A Christmas Bride (7 page)

Whoa, wait a second.
That wasn't something he was supposed to notice. It wasn't something he wanted to notice. But right then a jolt of sexual attraction swept through him, shocking him to his core.

No. He didn't want that. Willow was Shelly's best friend.

She was off-limits.

T
he skies opened up Monday morning as Willow was making the walk from her car to the grand portico at Eagle Hill Manor. The rain was a cold reminder that she had barely six weeks to spruce up the inn, make all the arrangements for a society wedding, and find investors who would help her buy the place outright.

Christmas would be here before she knew it.

She turned up the collar of her coat and rang the bell. David Lyndon was the last person she expected to open the door.

Nor did she expect him to stand there, staring at her with an intense gaze that left her oddly breathless. Wait, what was up with that? David was Shelly's husband. Her libido needed to take a cold shower.

And besides, Willow had sworn off guys like David. Her next boyfriend was going to be a regular guy with a regular job, not a CEO or a congressman or any other person in the limelight. She'd had her fifteen minutes of infamy, thank you very much.

Willow gulped down a calming breath and met his stare again, and noticed for the first time that Prince David was carrying a pink polka-dotted Hello Kitty backpack in his right hand.

“Good morning,” she said. “Hi. I'm sure you want to know why I'm here so early. I made an appointment to talk with Mrs. M. You know, about sprucing up the inn for Jeff and Melissa?” Why did she suddenly feel as awkward as a teenager with a crush on the big man on campus? She was actually babbling. In David's presence, no less.

“Oh, great. We were just on our way out. We have a meeting this morning with Natalie's teacher.”

Thank God he turned toward Natalie, who was standing in the middle of the lobby dressed in a pink North Face fleece jacket that brought out the pink in her cheeks and the fire in her hair.

“C'mon, Natalie, we're going to be late,” David said in a parental tone.

Willow didn't know a thing about kids or parenting, but the look on Natalie's face opened up a whole can of familiar fears and memories. Nothing was worse than having to go to school with a parent for the dreaded parent-teacher meeting.

Willow had been through dozens of them. Mostly because Mom had “views” about public education and was not at all shy about expressing them…especially to people in authority.

The poor kid.

Willow dropped down to be on Natalie's level. “Hey,” she said as she stuck out her hand, “I don't think we were properly introduced last week. My name is Willow. I was one of your mother's friends.” She ought to have told Natalie that she was her godmother, but it seemed presumptuous since she'd never taken the responsibility seriously. She decided, right on the spot, to make amends for her neglect.

Natalie cocked her head to one side but didn't shake Willow's hand. This child was far more reserved than Shelly had been. “Grammy says I'm not supposed to call grown-ups by their first names.”

So polite. But then her last name was Lyndon.

“You're right about that,” Willow said, painful memories of Mom's “call me Linda” phase riffling through her mind. “Why don't you call me Miss Willow, then?”

“Okay.” The little girl nodded her head vigorously, her long, red ponytail bouncing. A pair of adorable pink and green polka-dotted leggings and green cowboy boots completed her outfit. She looked cute enough to warm the heart of any mean old teacher.

Or even a negligent godmother.

Willow was about to give Natalie a big pep talk about the whole parent-teacher thing when Mrs. M arrived on the scene and said, “For goodness' sake, David, you're going to be late if you don't get going soon. Given what I know of Mrs. Welch, being late won't help matters.”

“Mrs. Welch?” Willow asked. “I hope it's not the same Mrs. Welch who used to teach third grade back in 1990? That Mrs. Welch would be like a hundred years old by now.”

“Not quite a hundred, dear,” Mrs. M said. “More like her late fifties.”

“Don't tell me this is the teacher your mother picketed that time,” David said.

Willow didn't answer David's question. Instead she gave Natalie a pat on the shoulder. “Don't let the spelling tests get you down,” she said.

Natalie's face lit up. “You know about those?”

“Yeah, I'm afraid I do. But, you know, it's okay. I learned a lot from Mrs. Welch too.”

“What's a picket?” Natalie asked.

“Don't answer that,” David said.

She looked up at him, expecting to find a grumpy frown on his face. Instead he looked down at her with just a tiny humorous twist to his lips.

She stood up, feeling suddenly light-headed. She'd forgotten how winning his smile could be.

“Yes, well, I don't think David is going to picket the school, are you?” Mrs. M said. There was an edge to her voice, and the smile at the corner of David's eyes vanished.

