A Christmas Bride (3 page)

“Now you're talking,” Courtney said.

“And I'd want my ceremony at Grace Presbyterian, where Grammy was a member all her life. At Christmastime.”

“Check,” Courtney said. “To be totally honest, honey, I called Reverend Gladwin the day before yesterday and scheduled him for December ninteenth. So the church and the pastor are already taken care of. We just need to talk about the reception.”

Melissa's face registered her surprise and delight. “You're kidding me. Really? You did that for me?”

Courtney took her time finishing her manhattan. “I'm not kidding. You have a minister and a church all scheduled, so there's no need for you to go traipsing off to Vegas.”

“But we still have a huge issue with the bridesmaid dresses. I, for one, am not wearing that hideous thing Pam Lyndon chose for me,” Arwen said, fishing the olive out of her empty martini glass and popping it in her mouth.

“I admit the dresses are a big problem,” Courtney said, “but we can always make dresses, if all else fails. The bigger issue is the reception. The fellowship hall at Grace Presbyterian is taken on December nineteenth. They're holding their annual Christmas pageant there.”

“If it's a small enough wedding, we could probably hire out the main taproom at the Red Fern Inn,” Arwen suggested.

“That won't work. You could get, like, three people in there. Melissa needs a bigger wedding than that,” Courtney said, pulling a day planner from her purse and flipping through the calendar section. “Unfortunately, the tasting room at Bella Vista Vineyards is also booked on December nineteenth, so finding a venue in Shenandoah Falls is going to be next to impossible. We might have to consider Winchester or, failing that, there's always Berkeley Springs. Maybe the Castle is available.”

The conversation went back and forth between Courtney and Arwen for a solid fifteen minutes while Juni delivered Willow's burger and another round of drinks. Melissa said little as she watched her friends bounce ideas around like Ping-Pong balls. And then, just as Willow had consumed her last French fry, Melissa held up her hands and spoke. “Stop, you guys. I know what I want, and I'm sure the space is available.”

“Where?” Arwen and Courtney asked in unison.

“Eagle Hill Manor.”

“But it's closed," Courtney said.

“I know, and that's why it's sure to be available.”

“But—”

Melissa held up her hand again. “Don't you guys remember how beautifully decorated the inn used to be at Christmastime? Grammy took me there for high tea every December. She loved that place. And besides, Eagle Hill Manor is a part of our town, whether it's closed for business or not. It would be perfect for a wedding reception.”

“You're right,” Willow said in a cautious tone, the depression that clouded her heart lifting a little. “But I don't see how you'll ever get David Lyndon to allow it. I spoke with him earlier today, and he's putting the place up for sale. And even if he puts off selling the inn, I'm afraid it's gotten a little shabby over the years.”

“We could help David fix it up before he puts it on the market,” Melissa said. “Jeff is fabulous at fixing things up. You should see what he's doing to Secondhand Prose.”

“It's more complicated than that,” Willow said. “He'd have to defy Pam to allow it. I know it would be a wonderful place for a wedding, but I—”

“We should do it for Shelly.”

Melissa's words were almost like a slap to the face—the kind that clears a cloudy mind. Shelly would have been overjoyed to host this wedding.

Unfortunately, Shelly's husband would never agree. Not in a million years.

“Melissa, it's just not that simple,” Willow said in her kindest tone. “Based on something David said to me this afternoon, I think he blames the inn for Shelly's death. So all he wants is to be rid of it. I think you guys need to look at reception places in Winchester or Leesburg or even Berkeley Springs, because you'll never convince David Lyndon to host the wedding.”

“Three-no-trump,” Walter Braden said, giving Poppy Marchand one of his I'm-in-charge-of-this-bridge-hand looks. Unlike her late husband, Walter was an aggressive bridge partner. She personally hated playing no-trump hands, but Walter seemed to relish them. Well, he'd get his way with this hand. She laid down her cards and sat back to watch him in action.

It was delicious fun. He was movie-star handsome with his silver hair, cleft chin, and brown eyes. He was also a consummate player who had participated in several bridge tournaments with his late wife.

“He's at it again,” Faye Appleby said with a wink at Poppy. Faye was so transparent. She was always throwing Poppy and Walter together because they were the two “single” members of the bridge club. If Poppy were ten years younger, she might have appreciated Faye's matchmaking efforts. But she was too old for romance, and besides, Walter was a baby. He hadn't even reached the six-decade mark.

