious, "Maybe I could try a sip later."
Now he's smiling for real, "All right, let's go at this one thing at a time. Do ya feel warm yet?"
"Yes, finally."
"k, I can work at cleanin' your face, hands n your knees, or you could just have a shower n then I can doctor em. It's up ta you."
"I'm not sure I can stand in the shower, and I don't even have any clean clothes to put on."
He tries his best to throw a little humor at the situation, "Yeah, well, I ain't got much for ladies wear around here, and I don't think you n me wear the same size anyway," shit, she's looking so hurt and scared, and he offers, "I got a lotta warm flannel shirts, they'd be huge on ya, but they'd also keep ya warm and I promise they're clean." He makes another stab at humor, "I might not look like it, but I do shower damn near every day, and I do wash my clothes on the regular."
Finally, he gets a little smile out of her, and she even tries some humor of her own, "I guess I'm happy to hear that."
Even with the dirt, the blood, the tangled hair, the puffy eyes from crying and the red nose from all of it, she's still about the prettiest thing he's ever seen. She gives off a real sweet vibe too. Yeah, real sweet. He knows like he knows his name, if it weren't for the current circumstance she wouldn't even walk on the same side of the street as him. He's dying to know what the hell happened to this woman, how did she end up at the bar? For now, first things first, he's got to get those cuts taken care of. He'll just start with her face and work his way down.
He can hear the pain in her voice when she says, "Something's wrong with my knee, it really hurts. I think it's twisted or something."
"I'ma start this job with your face, but lemme have a look at that knee real quick." Cowboy boots. Cute. "Left one? Right one?"
"The left." As he's pulling her boots off, she's wondering why she's not more afraid of him. Well gosh, he is taking care of her, and as rough as he appears, he's been so kind. There's something else that won't be denied, despite the rough, disheveled appearance, he's about the most handsome man she's ever laid her eyes on.
He removes both her boots and tries to act like it's no big deal when he sees all the blood that's run from her knees down into her socks and boots. He gingerly grasps the sides of her left knee, gently pressing and moving it. He doesn't want to hurt her, he can't take more tears, "Pretty sure nuthin's broke. If I thought it was I'd put ya in the truck and take ya to the hospital. It's a bad sprain. After I'm done cleanin' everythin' up and gettin' medicines on ya, I'll wrap it. For now, I'ma go get everythin' I need ta fix ya up, then I'll come back n get ya."
"Okay and thank you…um…I didn't even ask your name. I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I'm Daryl. Daryl Dixon, n what's your name?"
"Oh my gosh, you're the Dirty Dixon on the sign?"
He snickers, "I am, but like I told ya, I ain't really all that dirty." He shrugs and explains, "It seemed like a good name for a biker bar."
"I think you're right, a very good choice. I'm Beth, Beth Greene."
"Nice ta meet ya Beth. I'll be right back." He's around a lot of women at the bar, but this woman is like no one he's ever known.
He turns to walk to the other room and she has to cover her mouth to keep him from hearing her gasp at the sight. Oh my gawd, the scars on his back are horrific. Someone obviously beat him, whipped him with something too. There are even some that look like burn marks and could be a bullet wound. Oh my gosh, is she really safe with this man?
He lifts her from the chair, wrapping her slim arm across his shoulders and her side rests against his as he slowly walks her to the kitchen and sets her in a kitchen chair. His plan is, while he leaves to go wash his hands in the bathroom, she'll slip out of her jeans and she can lay the blanket across her lap for modesty. They agree and as soon as he walks away she tries, but oh my goodness, she didn't expect it to be such a struggle. She's grateful he said he'd be gone for ten full minutes because as it turns out, that's barely enough time and she's exhausted from the struggle.
He walks back in the kitchen and he's teasing again, "It don't really take me 10 minutes ta wash my hands so I had time ta get ya this flannel. Maybe when we're done here you can wash up n change into it."
''I'd love that."
"Yeah? Okay, I can set ya up with some stuff in the bathroom, I even got soap."
"You're funny."
"Not usually."
If she would just go in there and shower that'd be easiest. She wouldn't have to stand, not on her own power anyway, he could hold her while she washed. It would work, but he doesn't even bother to offer because he'd bet a million dollars she wouldn't get naked in front of him.
In the meantime, Beth's thinking, gosh I need a bath. She's crusted in dirt and blood but what would she say? How about, "Um, Daryl, would it be easier if I just took a bath? Does your bathroom have a tub?"
Well knock me over with a feather, "Yeah, a good one, one them clawfoot deals. Ya want me ta go fill it up?"
"Would you? I mean, is that all right?"