“No. I don't think that's quite the appropriate response.” He turned toward his daughter, who had been watching this exchange with undisguised interest. “Come on, let's go. We don't want to keep your teacher waiting,” he said, taking his daughter's tiny hand in his much, much larger one.

The sight of his big hand enveloping Natalie's little one did something goofy to Willow's insides. The warmth pooling inside her wasn't precisely sexual, although it awakened every cell in her body. It tingled over her skin and made her aware of him in ways she'd never been before.

Inside that princely, entitled exterior was a sensitive core. She saw it in the way he held his daughter's hand, in the way he touched his wedding band, and in the way he still grieved for Shelly.

He wasn't at all like Corbin, was he?

Poppy watched David's encounter with Willow with growing interest. Had her son-in-law smiled at Willow? Almost. And that was practically a miracle given that David had been behaving like a caricature of a brooding hero from out of the pages of those idiotic Gothic novels Shelly had loved so much.

No, she hadn't imagined it. He had smiled. He'd also given Willow the look a man gives a woman when he's interested. Something was happening here, which explained a lot of things, not the least of which was David's sudden change of heart about his cousin's wedding.

Poppy flashed back to the discussion last Monday at bridge club. Bud Ingram was right. David's libido was reawakening.

This could be good or bad news, depending on the personality of the next woman in David's life. If he chose Willow, that would be very good indeed.

For Poppy, at least.

But would it be good for Willow?

What to do? She didn't know. She'd need to talk this out with someone like Faye. Faye was much better at trying to run other people's lives.

She gave Willow a hug. “Come along. I've set up some breakfast in the library. It consists of coffee and some scones from Grateful Bread, I'm afraid. I do miss Antonin's blueberry muffins.”

“I do, too, but the scones from Grateful Bread aren't half bad,” Willow said.

They crossed the inn's lobby and walked into the library, where Poppy had set up a table with a faded chintz tablecloth and her favorite Royal Albert rosebud cups, saucers, and bread and butter plates. She'd once had enough of this pattern to serve tea to twenty. The years had taken their toll on the china, and at almost sixty dollars a place setting, she'd never be able to replace the broken pieces. But then, she was unlikely to ever serve tea to twenty again either.

“So,” Poppy said after she poured coffee, and they'd buttered their scones, “you've managed to convince David to host a wedding. How remarkable.”

Willow sat in her chair like a queen, with her back tall and inflexible, her shoulders straight and even. She'd never slouched, not even as a teen. And that rigid back telegraphed every single one of Willow's insecurities. Willow had often been the adult in Linda Petersen's household. And the little girl had learned early how to make herself look bigger. She'd also been the one who smoothed over Linda's most outrageous acts of nonconformity, which explained why Willow always wore black, or beige, or gray. Her dress today was black with a high neckline. Her hair was pulled back neatly. And aside from that small moment by the front door, she appeared to be the very picture of calm control as she sipped her coffee.

“Willow, darling girl, I've heard all about your business plan, and I have only one question. What on earth made you decide to do this? Restoring the inn was Shelly's dream, not yours,” Poppy said.

“I know. But maybe I need to borrow Shelly's dream for a little while because my dream turned into a nightmare.”

If Poppy wanted to encourage romance between David and Willow, this new development would certainly throw them together. But the situation was far more complicated. What if they actually stuck? What then? Willow's plans to buy the inn and restore it would become a major bone of contention, wouldn't they?

And that was the very best reason for Poppy to stay out of any matchmaking attempts. They were likely to blow up in her face.

“All right,” Poppy said, “tell me about your plan, then.”

Willow started talking fast, jabbering the way she always had. She spoke about marketing plans, and high-end weddings, and demographics, and a whole raft of things that Poppy knew nothing about. Poppy knew how to welcome people into her home as if they were family. Poppy knew how to feed them and take care of them. Poppy knew how to order groceries and manage maid service.

“Mrs. M,” Willow said, as her spiel came to an end, “you're absolutely right. I don't know a thing about weddings or running an inn, except, of course, the stuff I learned by hanging around with Shelly as a kid. I know you want to retire, but I need your help. I need your advice. I need you as a consultant.”

Poppy laughed. “I'm happy to help you with Melissa's wedding, Willow. It will be fun.”

“Fun?”

