A Christmas Bride (9 page)

“Maybe I should call you Ebenezer.”

The bartender returned with his bourbon. David took a long, slow sip and put the glass gently down on the bar. “Bah humbug,” he said.

“Careful. You know what happened to Scrooge.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“He was reformed. If you keep going around town being grumpy about Christmas, you're likely to be visited by three waves of busybodies determined to redeem you, or at least make you their holiday project.”

He took another sip of his drink and tried hard not to smile. “There are already people who want to make me their project.”

“Really? Like who? I'd like their names, please, because I'm thinking about organizing a picket line to change your mind about the decorations for the inn.”

The laugh couldn't be contained, as much as he wanted to continue scowling at her. God, he'd forgotten about her snarky sense of humor. He looked up from his drink right into her eyes. “Picket lines, huh? Well, I guess the apple didn't fall far from the tree, did it?” He said it to annoy her. He settled on his barstool and waited for the predictable outburst.

But it didn't come. What was up with that? Maturity? Self-knowledge? What the hell? This grown-up Willow was a lot more interesting than the teenager he'd once known.

“You're right,” Willow said as she plucked a sweet potato fry from the pile on her plate, dredged it in ketchup, and ate it with a lot of lip puckering and a little flash of tongue. Watching her put that fry into her mouth drove him slightly crazy, and not because he was hungry. For food, at least.

When she finished chewing, she said, “I guess it is true. Mom and I are both troublemakers. And I've just decided to make trouble for you.”

“Like you haven't already?”

Her green eyes widened with disingenuous innocence. “I haven't done any such thing. Near as I can see, I'm helping you. And I'm going to help you change your mind about the Christmas decorations.”

“I'm going to lose this argument, aren't I?”

“Absolutely. I'm like the spirit of Christmas present. And it's my job to make you examine certain inconvenient truths.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocket and punched up the camera roll. “I took photos of the Christmas decorations that Mrs. M stored in the barn. Here, take a look,” she said, passing the smartphone over. “See those little black dots everywhere? I wouldn't expect a refined senator's son like yourself to know what you're looking at, but I'm a farm girl and I know mouse poop when I see it. Rodents are a common problem in barns, which is why you should have a barn cat. Mom's got a few to spare if you're interested.

“But in the meantime, the pine roping is covered in rodent crap. And the mice have chewed most of the light strings. I guess Mrs. M was too tired last year to pack the stuff away in plastic containers like it should have been.”

“We hired someone to do that stuff.”

“Well, knowing you, Mr. Scrooge, you probably hired the lowest bidder, and that's always a mistake. Mice carry all kinds of nasty diseases, and I don't think we want to be responsible for starting a hantavirus epidemic right here in Shenandoah Falls. Oh, and by the way, mouse poop is not exactly a good way to attract prospective buyers.”

“How did we get on this topic?”

“You said ‘bah humbug,' and it pissed me off. Plus I spent all day at the inn walking around in various forms of rodent manure.”

He made a great show of glancing down at the boots she was wearing. “And I see you dressed for it.”

She didn't even glance at her high-heeled boots. Instead she bit her lower lip, just a little bit, as if maybe she was holding back another snarky comment.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, she tilted her head a little. “David, don't BS me. You didn't come here to escape Christmas. Did you come here to find me?”

He tore his gaze away and studied the ice in his now-empty glass. “I don't know why I came here.” He took a long breath. “No, scratch that. I came here because I didn't want to drink alone.” He looked up at her. She had her elbow on the bar and her chin in her hand.

“Why are you drinking?” she asked.

“It seemed like a better idea than screaming at my mother.”

“Oh, well, join the club, then.”

“What club is that?”

“It's the I-love-my-mother-but-I-want-to-kill-her-so-I'm-drinking-at-the-Jaybird club.” Her smile widened, and he had the overwhelming desire to kiss away the dab of ketchup at the corner of her mouth and taste the woman at the same time.

“How many members are in this club?” he asked instead.

