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Like most small towns, Bethlehem loved its celebrations, and Valentine's Day was no exception. Every year, the place to be on the Saturday before the fourteenth was the Sweethearts Dance, held in the grand ballroom at the Elks Lodge. It was a rite of passage, since no one under eighteen was allowed. Holly remembered her first Sweethearts Dance, her last, and every one in between. They were a tradition in her life, one that she loved. This year she was donating her time and services, as she always did, as part of the planning committee, meeting that afternoon in her dining room, but it looked as if she wasn't going to have a date for the dance.
Oh, Jim Watters had asked, but she made it a rule not to date the newly divorced. There was nothing quite as boring as spending an entire evening listening to a man lament the one who got away. She'd also had an invitation from Kenny Gallagher, a sweet young man who swore the difference in their ages didn't matter, but it mattered to her. Especially since she'd dated his father first.
Though she hadn't dared admit it to anyone yet, she thought she might skip the dance this year. She could have Edward make his hazelnut dacquoise for her, put on her comfiest jammies, watch some terribly maudlin movie on cable, and have a great pity party for one.
Corinna Winchester, co-chair of the committee with her sister Agatha, consulted her notes, then recapped. "All right, ladies. Melissa is donating the centerpieces, as usual. Emilie and Kelsey are in charge of the decorations, with help from all of you under the age of fifty." She offered that last with a charming, seventy-some-year-old smile. "Shelley is taking care of the music, and Agatha will be in charge of the child care. Maggie, along with the inn's staff, will provide the food, and Holly…"
"I'm advertising and reservations."
Miss Corinna made a note. "Yes, and you're supplying the pink tablecloths. It was quite a happy accident, wasn't it?"
Holly glanced at a distant table that held the linens her disaster-prone employee had turned from white sheets into pink tablecloths and smiled dryly. "Quite."
Miss Agatha leaned close to Holly. "Maybe she'll turn the new ones green in time for St. Patrick's Day. And we could use some pastels for the big Easter egg hunt at City Park."
"I'll keep that in mind." Holly sat back in her chair and let her attention wander while the elderly sisters continued to tie up loose ends. They were community leaders in every way, volunteering at church, the hospital, and the library. They gave generously of their money and more so of their time. They were classy broads, she thought with a grin, and someday, when she was too old to be wicked, she might be just like them.
"If there aren't any questions, this meeting is adjourned," Miss Corinna said.
After Miss Corinna and Miss Agatha left, the remaining women huddled around the table, as if they were having their traditional Friday get-together lunch. Shelley looked at Kelsey and said, "Okay, tell us about Bud."
Bud Grayson was Kelsey's father-in-law. He'd come to Bethlehem for a few weeks last summer to help while J.D. had temporary custody of the four Brown kids. Bud's few weeks had turned into a permanent move, and J.D.'s temporary custody had become a formal adoption. He'd also regained custody of his own son from his first marriage. Kelsey had married a man with no one in his life on a permanent basis, and had wound up in very short order with five kids and a father-in-law. She was a braver, stronger woman than Holly, who surely would have run screaming in the other direction.
"I was telling Bud about the Sweethearts Dance," Kelsey said, her eyes bright, "and I asked him if he would like to go with J.D. and me. He said no, he'd stay home with the kids. So I mentioned that they were providing child care and that Miss Agatha was in charge of it, and you should have seen him perk up! He decided that maybe he would go, after all, and if he got tired of dancing, then maybe he'd offer his help taking care of the kids."
"So Bud is sweet on Miss Agatha," Emilie said. "Ooh, this should be fun. We can play matchmaker for the matchmaker."
The Winchester sisters did consider themselves matchmakers of a sort. They'd given J.D. more than a few nudges toward Kelsey, had taken a great interest in keeping Maggie's marriage to Ross intact, and helped Emilie and Nathan get together, too. If Shelley could remember that long ago, she and Mitch had probably had their share of Winchester help. Melissa and Alex, though, hadn't needed it. For them, it had been love at first sight. And as for Holly … even matchmakers had their limits. They couldn't force a match between two people wishing to stay unmatched.