“Well, that's it for tonight,” Harlan Appleby said, once Walter had played the hand and won the game. Across the room, Budd and Viola Ingram and Scott and Dakota Fowler were finishing up. It was a small bridge club, but they'd been playing together on Tuesday evenings for years.

“Poppy, dear,” Faye said as Harlan packed up the cards, “is it true, what I heard today from Gracie Teague? Is Eagle Hill Manor really up for sale?”

“It's true,” Walter said before Poppy could respond. “I'm the listing agent. David wants to put it on the market next week. I've told him he should take a little time and at least give the place a coat of paint, but he seems to be in a hurry to move on.”

Poppy lowered her gaze and focused on her hands, folded on the card table. Why was she so surprised by this news? She'd known for years that David planned to sell the old place, but it still hurt to hear that her son-in-law had met with Walter and hadn't even bothered to mention it.

Faye reached over and gave Poppy's hand a squeeze. “I'm so sorry. I know how much the manor means to you.”

“Well, it was inevitable,” she said, looking up right into the kindness in Walter's eyes. “Clement Spurling has announced his retirement, and David is going to run for his congressional seat. He doesn't need an inn if he's a member of Congress. And to be honest, he never ran the inn. He left all that to Shelly. And me, after Shelly died. Y'all, I'm too old to be an innkeeper anymore.”

Harlan frowned in her direction. “Since when are you too old?”

“Harlan, I'm sixty-three, and I'm ready to retire. It's hard work running an inn, especially without David's help.”

“Well, if you ask me,” Viola Ingram said, as she stood up and stretched her back, “we ought to put our heads together and figure out a way to make David reconsider.”

“That's not going to happen. David Lyndon was born to run,” Poppy said.

Bud Ingram immediately dropped into a not-very-good impression of Bruce Springsteen and sang a few bars of “Born to Run” while he played air guitar.

Faye ignored Bud's antics. “We need to do something about this. I mean, it's sad that Eagle Hill Manor has closed its doors, especially at Christmastime. Everyone loved your teas, Poppy. It's like Shenandoah Falls has lost some of its luster. And it's David's fault.”

“No, it isn't David's fault,” Poppy said. “It's just the way it is. Craig and I were ready to give up being innkeepers a long time ago. Shelly wanted to continue on, but she's gone now, and that's not anyone's fault except maybe Amtrak's.”

“Well, I don't like it,” Fay grumbled. “Where will you go when the inn is sold?”

Before Poppy could respond, Walter spoke again. “David is looking for a new house with a separate apartment for Poppy. She'll be fine.”

“Be quiet,” Faye said, giving Walter her evil eye. “You're a traitor, you know that? I can't believe you agreed to help David sell the inn.”

“I'm a Realtor. It's what I do.”

Faye turned her back on Walter. “Poppy, sweetie, it's nice that David is looking for a house with a separate apartment. But what happens when David remarries?”

“Do you know something I don't?” Poppy asked. Her heart lurched in her chest.

“No, I don't. Not really. Except that my niece Arwen works at LL&K, you know, and she told me that there's something going on between David and Roxanne Kopp, the managing partner's daughter.”

This was news. It could be gossip, or it could be something important. “I don't know anything about David's love life,” she said.

“Well, you ought to,” Faye said. “You have a vested interest in who he sleeps with. I mean, he's probably going to remarry, and that woman is going to be Natalie's stepmother. Have you ever met Roxanne Kopp?”

“No. And near as I can see, David is living the life of a monk. So hearing that he has a love life is surprising.”

“That won't always be true,” Bud said. “He's a young guy. He's going to get horny.”

“Oh, for goodness' sake, Bud,” Viola said, punching her husband in the arm, “that's such an immature thing to say.”

“I don't know. It has the ring of truth to me,” Harlan said. “Sooner or later he's going to shack up with someone.”

Faye almost exploded from her chair. “Harlan Appleby, that's the most insensitive thing I've ever heard you say.”

“Okay, but you know it's true. And if he marries someone his mother picks out for him, that won't be good for Poppy.” Harlan leaned back in his folding chair and continued. “If it's inevitable that David's going to get horny one day, shouldn't we make sure that whoever he has a love life with is someone Poppy likes?”

“Oh,” Viola said, “that's a good idea. Maybe we should make a list of eligible women and vet them.”

Poppy stood up, putting an end to this ridiculous conversation. “Look, y'all, I'm glad you're concerned about me, but I'll be fine. And under no circumstances are any of you to even think about developing a list and vetting it. David needs to stop grieving before he can move on.”