“Yes, Willow, fun. Trust me. Weddings are always fun. They are my favorite thing to host here at the inn. So let's get started. I've already phoned Walter Braden, and he'll be here around ten o'clock to go through his to-do list for getting the property ready to show. But, of course, there is much more that needs to be done if we're going to host a Christmas-themed wedding reception. For starters, we need to think about holiday decorations. I'm afraid the old ones are kind of tired, and last year they weren't stored in the barn correctly. The mice got to the lights, so we'll need to replace all of them.

“And we'll need to figure something out about the catering. I wonder if I could induce Antonin to come back to cater the reception. He always did such a wonderful job, especially with Christmas weddings. His shepherd's pie is to die for.

“And we'll need to think about flowers and repainting the lobby and the dining room. Oh my, we have a lot of work to do.”

Was it her imagination, or did Willow's face pale a little bit as she dug in her briefcase for a legal pad? “Slow down, Mrs. M,” Willow said. “I need to take detailed notes.”

D
avid guided Natalie through the doors of Daniel Morgan Elementary School. It was a good half hour before the children would arrive for the day, and Natalie clung to his hand as if it were a lifeline.

The hallways brought back reminders of childhood. Children's art projects hung on every wall, and the place smelled of chalk, poster paint, and textbooks. He guided his child into the principal's office, where Mrs. Geary was waiting for them.

The slight tightening of Natalie's grip told him she was scared of this woman, and rightly so. Mrs. Geary was almost six feet tall, with thinning dark hair and a mouth that turned down at the corners in a perpetual scowl. She wore a charm bracelet on her thin wrist, which jangled as he shook her hand.

Boy, the woman was a little bit scary, but he was determined not to let this woman or Natalie's teacher, Mrs. Welch, punish his daughter for nothing.

The principal guided them into a small room with a conference table that took up almost all the space. A fiftyish woman with short gray hair and round nervous eyes was waiting for them.

“Mr. Lyndon,” the woman said, standing up, “I'm Mrs. Welch, Natalie's teacher. I'm sorry we didn't get to meet on back-to-school night.”

Oh, low blow. He'd missed back-to-school night and the first-quarter teacher-parent conference because he'd been staying at Mother and Dad's DC apartment, working on a major case at trial before the US Court of Appeals for the Federal Circuit. Poppy had covered for him on both occasions and had given him a full report. Natalie had always been a good and diligent student.

“Please, sit,” Mrs. Geary said.

They all sat. Natalie's posture said it all. His little girl was scared out of her mind. But she wouldn't be for long.

“Mr. Lyndon,” Mrs. Geary said, “you asked for this meeting. What seems to be the problem?”

David pulled Natalie's spelling tests from his inside jacket pocket. The papers were badly creased and crinkled because Natalie had been hiding them in the bottom of her backpack, ashamed to show them to him, even though there wasn't a blessed thing wrong with them.

He smoothed them out and passed them across the table to the principal. “This,” he said in his bulldog County Council voice.

Mrs. Welch picked up the spelling tests before the principal could reach them and then gave Natalie a glare that made David want to strangle her.

“You know you're supposed to have your father sign these and return them, don't you, Natalie?” she said. “I would never have had to call your father if you'd—”

“No, Mrs. Welch,” David said, interrupting the teacher. “I'm not talking about your rules here. I'm talking about the grade.”

“I realize that you and your family are used to getting your—”

“This has nothing to do with my family. It has everything to do with the grade on that paper.”

“Now, Mr. Lyndon, you—” Mrs. Geary started to say in a conciliatory tone.

“What kind of school are you running here? Is it your practice to penalize certain children by flunking them on spelling tests even when any idiot can see that the words are spelled correctly?”

“They are not spelled correctly.” Mrs. Welch sat up straight in her chair and glared at him.

“What on earth are you talking about? Just look at them.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Lyndon, but Natalie does not form her ‘O's or ‘E's properly. Therefore, the words are not correctly written.”

“Oh my God, are you marking her down for penmanship? Really? That's your excuse?”

“Mr. Lyndon, please,” Mrs. Geary said, “keep your voice—”

“Mrs. Welch,” David interrupted again, “the senior partner in my law firm, who is admitted to the Supreme Court Bar and has argued some of the seminal cases of our time, has worse handwriting than Natalie's. I had less trouble reading Natalie's spelling test than I do notes from him. I had no trouble distinguishing her ‘O's from her ‘E's.”