But that hadn't been her wish, an annoying little voice pointed out. Wish for me. That was all she'd thought. She hadn't put any stipulations—for a night, a week, or a lifetime, for an affair, a relationship, or marriage—on the wish. Just Wish for me.
"I always wondered why Miss Agatha never married," Melissa remarked. "She's got so much love to give. I can't imagine no one offering."
"I prefer to think she chose spinsterhood," Holly said airily. "Some of us do, you know."
Shelley looked knowingly at her, then turned to Maggie. "Is Tom coming to town this weekend?"
Emilie and Maggie both shook their heads, leaving Holly to wonder if Tom had any idea that his boss's wife and a woman he'd barely met tracked his movements.
"So why don't you go to Buffalo?"
Holly looked at Shelley as if she'd spoken in a foreign language. "And what would I do in Buffalo?"
"What you do everywhere you go—shop. Try a new restaurant." Shelley grinned. "Maybe seduce a handsome lawyer."
"Do it for us," Melissa teased. "You're the only one whose life allows any spontaneity. You don't have kids to farm out or a husband to convince. Just turn the inn over to your most capable assistant manager—"
"Who's scheduled to work this weekend anyway," Emilie added.
"—and go off and have fun. Give us something to drool over next Friday."
Holly tried but couldn't change the subject. Until Janice, working the desk while Holly and Emilie attended the meeting, stepped into the double doorway. "Phone call, Holly."
Excusing herself, she rose from her chair with relief, turned … and walked smack into Bree. Unfortunately the girl was delivering a dessert, the inn's latest Valentine's creation—a concoction of cream cheese, raspberry sauce, Dutch cocoa, and rich chocolate.
For an instant, the table went silent, then Holly heard two simultaneous gasps—hers and Bree's. She stared down at the mass of cream cheese plastered right in the middle of her chest, staining her white silk blouse raspberry red.
"I—I—" Bree's hands were trembling so badly, she dropped the plate that had held the dessert. It was only Melissa's quick grab that saved the delicate china. A cry escaping her, Bree ran from the room.
"You take your call," Emilie said, handing Holly a napkin to wipe her blouse. "I'll check on Bree."
Holly scraped away as much of the dessert as she could, then went to her office to answer the phone. She sat down and began writing Bree's final paycheck at the same time as she said hello.
Ten minutes later, she said goodbye to Maeve and tore up the check.
Oh, hell. It wasn't her fault that the girl was homeless, or that she was apparently all alone in the world. She was a walking disaster, for heaven's sake. If she stayed around much longer, she would break, ruin, and burn Holly out of business.
True, it wasn't her fault … but wasn't she somehow responsible? Didn't she have an obligation to consider the best interests of the people she employed? Didn't everyone have some obligation to look out for everyone else?
She wasn't great with questions of conscience. Right now she would change clothes, then return to the dining room. Later she would discuss the problem with Emilie. Her assistant manager was the softhearted one. She would know what to do.
Holly was in her closet, putting on a deep purple blouse, when the hall door opened, and Emilie called her name. "I'm in here," she replied.
"I believe the tears have stopped for a while," Emilie said with a sigh. "She doesn't seem like an overly
emotional person most of the time, but then something goes wrong and she just falls apart. I don't have a clue what's wrong with her."
"I do." She told Emilie about Maeve's phone call.
"She's been living in Harry's Diner?" Emilie gave a bemused shake of her head. "When we were homeless, I recall wishing Harry's was open twenty-four hours so I could just sit there awhile, but it never occurred to me to try moving in."
"No, you just went out and stole a whole house." Though her words were true, Holly softened her tone. Emilie had been desperate when she'd gotten stranded in Bethlehem two Thanksgivings ago. Broke, on the run with her sister's three kids, stuck with a car that had died in a blizzard, she'd made the best of her very limited options. The house she'd moved into had stood empty for years, and if the neighbors had assumed she was the owner, well, she couldn't be responsible for what people thought. Eventually she'd been found out, of course, but by then she'd made friends who were only too happy to help her, and she'd had Nathan, who'd fallen head over heels in love with her.