She picked up the half-f bowl of bridge mix and carried it into Faye's kitchen. Behind her, she heard an ominous murmur that sounded like her friends had chosen to ignore her request. Courtney Wallace's name was definitely mentioned before Poppy even made it to the kitchen door. This was likely to end in complete disaster if she didn't stop them.

Walter followed her into the kitchen and dropped another half-f bowl of bridge mix on the counter. “You didn't know that David had met with me about the inn, did you?” he asked.

“Well, I…”

“Don't lie. You're so bad at it.”

“No,” she said on a long sigh. “I knew he was going to sell it. I just didn't know that he'd spoken to you about it.”

He took her by the shoulders, and something carnal crept through her body. How adolescent, although it was strangely reaffirming, as if her body were saying that she wasn't all that old after all.

“I'm sorry,” Walter said in that deep voice of his. He'd come from someplace in Tennessee, and he'd never quite lost the sexy Southern lilt. “I'd assumed David told you about the inn and the house hunting. And I meant what I said. He told me that a separate apartment for you was a requirement. He's going to look after you, Poppy.”

Walter gave her a dazzling smile, and for some reason she wanted to slap his face. She didn't want to be beholden to David Lyndon. She wanted…

Well, she didn't know quite what she wanted. More. Of something. Something that she'd lost these last few years.

She shrugged off Walter's hands. There was no sense in being silly about the man, and besides, it was slightly embarrassing that he thought she was one step away from being homeless.

“I have only two things to say to you, Walter Braden. First of all, don't ever assume anything. And second of all, I am not helpless. I don't need anyone to ‘look after' me. Until just recently, I was managing an inn all by myself.”

She turned her back on him and stalked out of the kitchen.

O
n Wednesday morning, David's younger sister, Heather, dropped by his office for a postmortem on last night's barbeque party, which had been so much more than a social event. A lot of business had been conducted, and David now had a long to-do list.

Heather was there to help.

She sat in the Queen Anne chair beside David's desk looking every inch the political professional she had become. She wore a dark business suit with a slim skirt, a white blouse, and a round pearl pin in her lapel. Her dark eyes gleamed with excitement as she spoke. “So, I'm thinking we can count on support from Douglas Miller, Henry Blumstein, and Barbara Dahl. All three of them would make excellent members of your steering committee.”

Heather wanted and expected to become David's campaign manager, and he couldn't think of anyone better. She was two years younger than David, but she had always out-excelled him. She'd graduated top of her class from William & Mary and then had taken top honors at the John F. Kennedy School of Government at Harvard. After that, she'd volunteered on several political campaigns, turning that experience and Dad's connections into a position at OnTarget, the political consulting firm owned by Hale Chandler, one of the A-list political consultants on Mother's invitation list last night.

The Election Day barbeque had been a complete success. David had gotten a few commitments of support from key county and party officials, and Hale Chandler himself had attended. Heather, Dad, Hale, and David had spent long hours talking into the night about virtually all aspects of the upcoming race.

The plan was to announce his candidacy on January 18, giving him a scant two months to form an advisory committee, develop a written plan, put together a fundraising committee, find a treasurer, and fill several positions, such as volunteer coordinator and scheduler.

It was almost overwhelming, but Heather seemed to have it all under control. She was the picture of calm as she made herself comfortable in the chair, crossed her legs, and started twirling a lock of hair around her fingers. “We need to sketch out our issue platform right away,” she said. “I can do that in the next couple of days. I'm sure your views are more or less identical to Dad's.”

She didn't wait for his assent before she spoke again. “Oh, and Hale called me early this morning. He told me he was impressed with you. He thinks you're totally salable, especially being a single father. He did mention one concern about Natalie. She was a little sullen last night. We'll need to get her to smile more. And she needs to get over being shy around grown-ups.”

Guilt prickled through David. “Sullen” wasn't precisely the word he'd use to describe Natalie's behavior. She'd been quiet and painfully shy last night. But this morning she'd been rebellious, giving him the silent treatment over their morning Cheerios.

Heather dropped her hair and leaned forward. “Davie, are you listening to me? You had one of your faraway looks on your face.”

“I was listening. And I was thinking that next time Mother holds a party like that, I'm going to leave Natalie at home. Remember how we were brought up, going to all of those dull parties? I hated it.”

“Speak for yourself. I loved campaigning with Dad. You're the one who always wanted to go fishing.”