“Right now just you and me, but on a busy night, I could find a few more recruits, I'm sure.”

“Probably got that right.” He waggled his glass at the bartender for another drink. “So what does this club do, precisely?”

“We're like group therapy or AA. You can't be a member without spilling the beans on what brought you here. In my case, Mom is cooking fried tofu tonight. And I'm not a fan. That, plus she'll spend the entire evening asking my opinion about her campaign against Holy Cow, which is a franchise I actually like. She might even spend a few minutes telling me why it's a bad idea for me to work for you. That's been very high on her list recently. So that's my story. What's yours?”

“Your mother disapproves of me?” He found that notion more than merely interesting. His parents disapproved of Linda Petersen. How democratic to discover that the feeling was mutual.

“See?” Willow said, as she picked up another French fry. “It's not any fun to discover that you're disapproved of, is it?”

“No, I guess not. What particular thing is Linda upset about?”

“You'd have to ask her. And besides, all these questions are just a ploy on your part to avoid the topic at hand. I told you why I'm avoiding my mother. Now it's your turn.”

“Because my mother is making me take Natalie back to Daniel Morgan Elementary tomorrow morning bright and early.”

“She's making you?”

The bartender arrived with another round of drinks, and David took a long sip before he spoke again. “Well, not really, but Mother has helpfully reminded me that I didn't listen to her advice all those years ago when she told me it was a political mistake to run for the school board. Unfortunately, I was elected, and I made a pledge to send my kids to public school.”

“Let me guess. You made this pledge before you had kids?”

He nodded.

“Ah, so your mother rubbed your nose in your own stupidity. Moms are so good at doing that.”

“She wasn't alone. My campaign manager and political consultant pointed out the same thing. And they are making me issue a public apology not only to Mrs. Welch but to the Virginia Education Association.”

“What did Mrs. Welch do? In my case, she failed me on every spelling test for a solid year because I have crappy handwriting. Thank God no one teaches cursive writing anymore.”

He laughed, and something deep in his gut eased. When was the last time he'd laughed like this? “You are misinformed, Willow. It turns out that we teach cursive right here in Jefferson County.”

“No, you don't. Really?”

“It's part of a back-to-basics movement that I stupidly supported when I was on the school board. Just about everyone has reminded me of that.”

“Oops.”

“Yeah, oops. And furthermore, Mother has pointed out that there are other children in that school who are also left-handed or otherwise cursive-challenged who don't have the option of taking their kid out of school over a dumb thing like a spelling test.”

“That's true.”

He sipped his drink, feeling a weight lifting from his shoulder. Not because of the booze, but because Willow was good at listening. He'd forgotten about that. She'd always been a good listener. For him. For Dusty. For Shelly. “So I'm more or less screwed,” he said, feeling oddly unconcerned.

“Only if you care what people think about you. You could escalate things further, like my mother did, by picketing the school and making a nuisance of yourself until the principal moves Natalie to the other third-grade class.”

“You mean your mother actually won the fight?”

She nodded. “To be honest, while Mom's tactics were
eventually
effective, I sometimes think the principal stepped in because she was worried about me. So, for Natalie's sake, I wouldn't recommend that approach.”

“What would you recommend?”

“Well, you could probably get Mrs. Welch fired, or at least force her to take early retirement. She's the only teacher who has this thing about handwriting. Everyone else grades spelling and handwriting separately.”

“My political consultant already pointed out that I would become an enemy of public school teachers everywhere if I did that. I want to get the endorsement of the VEA.”

“Okay, so maybe you could find out if there are other children who are having the same problem. And maybe you could organize the parents and schedule a group meeting with the teacher. Maybe you could suggest that the teacher grade spelling as spelling and handwriting as handwriting. You know, it's not a bad thing to teach kids cursive writing, even in this day and age. But Mrs. Welch always paid way too much attention to that subject.”