"It's best. Ya get in there n wash them cuts real good, empty the tub and then start over when the water gets too dirty. Ya gotta promise me though, even if it hurts you'll scrub em good."
"Okay."
The tub is in the back bathroom, his bathroom. He doesn't mention that. While she waits, he fills the tub with hot water, and sets soap, three washcloths, she'll need them for scrubbing those wounds, and a bottle of shampoo in the caddy that hangs from the side. He's never used the tub, he's a shower guy, but as he's filling it he can't help but imagine the pretty little blonde slipping into the warm water.
Knock it off Dixon. He walks back in the kitchen and he's all business, "K, since your knee hurts bad I'ma carry ya in there. I put the seat down on the john and I'll set ya there. I got a towel, and soap and washcloths and all that stuff within easy reach. I'ma take a quick shower in the other bathroom, won't take me more'n five minutes, so if ya need anythin' just holler, I'll hear ya."
"Thank you so much Daryl."
He carries her in and sets her down just like he said he would, smiles, nods, wishes like hell she'd invite him to join her, and then he's gone, shutting the door behind himself.
Beth manages to get to her feet without too much trouble, grasping the sink to steady herself. She glances up, sees herself in the mirror and almost let's out a scream. Oh my gawd, she has such ugly wounds, and ugly bruises and there's still dirt where Daryl didn't wash it off. She's ugly. How can he even stand to look at her?
Oops, wait, why does she care what he thinks?
She gingerly pulls her shirt up and over her head, and even though it's a filthy and bloody mess, she hangs it from a hook on the back of the bathroom door, right next to a pair of men's flannel sleep pants.
Daryl gets back to the kitchen and sees the flannel shirt he offered her still hanging on the back of the chair, she's going to need that. He picks it up and lays in over his shoulder, freeing both hands. He gets a glass and the bottle from the cabinet above the sink and pours her a couple fingers of the Southern Comfort. It's a little sweeter and will go down easier than the Maker's.
He walks back to the bathroom, the glass of whiskey in one hand and the shirt over his shoulder, knocks once, opens the door and there she stands at the sink in nothing but her tiny bra and tinier white panties. She let's out a screech as she grabs for the towel and holds it in front of her.
"Sorry, sorry, just wanted ta bring ya the shirt and some whiskey." He reaches for the pants on the back of the door and says, "I didn't see nuthin'," as he backs out and hurries down the hall to the other bathroom.
She's mortified, but then considers, well of course he didn't see anything, she's wearing as much as most girls wear at the pool. She carefully removes the bra and panties, tosses them in tub, she'll wash those first, then hangs on tight to the side of the tub as she cautiously gets in. After washing her bra and panties with the bar soap, she wrings them and hangs them over the side, hopefully they'll dry quickly. Then she washes her hair. It feels good to slide down in the water, but she doesn't dilly dally, she has a lot of cleaning to do.
She does a quick wash of her body, and now there's no more putting it off, she has to tackle the wounds. She turns on the water in the tub spout gets a washcloth soapy and ready, and begins. It hurts and she quietly cries, but she gets her face clean, then pulls the plug, turns the water on again and rinses her face. Once the water drains she refills the tub, just like he said, and washes her knees. That's the worst and she drinks down all the whiskey doing that. Finally, it's down to her hands, they're bad but nothing could hurt as bad as her knees did.
He takes a fast shower, gets the flannel pants on, gets a t-shirt out of his dresser drawer and slips it on. It's like he's just now realizing, "Shit, I been parading all my scars around like I'm proud." Dumbass.
He finally gets his dinner, a big bowl of chili with a hunk of cornbread laying on top of it. It looks and smells delicious, but truth is, right now he's so hungry he could eat shoe leather. He takes the food, walks down the hall and sits himself on the floor right across from the bathroom door. If she calls for him, he's right there. He's just finished the chili when he hears a glass break, but there's no other sound. That just seems wrong.
He jumps up, knocks once on the bathroom door and throws it open in time to see her slip under the water. Fuck man! He runs to her, lifting her up under the arms and saying her name over and over, "Beth, Beth, wake up now, c'mon."
He's trying to be a gentleman and not look as he pulls the plug, grabs the towel and manages to lift her to a standing position in what seems like all one movement. He wraps the towel around her and he's still saying, "Beth, Beth, c'mon Beth."
She leans her head against his chest and he can barely hear the words, "I'm so tired."
"I know Baby, I got ya. C'mon, let's lay ya down."
00
A/N Thank you so much for reading along, I hope you'll leave a comment. The chapter photo is on my tumblr blogs, gneebee and bethylmethbrick, please have a look. I'll post Part Two of The Accidental Christmas on Christmas Eve. Until then remember, I love ya large! xo gneebee