“I guess. But it just seems wrong to put Natalie on display like that. Sorry, but if you're going to be my campaign manager, and if Hale is going to be my consultant, then you both need to know that Natalie is off-limits, starting right now.”

Heather grinned. “You want me to be your campaign manager? Really?” She sounded like a kid who'd just been told she's going to Disney World.

Affection tugged at his heart. He loved his little sister. “It's sort of been assumed all these years.”

“Yeah, but you know, Dad wanted Eric Flannigan. That's all he talked about last night. I thought you were going to do what he said.”

“Eric is Dad's guy. You're mine.”

Just then David's office door burst open, and Gillian, David's assistant, said, “No, stop, Mr. Talbert. You can't go in there. He has someone with him.”

Jefferson Talbert, David's first cousin, ignored Gillian and strolled into the office anyway. “Hi, guys,” he said in an accent that betrayed his upbringing in New York City. He dropped into the second Queen Anne chair and crossed one jeans-clad leg over the other. He was wearing a red T-shirt with a portrait of Jack Kerouac, captioned with the words, “I have nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion.”

“I need to talk to you,” Jeff said, aiming his intense gaze at David.

“Okay, but I'm talking to Heather right now. Maybe—”

“No, it's fine. I'm dying to know what Jeff has on his mind. And also I'm thinking we should hit him up for the advisory committee.” Heather gave Jeff a big grin.

“When I hear the words ‘advisory committee,' I know my checkbook's going to be involved somehow. I guess it's official. You're running for Congress, huh?”

David nodded. “Yeah, I am. But I'm sure you didn't swing by this morning just to tell me you wanted to be on my advisory committee.”

“Well, if you want to know, I'm here about the wedding. I need your help with it.”

“What?”

Jeff dropped his leg so he could lean forward in an aggressive posture. “Neither Melissa nor I like the idea of turning our wedding into some kind of big, political gala. I'm not running for Congress, and I don't see why we have to accommodate your career at our wedding.”

“Oh boy,” Heather muttered. “You really don't know how it works, do you?”

“How what works?” Jeff turned toward Heather.

“How the family works. Every event is an opportunity for political maneuvering. Sometimes it's a campaign. Sometimes it's Dad trying to work a compromise on a piece of legislation. Don't underestimate how much of what happens in Washington occurs at weddings, bar mitzvahs, and intimate dinner parties. In fact, if more legislators socialized at events like that, there'd be a whole lot less gridlock in Washington.”

“Well, this is not Washington, and none of that is going to happen at my wedding. I'd like to do this the nice way, by talking things through and coming together with a compromise.”

“What do you want?” David asked.

“I want you to tell your mother to back off and let Melissa plan her own wedding.”

“Mother isn't the only one planning this wedding,” Heather said in a sharp, angry tone. “Your mother is also involved.”

“I'll deal with my mother. She'll see reason. Aunt Pam is the problem. I need to make her understand that we are not ever going to agree to a guest list with three hundred people, half of whom are there because you guys want to hit them up for campaign contributions.”

“The invitations are going out tomorrow or the next day,” Heather said. “The venue has been booked. The dresses have been bought. Everything has been planned down to the smallest detail. If this was a problem, you should have raised your concerns way earlier.”

“Melissa did raise her concerns, and Aunt Pam brushed them aside the way she always does when she gets on a roll.” Jeff's voice rose in volume. “So I would be obliged if you would tell your mother not to send those invitations. If she does, it will be a huge embarrassment. Melissa and I are now working on alternate wedding plans.”

“Oh my God, please don't say you're going to elope,” Heather said. “That could cause a major family meltdown.”

“Eloping is not out of the question at this point, especially if Melissa can't have the wedding she wants.”

“What on earth does she want that she's not getting?” David asked, stepping in before Heather and Jeff came to blows. “I gather the reception is going to be at the Plaza Hotel, and no expense has been spared on anything. If she wants something more, then she's spoiled.”

“Spoiled? Melissa?” Jeff's face turned red. “I don't think so. She's no more spoiled than your wife was. Last night—”

“Keep Shelly out of it. She's not relevant—”

“I'm sorry, David, but Shelly is actually very relevant to the conversation. Melissa went out with her girlfriends last night and evidently met up with a woman who was a bridesmaid at your wedding. Someone named Willow, who told Melissa a bunch of horror stories all about how Shelly—”

“Horror stories? About
my
wedding? What are you talking about? My wedding was a lovely affair. Shelly looked beautiful in her dress. I'll never forget the moment I saw her coming down the aisle. There wasn't anything horrible about my wedding.” David touched his wedding ring. He would remember that day forever, especially when she slipped his wedding ring on his finger after he made his vows. That vow meant everything to him, even now after her death. He missed her, body and soul.