“Her handwriting does not meet our standards for—”

“Oh, for crying out loud. I'm fed up with stupid teachers who spend all their time trying to teach to some stupid standard while they miss the most obvious thing.”

“Mr. Lyndon, keep your voice down, please,” Mrs. Geary said. “I understand your concerns about handwriting, but you yourself were among the school board members who supported a back-to-basics curriculum a few years back. And that curriculum included the teaching of cursive writing.”

“What?”

“You can look it up. We are required by Jefferson County to teach cursive writing in third grade. We have always interpreted that to mean that we should mark down spelling tests when the writing doesn't meet acceptable standards.”

David stood up and leaned over the table. “I don't give a damn what your interpretation of the back-to-basics program is. Can't you see that you've petrified my daughter? You've convinced her that she can't spell and that she's failing in school. She was so ashamed she hid these papers from me and—”

“Mr. Lyndon, as a parent it's your duty to make sure your child doesn't hide papers from you. You should be checking her backpack regularly.” Mrs. Geary got up and matched his aggressive stance.

Well, that was that. He was done, finished. He loved his daughter. It might be that he left a lot of the day-to-day to Poppy, but he certainly wasn't going to stand there and let two old biddies suggest that all of Natalie's problems were his fault. And he certainly wasn't keeping his child in this kind of toxic situation.

He turned toward his daughter, who was looking up at him with wide, dark eyes. “Come on, we're leaving now. You'll be coming to the office with me today.”

He took Natalie by the hand as she hopped down from the chair.

“Mr. Lyndon, are you withdrawing your child from the school?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You know that's against the law. She is required to attend school, and if she doesn't attend school, I will have to report her as truant. And if you, as a parent, encourage truancy, it's considered a misdemeanor in the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

“Mrs. Geary, I intend to enroll my daughter at St. Luke's, where I went to school as a boy.”

He stepped around the principal and walked right out the front door just as school buses began to unload kids. David and Natalie were a lot like salmon swimming upstream as they headed toward the parking lot.

It was raining pretty hard, and he hadn't brought an umbrella. Cold water pelted him, cooling him down. It suddenly occurred to him that Bill Cummins might have a field day with what had just happened.

“Am I not going to school today?” Natalie asked.

“No, you're not.”

“I don't mind going to school, really,” she said. “I mean I kind of like it, especially recess and lunchtime with Ilene and Olivia.”

He stopped and turned to face his child. He was so much taller that she had to crane her neck to look up at him. That didn't strike him as fair, especially since the rain had started to fall in earnest. So he squatted down and took her by the shoulders.

“You listen to me, okay?” he said, blinking as the rain hit his face. “What happened today is not because you did something wrong. For one thing, you didn't fail any spelling tests. You spelled all your words correctly, and I'm proud of you. And I don't think your handwriting is all that bad, although it's a little bit sloppy, but then, you're left-handed and that makes it hard. We can work on that, okay? It's not a big deal. But it's a big deal when people try to make you feel like you're stupid. I don't like that. Not one bit.”

His words stuck in his throat and his chest constricted. Damnit. He loved her more than anything on the face of the planet. He opened his arms and she stepped into them. He pulled her close and pressed his nose to her beautiful red hair, breathing her in.

After spending the morning with Mrs. M and Walter Braden, Willow had a long list of repairs and upgrades that needed to be taken care of before the wedding reception, not to mention the gigantic list of things Poppy said were necessary in order to plan a wedding properly.

That list was daunting. It left her feeling oddly unprepared for her luncheon meeting with Melissa and her two bridesmaids at Gracie's Diner. Willow found Melissa, Courtney, and Arwen waiting for her at one of the big booths near the diner's front door.

“Hi, everyone,” she said, plastering a bright, businesslike smile on her face. “Sorry I'm a little late. I was out at the inn taking stock. There's a lot to get done. Including new holiday decorations.”

“What's wrong with the decorations?” Courtney asked.

“They need replacing.”

“Oh. That's bad, you know, because part of why Melissa wants to have her reception at the inn is because it's always decorated to the nines. I mean, it's like a tradition to go there for high tea in December just to see all the lights and wreaths and greenery.”

“I know. We're working on it.” In fact, she and Mrs. M had spent quite a bit of time talking about the Christmas decorations. The mice had destroyed so much.

“I'm sure you and Mrs. Marchand will have the inn looking as beautiful as ever. I'm not worried,” Melissa said.