Bree didn't appear to have any friends, and there was no sign of a white knight waiting to come charging to her rescue.
"What are you going to do?" Emilie asked.
"I don't suppose I can rent an apartment for her, give her some cash, and fire her, can I?" Holly asked hopefully.
Emilie shook her head.
"But I don't have a guest room."
"You have a whole floor of them."
"But most of those are rented every weekend. I can't very well ask her to move out every Friday and stay gone until Monday, can I?"
"No, but you can turn that junk room into a guest room. You've been saying for months that you're going to clean it out and do something with it. Here's your chance."
The junk room had been a screened-in porch before Holly's last remodel had turned it into a room with real walls, a window, and a door that opened just a few feet from the door into her own quarters. It stayed locked now, and was home to everything Margery had left behind. That was the real reason Holly had never cleaned it out—cleaning it would mean dealing with her mother, and she tried very hard to avoid dealing with her mother.
But Margery had been gone fifteen years. Holly had provided her free storage long enough.
"All right. But you owe me," she said as she checked her appearance in the full-length mirror mounted on the door. She wasn't sure whether she was talking to Emilie, herself, Bree, or God, but just to make sure the message got across, she repeated it. "You owe me big-time."
Maybe she owed herself big-time, she thought as they returned to work. She did need a break. For years she'd indulged herself often with weekend trips and enjoyed them tremendously. At the moment, though, she couldn't remember the last such trip.
Which meant it had been too long. She didn't have to go to Buffalo, but even if she did, she didn't have to call Tom. If she set her mind to it, she could have a great time without thinking about him even once.
First thing on Saturday morning, she would pack a bag, drive to the airport, and buy a ticket on the next available flight, no matter where it was going. She might wind up in Toronto, St. Louis, or sunny San Diego.
But just in case it was Buffalo, it couldn't hurt to take along that little black dress, now could it?
* * *
Chapter 5
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After putting in a full day's work at the office on Saturday, Tom rode the elevator down to the garage, where his car was the only one occupying the entire level. For a moment, he stood half on the elevator, half off, then abruptly stepped back on. He didn't want to go home, not just yet. If there were someone he could call to meet him for drinks and dinner, he would, but Deborah had finally gotten the hint and he hadn't yet found a replacement.
Hell, he didn't mind eating or drinking alone. And if he did, well, there was always someone on the make in the place where he was headed.
The restaurant was on the twenty-fifth floor of the building across the street from his office. The view was nice, the food good, the prices outrageous. He didn't mind, since it helped cut down on the Saturday-night crowds. Even so, there would be a thirty-minute wait for a table, even for a regular customer like him. He went into the bar and claimed a stool.
"What can I— Well, imagine meeting you here."
He jerked around from his perusal of the place to stare at Sophy Jones. When he'd awakened the morning after the accident, he'd half hoped it had all been a bad dream—the trip to Flaherty Street
, the run-in with Ms. Jones. After all, he would never, in his right mind, choose to make another trip to Holy Cross. There were no marks on the Porsche to indicate an accident, and that night had a sort of surreal feel to it.
But he'd known it was real. And only two days later, he'd run into Sophy again. She and Father Shanahan were eating in a restaurant he'd been forced to step in to make a phone call on the walk over to a business lunch. His cell phone, which never left his side, had gone on the blink even though it had been working properly that morning. Father Shanahan had thanked him for the gifts, and Sophy had told him to take an aspirin. The pained expression on his face must have let her know he had one hell of a headache. Had she also known she was partly responsible for it?
Now here she was again.
"What are you doing here?"
"Working." She made a showy gesture with both hands to indicate her white shirt, black trousers, and red bow tie that matched the other bartender's outfit. With her broad grin and the blond curls falling across her forehead, she looked even younger than usual.
"You work in a bar? Does Father Shanahan know?"