“I'm sorry, David, that was unartfully said,” Jeff said. “I'm not saying that you and Shelly had a bad marriage. I'm saying that there were issues with the wedding. And I'm not surprised that you are unaware of them. Let's face it; we're guys. We don't care about weddings. But Melissa cares a lot. When she heard how Shelly cried the night before her wedding, it had a huge impact. Melissa came back from her night out with the girls determined to either elope or plan a small wedding here in Shenandoah Falls.”

“My wife did not cry over our wedding. That's a lie.” David's chest tightened, and it was all he could do not to jump up and punch Jeff in the face. Shelly had been beautiful and radiant and happy on her wedding day. That was a memory he held sacred.

“Um,” Heather said, “she sort of did cry, David.”

“What? Impossible. She was so happy that day.”

“I think she was happy on the day of the wedding. But the night before, she and Willow Petersen got sloppy drunk, and both of them ended up bawling. Shelly kept saying that she was homesick and how much she regretted the fact that you weren't having your wedding at her parents' inn.”

David stared at his sister while anger and regret churned in his stomach. How dare Willow Petersen tell stories like this around town.
How dare she.

“Look, David,” Jeff said, “I didn't come here to pick a fight or to upset you. I came here for help. And you know darn well it's not easy for me to ask help from the Lyndon side of the family. I need Aunt Pam to back off. And I need one other favor.”

“What?” David spat the word.

“Melissa is planning a wedding here in town. We'd have the ceremony at Grace Presbyterian on December nineteenth, but there isn't any place in town to have the reception. All the acceptable places have been booked, even the tasting room at Bella Vista Vineyards. So Melissa thought that it would be nice to have the reception at Eagle Hill Manor.”

“What? No. The inn is closed for business.”

“You don't have to reopen the inn to host our reception. You could just host the reception there. It would solve a big problem. Otherwise we'd have to have the reception in Winchester or in some hotel in Tysons Corner, and Melissa doesn't want to do that.”

“Sorry. The inn is going on the market this week or next. And quite honestly, it needs repairs. It's not an acceptable place for a wedding reception.”

“I'd be happy to pay for the repairs,” Jeff said. “And that might even improve the selling price. Come on, David, work with me here.”

“You're asking the impossible. If you want my advice, I suggest you save yourself a lot of trouble and elope.”

Heather almost gasped. “David, you don't mean that.”

“I do.” He stood up, the anger still churning in his gut, his throat so constricted he could hardly breathe. “Now, if you don't mind, Heather and I have work to do.”

Jeff stood too. “Okay, I'll tell Melissa precisely what your views are on this subject.”

David met his cousin's stare. “You do that.”

Serenity Farm, where Willow had grown up, sat on twenty acres of land west of the Shenandoah River. The one-hundred-year-old farmhouse had plenty of character, if you called scraped, creaky floors, an avocado-green kitchen, and a wraparound porch with a few missing balusters charming.

It was a far cry from the sleek, modern apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side where Willow had been living up until a week ago. Moving back to the second-story dormer bedroom had seriously maimed Willow's self-confidence.

Even though her current situation was the direct result of doing the right thing, her fall from grace would have been easier to take if she hadn't been so blindly in love with Corbin. He'd been her lover and her friend and her mentor. She'd even believed that one day she might become his wife.

But once she'd discovered the cover-up, the only way to keep Corbin would have been to shut her mouth and pretend nothing had happened. She couldn't do that.

So here she was earning her keep by shoveling alpaca poop in the old barn.

Thankfully there were only two alpacas—Bogey and Bacall—the breeding pair that in five years' time had yet to conceive any babies.

When she finished her early-morning chores, she headed back to the farmhouse, where she found Mom in the dining room that served as her office. Willow couldn't remember a time when the dining table hadn't been piled high with papers relating to Linda's various business interests. In addition to owning the Jaybird Café, Mom also provided wool to several spinners in the area and produced herbal soaps that were sold at gift shops from Alexandria to Winchester.

Linda Petersen looked as if she'd stepped right out of the 1960s. She was wearing a blue tie-dye T-shirt and a pair of jeans with holes in both knees. Her gray hair spilled out of the ponytail holder at the top of her head in a mess of unruly curls, while a pair of long feather earrings brushed her shoulders.