He didn't know whether to laugh or say a prayer to the Almighty who had guided him here to this place and this woman in his hour of need. A part of him—not just the parent and the candidate—wanted to stand up and give Willow Petersen a hug. But he didn't dare do that. A friendly hug would turn carnal in a nanosecond.

He'd stopped thinking about her as Shelly's friend.

“That's a brilliant suggestion. Why didn't your mother think of it?” he asked.

“Because my mother never compromises. It's her way or the highway.”

“Mine too.”

“But it doesn't have to be that way. I mean, in business school we learned all about the power of collaborative thinking and mediation and all that stuff. We put that kind of thinking in place at Restero—” She stopped speaking and looked away, her jawline tensing.

“But when the shit hit the fan, you didn't compromise, did you?”

“You can't compromise when it comes to people's health.” She snapped the words, sounding a lot like her uncompromising mother. She got down from her barstool. “I've had more beer than I should have. I think I need to go now.” She turned away and headed toward the door.

“No, wait,” he said, getting up and grabbing her by the arm, exactly as he'd done the other day at the diner. And just like then, desire flowed up his fingers and right into his core like a stream rushing uphill. He let go before he did something stupid.

“Let's not talk about Restero, okay? Come on, you don't have to run.”

She turned, her shoulders tense. “Even if we don't talk about it, it's like the three-hundred-pound gorilla in the room. And it always will be.”

“Okay. But thanks for the suggestion on how to deal with Mrs. Welch.”

She nodded. “It's just a compromise, David. I know that's become a dirty word back there in Washington these days. But compromise is always the way to solve problems. You could solve Natalie's problem. And even better, you could help other kids who have trouble with their handwriting too.” She turned and started toward the door.

“Hey, Willow,” he said to her back. She stopped and looked over her shoulder.

“About the Christmas decorations,” he said, “get whatever you, Poppy, and Melissa want. I have issues with the holiday, but I guess it's a waste of time to try to impose them on the rest of the world. Maybe I need to compromise with Christmas, too, huh?”

She turned back toward him, her eyes going kind of liquid. But she smiled through the unshed tears and said, “David, I'm so sorry for your loss. I know the anniversary of the accident is coming up—the day before Melissa's wedding. I haven't forgotten. Shelly was my best friend. I was closer to her than I am to my sister. So if you ever need a drinking buddy or want to convene a meeting of the club, you know where to find me.”

Then Willow Petersen did the unthinkable. Instead of turning her back on him, she took a step forward and kissed his cheek. It wasn't intended as a come-on, but the touch of her lips seared his skin and left him struggling to breathe. It took all of his willpower not to grab her by the shoulders and turn that little, friendly kiss into so much more.

With so much to do before December nineteenth, including finding and managing contractors, ordering holiday decorations, and arranging the catering, flowers, invitations, and dresses, Willow decided that it would be best if she spent her working hours at Eagle Hill Manor instead of trying to manage things from Serenity Farm. So on Thursday morning she arrived at nine o'clock and set up a card table in the library to serve as her desk.

Her plan to rely on Courtney Wallace for a lot of the wedding details was starting to backfire. Courtney had sent her no less than fifty e-mails over the last week, each of them containing more than one idea for Melissa's wedding. Courtney now had no fewer than forty-eight pictures of Christmas centerpieces on her Pinterest board, and she wanted to discuss the merits of every damn one of them. The woman would. Not. Stop.

If she allowed Courtney to distract her, she'd get nothing done. And there were two big priorities for today: finding a painting contractor who could take care of the peeling paint on the front facade and nailing down the bridesmaid and flower girl dresses.

She spent hours on her cell phone trying to accomplish these tasks, and by early afternoon, she'd made little or no progress. Every painter in Jefferson, Clarke, Frederick, and Loudon Counties was booked through the holidays.

And who knew that bridesmaid dresses took up to eight weeks to order? Courtney and Melissa were going to have to pare down their choices to nondesigner, ready-to-wear dresses. She was deep in conversation with a wedding dress consultant from Kleinfeld of New York when Natalie arrived home from school and came bounding into the room.