"It's not a regular job. I just fill in sometimes. Tip well. I'll deserve it."
"Are you even old enough to be in a bar?"
"I'm much older than I look. What will you have?"
"Scotch."
She picked up a glass and a bottle, then asked, "Are you driving tonight?"
"Not for a while."
"Good, because, you know, drinking and driving don't mix."
He glared at her smug look and reached for the drink, then waited for her to go away before taking the first sip.
She didn't go, though. Instead, she leaned her arms on the bar that separated them. "Did you work today?"
"Yeah."
"Is that all you do?"
He opened his mouth to deny it, but it was hard to deny the truth. "Yeah, pretty much."
"All work and no play makes Tom—"
"A very rich man."
"In some ways. Very poor in others. You don't even have someone to share dinner with you on a Saturday night."
Rather than argue the point with her, he asked, "How do you know I didn't come here for the purpose of meeting somecould?"
"Say you did. I bet I know exactly the type you go for." She stretched onto her toes to gaze around the bar, mumbling to herself as she passed from one woman to the next. Tom turned to look, too, wondering what kind of woman she would pick for him. Probably some female version of himself, someone who'd spent an entire Saturday in her office, who hadn't heard another voice besides her own all day and had nothing to go home to but an empty apartment she didn't even like.
He saw several candidates, but Sophy passed over them. She also dismissed a couple of Deborah clones, an attractive redhead he'd pegged for a very expensive hooker, and a drop-dead gorgeous woman in green who looked exactly like—
"There she is," Sophy said triumphantly. "The blonde holding court in the middle of all those men. That's your type."
"Uh-huh." Without looking at the blonde, he picked up his drink and started across the room to drop-dead gorgeous. The man she was talking to looked vaguely familiar, but Tom paid him no mind. Instead, he fixed his gaze on her. "Holly."
She broke off in midsentence, looked at him, and smiled coolly. She looked … incredible. Like every erotic dream, fantasy, and experience he'd ever had all rolled into one. "Tom."
He had to swallow before he could speak again,
and the sarcasm he was aiming for was barely recognizable. "What a coincidence running into you here."
"My being in Buffalo is a coincidence," she admitted. "My being here right now is the result of information from Maggie."
The man seated across from her cleared his throat, and she started as if she'd forgotten him. Good. "Oh, Tom, I'd like you to meet—" She gave the guy a brilliant smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't get your name."
He answered too low for Tom to hear, but she caught it. "Greg Everett, Tom Flynn."
Greg half-rose to shake hands, then stiffened. "Tom Flynn … the lawyer? Um, yeah, nice to—to meet you. Holly, take care." Forgetting his drink, he disappeared into the crowd.
"Well, there goes my evening's entertainment." She didn't sound too disappointed. "You two have a history, or do all intelligent lawyers run the other way when you appear?"
"Maybe I'm suing him or putting him out of a job." He slid onto the tall stool Everett had vacated as she made a tsk-ing sound. "If I'm suing him or someone he represents, he deserves it. If I'm putting him out of a job, he'll find another. Lawyers always do."
Leaning back, he sipped his drink while giving her a thorough look. Last Saturday night she'd been wearing a green dress, too, but that was where the similarities between the garments ended. Last week's dress had been simple, dark, perfectly suitable for church. This dress was emerald green, flashy, and revealed a lot of shoulder, arm, and leg. It fit as if made for her could.
To entice his could.
Or, more properly, Greg Everett's could.
"What are you doing, picking up someone whose name you didn't even ask?"
"Ooh, something you've certainly never done." She gave him another of those cool smiles. It made his fingers tighten around his glass and his jaw hurt. It was the sort of smile she might give someone she didn't know, or someone she didn't like. It sure as hell wasn't the way she should be smiling at him.
She didn't give his question any more of an answer. It wasn't necessary. He could guess her plan. Come in here, wait to see if he showed up alone, try her luck with him if he did, find someone else to—how had she put it?—entertain her if he didn't. Take him out of the plan, and it became one of her old routines.
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