Just then Gracie came over carrying four plates in her arms. She put a patty melt in front of Arwen, a ham and Swiss on rye in front of Melissa, a cobb salad in front of Courtney, and a tuna sandwich on whole wheat toast with lettuce, tomato, and mayo in front of Willow.

Willow frowned up at her. “How did you know I—”

Gracie waved her hand. “It's not magic. The thing is, most folks come in here and order the same thing every day. This is what you had yesterday, so I figured I'd take a chance and make you another one.” Gracie gave her a wide grin. “Did you know that you and David Lyndon like the same lunch? Isn't that nice?”

No, it was kind of creepy or something, but she smiled back at Gracie. “Uh, thanks. For lunch and for helping me land this job.”

Gracie gave another carefree wave. “Don't even think about it, hon. You're the one who put the wheels in motion.” She gave Melissa a sappy look. “I just want to make sure Melissa gets exactly what she wants on her wedding day.” Gracie leaned down and got right up into Willow's face. “I'll tell you a secret,” Gracie whispered. “I've seen Melissa pining over a picture in
Brides
of a wedding dress with a big, white fur-lined cape, like something right out of a fairy tale. I want her to have that.”

After delivering this bomb, Gracie straightened up and headed off toward the kitchen.

A fur-lined cape? Really? Oh boy, Willow was in deep, deep trouble. So many questions entered her mind that her head almost exploded. She knew nothing about wedding dresses. Was she supposed to be responsible for that too? Where the heck did you go for a fur-lined cloak, and how much would that cost, and did Melissa want real fur or would faux-fur do? Not knowing what else to do, she picked up her sandwich and took a bite.

Melissa came to her rescue. She pushed her big, black glasses up her nose and said, “I don't really need that cloak. Gracie just saw me admiring it, and you know how she can be.”

“Of course you need the cloak.” Courtney put down her fork and pulled an iPad from her satchel purse. “I knew we were having this meeting so I thought I'd pull together some ideas on Pinterest.” She booted up her tablet. A moment later, she turned the screen so everyone at the table could see.

Courtney had pinned at least a hundred images to a board she'd named “Melissa's Fairytale Christmas Wedding.” The images ran the gamut from white fur-lined cloaks to dozens of photos of red bridesmaid dresses. It didn't end there. Courtney had place settings (heavy on the pine boughs and red roses), candles wrapped in beech bark, and at least a dozen images of cinnamon sticks being used creatively in one way or another, either as food or decoration. She also had more than twenty images of Christmas decor wrapped around banisters and on mantels and gracing front doors. It was clear Courtney wanted Melissa to have a wedding that was all wrapped up in pine roping and tied with a tinsel bow…with a bunch of cinnamon sticks.

Willow continued to eat her sandwich while Courtney, Melissa, and Arwen dived right into a discussion of the merits of every blessed photo on Courtney's Pinterest page. Willow eventually took out a notebook and tried to keep up, but she soon came to the conclusion that she should let Courtney plan the whole thing. Wow. Who knew Courtney would grow out of her braces and her aptitude for math and science to become a wedding planner in the making?

A fiendish thought crossed Willow's mind. Maybe if she could come up with the money to buy the inn, she could hire Courtney and put her in charge of planning all the weddings. Would she give up being a nurse? Doubtful, but it was worth considering.

Willow was beginning to relax about the whole wedding-planner thing when the bell above the diner's door jingled and David strolled into the diner, holding his daughter by the hand. The moment his highly polished wing tips crossed the threshold, the atmosphere in the place changed. It got hot. And hard to breathe.

Gracie apparently had no problems with the atmosphere. She greeted Natalie with a gigantic smile and said, “Hey, honey, you sure are pretty today in your polka dots. You want a grilled cheese sandwich?”

Natalie said nothing. She continued to stand there with a death grip on David's hand. In the few hours since Willow had last seen her, the little girl had lost her hair ribbon and ponytail elastic. Now her hair tumbled around her shoulders in a fiery tangle that looked as if she'd gone running outside in the rain and then let her hair dry on its own.

Gracie looked from the child to her father, her smile fading a little. “You're late,” she said. “I had to give your usual table to Rick Sharp.” She nodded toward the third table from the door, where a rotund man in a three-piece suit was eating the fried chicken special. “And to be honest,” Gracie continued, “I gave your sandwich to Willow. Did you know that you and she like the same lunch?”