A Christmas Bride

by Hope Ramsay

  “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.

  The little girl had come to play with her American Girl doll, which sat in a doll-size rocking chair in the corner, surrounded by her clothes and accessories. The moment Natalie arrived, Willow lost interest in her conversation with arguably the best-known wedding dress retailer in America.

  And in any case, Kleinfeld didn’t have what Willow was looking for, even though they had tried to do backflips for her the minute she’d dropped Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon’s name.

  She ended her call, turned off her phone, and stretched her back. She had an obscene amount of work to do, but she wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to get to know Natalie better.

  “Hi,” Willow said. “I really like your doll. Does she have a name?”

  “Angelina.”

  “She looks like you.”

  Natalie didn’t reply. Instead she looked away, conveying her shyness and making Willow feel like a dolt. Where should she start? She didn’t know anything about kids or their interests. Maybe it didn’t matter as long as she made an effort, which was more than she’d done in the past.

  “So, did Mrs. M tell you that you’re going to be a flower girl in your cousin’s wedding?” Willow asked.

  “Mrs. M?”

  Willow cringed. Of course Natalie didn’t know Poppy by that name. “Grammy,” Willow corrected herself.

  Natalie nodded but didn’t make eye contact.

  “I’ve been searching for bridesmaid and flower girl dresses all day. Yours is the only one I’ve managed to buy. You want to see it?”

  “Not really.” Natalie picked up her doll and had started to stuff various accessories into a pink tote.

  “Going somewhere?” Willow asked.

  Natalie continued to look away.

  “I guess I’ve disturbed you, huh? I’m sorry. Mrs. M—Grammy—told me to set up my table here. I could move to the lobby if you want.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Natalie stood up, carrying the pink bag that was almost as big as she was. She didn’t look in Willow’s direction, choosing instead to stare down at her shoes. Willow wanted to give the kid a hug, but Natalie wasn’t ready for that.

  “You sure you don’t want to see your dress? It’s pretty.”

  “I hate red dresses.” Natalie finally met Willow’s gaze, and the fire in her dark brown eyes was impressive.

  “Oh, honey, of course you do. I wouldn’t put you in a red dress. What made you think I would?”

  “You were just talking to someone about red dresses. Grandmother is always putting me in red dresses, and I hate them.”

  Willow opened her arms. “Come here just for a minute and I’ll show you the dress I got for you. It’s green. And I think we’ll put baby’s breath and green plaid ribbons in your beautiful hair. You’ll look like a little ginger princess.”

  “You think my hair is pretty?”

  “Of course I do. It’s just like your mom’s and just like Angelina’s.” Willow’s heart swelled. “Did your mommy help you name your doll?”

  Natalie nodded. “How did you know?”

  “Because she had a doll with that name once a long time ago. We played with her Barbie dolls all the time. Your mom and me. You sure you don’t want to see your dress?”

  Natalie stood there for a long moment while she evidently weighed her choices. After almost thirty seconds, she finally moved to Willow’s side and inclined her head toward the computer screen, where Willow had brought up an image of the dress.

  Natalie’s eyes grew wide. “It looks like Little Red Riding Hood only green.”

  “I know. Melissa loves fairytales. And all her friends thought it would be fabulous to dress you like Little Red Riding Hood, only in green because of your red hair. I’m trying to find a hooded cloak just like yours in white for Melissa. It hasn’t been easy, though.”

  “I really like that dress.”

  “I’m really glad you do, sweetheart. So, I know you’re planning to go someplace else to play, but I was just about to take a break. I’m going for a walk. Want to come with me?”

  Finally a smile. “You know about the secret place, don’t you? You helped Daddy find it.”

  Willow nodded. “I used to go out to Laurel Chapel with your mom all the time. We used to play a game called Pretend Princess. Do you know that game?”

  Natalie shook her head.

  “No? Well, one of us gets to be the princess and the other gets to be the prince. The prince has to slay a dragon, rescue the princess from the stony tower, and awaken her with true love’s kiss.”

  “That sounds fun. Can I be the prince?”

  “Of course you can.” Willow was surprised. And then it occurred to her that in all her years playing that game with Shelly, Willow had never, e
ver gotten the chance to be the princess.

  “C’mon, let’s go.” Natalie put down her doll and grabbed Willow’s hand. The next thing Willow knew, an eight-year-old was dragging her from the library and her Herculean task.

  And she wasn’t in the least concerned.

  Chapter 9

  David hadn’t been to church in a long time. He sent Natalie off to Grace Presbyterian Sunday school with Poppy, but he was too angry to visit God’s house. Instead, on Sundays when the weather was good, he rose at dawn and headed off to Liberty Forge—the derelict foundry located on Morgan Avenue on the south side of town.

  A hundred and fifty years ago, Liberty Forge had been the manufacturer of cast-iron “Liberty Stoves,” making the McNeil family, who had owned the ironworks, one of the wealthiest families in Jefferson County. But cast-iron stoves had gone out of style, and the forge had closed more than eighty years ago. Now the crumbling brick building with its chain-link fence, no-trespassing signs, and heavily padlocked gate was the biggest eyesore in town.

  On this particular Sunday, David parked his car on Morgan Avenue, grabbed his fishing gear from the trunk, and unlocked the padlock. Once through the gate, he strolled around the building to a set of concrete steps that led down to a weedy open area behind the forge. He took the dirt path that cut across this field, passing the ruins of a much older blacksmith’s forge that dated back to the 1700s. The path eventually led through a stand of oaks and into a large expanse of meadowland that provided access to the spring-fed stream called Liberty Run.

  This land was owned by David’s friend and fishing buddy Dusty McNeil, the sole heir of the family who had built both the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century forges. Dusty let his friends fish this section of stream, and David was honored to be one of them, with a key to the padlock on the front gate.

  It was a sunny, seasonably cool day, perfect for worshipping nature by casting a line. David strolled along the run’s banks to his favorite spot, put on his waders, and settled into the snapping motion of his casts and the graceful fall of the leader as it laid his fly on the run’s riffled surface. The bubble and rush of the creek crowded out conscious thought, along with his sorrows, worries, and all his disappointments.