‘Twas the night before Christmas, and Savannah was breezy But there's trouble afoot - and it's heading toward Weezie. Seems BeBe's been holding a big secret back that would make Santa's reindeer stop dead in their tracks. Can these two best friends wriggle out of these twists? Will they do it in time to ensure CHRISTMAS BLISS? Return to the wonderful world of Mary Kay Andrews' Savannah with Christmas Bliss . “Andrews delivers a blissfully divine holiday gift.” ― Kirkus Reviews “Readers will love how Andrews constantly keeps the reader on the edge of their seat.” ― Romantic Times “Andrews's holiday-themed novel is as warm and funny as usual, and the crazy antics of her two protagonists will entertain readers...An essential Christmas read for anyone who likes amusing, Southern women's fiction.” ― Library Journal MARY KAY ANDREWS is The New York Times bestselling author of Bright Lights, Big Christmas, The Homewreckers, The Santa Suit, The Newcomer , Hello, Summer, Sunset Beach. The High Tide Club, The Beach House Cookbook , The Weekenders , Beach Town, Save the Date, Ladies’ Night, Christmas Bliss, Spring Fever , Summer Rental, The Fixer Upper, Deep Dish, Blue Christmas, Savannah Breeze, Hissy Fit, Little Bitty Lies, and Savannah Blues. A former journalist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, she lives in Atlanta, Georgia. Christmas Bliss By Mary Kay Andrews St. Martin's Press Copyright © 2015 Mary Kay Andrews All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-250-01971-4 Chapter 1       ’Twas the week before Christmas “Jean Eloise Foley!” Marian Foley tugged hard at the fabric of the ivory lace dress. “How am I going to fix this dress if you can’t stand still for five minutes?” I squirmed and looked over my shoulder and down at my mama, who was glaring up at me. I was standing on a none-too-sturdy wooden kitchen stool, and in high heels yet. The volume on the red plastic radio that had stood on my parents’ green Formica countertop for as long as I can remember was turned down, but I could still hear strains of Brenda Lee singing “Jingle Bell Rock” and the telltale ching-ching of the cell phone on the counter next to the radio. “Mama,” I pleaded. “That has to be Daniel, texting me. Can’t we just stop for a minute so I can grab my phone?” “Don’t you move,” Mama managed to say, despite the fact that her lips were clamped tight around a clutch of dressmaker’s pins. “Not an inch. We have to get this dress fitted and pinned today. No more excuses. We’re already weeks behind schedule, and if I don’t get started cutting this dress down this afternoon, you’ll be getting married in your slip.” “Wouldn’t Daniel just love that.” I looked longingly at my phone, which sat only a few feet away. “I’m dying to hear how it went at Cucina Carlotta last night. There were rumors the food critic from the New York Times might sneak in.” “I don’t care if the pope himself ate there,” Mama said. “Daniel Stipanek can just wait his turn. Anyway, didn’t he call you last night?” “No,” I admitted. “He’s been so crazy busy with work, he hasn’t had a minute to talk. So we’ve been texting.” “Ridiculous,” Mama said with a sniff. “I don’t know why you all can’t just pick up a phone and communicate like normal people. I still don’t understand all this texting foolishness.” “He’s been up there for three weeks, and he’s still working nearly eighteen-hour days. He warned me it would be like this. New York isn’t like Savannah. He says the pace is twice as fast as it is here, and the kitchen is twice as big as his kitchen here at Guale. Cucina seats eighty people—that’s a lot! He’s spending most of his waking hours in the middle of a kitchen surrounded by the staff. He doesn’t want people listening in on our private conversation. Anyway, it’s only for one more week. Then he’ll be home, the wedding is Christmas Eve, and then life is back to normal, until we can get around to the honeymoon in Paris.” “What makes you think he won’t want to stay up there in New York after the wedding? Savannah is going to seem like Hicksville to him now,” Mama warned. “The next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you’re moving up there for good.” “Daniel doesn’t want to work for somebody else—even if Carlotta Donatello does own the hottest, hippest restaurant in New York right now. I keep telling you, he’s only a guest chef. It’s some sort of gimmick. Mrs. Donatello has invited six different chefs from all over the country to come in, design menus from their own region, and run the kitchen for a month at a time. It’s a huge honor that she asked Daniel to be the only Southern chef. And it’s great publicity for Guale.” “If you say so,” Mama said, but her face showed she was clearly dubious of any enterprise that threatened to send her only child off to the wilds of what she considered the frozen wastelands of the North. “I do. Now, if you’d just hand me my phone,” I coaxed, “I can find out how it went last night.” Instead, Mam