From Here to Bethlehem
Kathryn Guare
Contents
From Here to Bethlehem
An Ciarri Carul Nolan - The Kerry Christmas Carol
Also by Kathryn Guare
Special Note: The events in this short story take place between Books 2 and 3 of the Conor McBride Series but the story is designed to be enjoyed without knowledge of the series.
Be sure to see the offer for a complimentary copy of the first book at the end of the story!
PO Box 1175
Montpelier, VT 05601
Copyright © 2014 Kathryn Guare
All rights reserved.
This story is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.
Cover image detail from "Milking the Cows", a photograph created by Dave Berryman and used by permission. www.naturesartphotography.com
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From Here to Bethlehem
Kate, caught in a whirlwind of her own making, was nearly run off her feet. She’d vacuumed the entire inn from top to bottom. She’d put fresh towels in every guest room and made sure the heat was on in all of them. She had ironed napkins and tablecloths, arranged displays of poinsettias, and polished the silverware.
With each accomplishment, she dug into her pocket for the coffee-stained page torn from a sketch book and crossed off another task. Running a line through each one gave her a sense of progress, but the satisfaction was short-lived. When the folded sheet went back into her pocket the list was just as long, because looking at it only reminded her of the things she needed to add.
One item had been sitting at the top of the list for the past few days and couldn’t wait any longer. Kate had hoped she and Conor would decorate the tree together, drinking spiked eggnog and relaxing in front of a cozy fire, but that idea became an impractical fantasy once his presence had been “requested” in London for a week.
He’d arrived home only two days ago to find the place in an uproar, preparing for the last-minute group booking she’d accepted. No doubt he was tired from his trip and whatever stress a week’s worth of “supplemental training” might have caused. Probably he was brimming with information about the assignment he’d accepted (which they’d made a pact not to discuss until after the holidays), and possibly he was irritated with her for turning a peaceful holiday season into a boiling cauldron of chaos.
Kate had little time to test any of these speculations, but what she’d seen had reassured her. In between his usual farming chores Conor diligently worked through his own to-do list without complaint—shoveling snow, sanding the driveway, installing exterior holiday lights. If he was tired he refused to admit it, and if he was irritated he was keeping it well hidden behind an expression of tolerant amusement.
Plunging into the deep storage space behind the coats in the hall closet, Kate found the plastic tub containing the tree decorations and dragged it to the inn’s public living room. Before lifting the lid, she sat down on it for a moment, wiping the perspiration from her forehead, trying to remember if she’d eaten anything since breakfast.
She could think of far more relaxing ways to spend the weekend before Christmas, but she didn’t regret her decision. When a harried office manager had phoned the previous week, desperate to find a Vermont inn that could produce a party and overnight package for her company’s sales division, Kate had taken the booking without hesitation. It meant the business would break even for the year—an unexpected triumph after her gloomy forecast a few weeks earlier.
Managing the Rembrandt Inn had been the last thing on her mind for the past two months, and a sobering review of accounts confirmed the consequences of her neglect. The stark columns of figures had left her dispirited and demoralized, realizing she’d need to balance the books with an infusion of cash from her personal finances.
Having a general notion of the extent of those personal finances—and of the inheritance that would soon launch her net worth into the stratosphere—Conor had been surprised by her depression over the inn’s looming deficit. Pushing herself from the storage tub onto her feet again, Kate thought back to the night when he’d finally questioned her about it.
She’d been dozing in the living room with a pile of spreadsheets in her lap and woke to find him crouched at eye level in front of her chair. Gently taking the pencil from her hand, Conor lifted her fingers to his lips.
“Why is it bothering you so much?” He studied her, his eyes full of puzzled concern. “The numbers aren’t that far off. I’d say you’re being a bit hard on yourself.”
“Don’t you think I need to be? If I can’t even manage a small business, how will I cope with a trust fund worth forty million dollars?”
Conor’s mouth twitched. Seeing he was on the verge of a smile she glared at him, and he quickly suppressed it.
“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’re expected to keep track of it on a spreadsheet. Also, I imagine your grandmother’s bankers are planning to help you.”
“Oh, I know they are. I’m being foolish, I suppose.” Kate sighed. “The inn is my business, though, not theirs. I want it to succeed on its own, not because I’m always topping it up with my family’s money.”
“It does succeed on its own. You’ve done a brilliant job with it.”
“The balance sheet says otherwise, at least for this year.”
“Not necessarily, there’s still a few weeks left.” The grin quivered on Conor’s lips again. “Do you want me to take a second job? They’re hiring at the ski area.”
Kate smiled in spite of herself. “That would be fun to watch. Have you ever even tried skiing?”
“Jaysus, are you mad? An Irishman on skis? No, I’ll be one of those blokes who grabs the chair and throws it under your backside.”
Smiling at the memory of Conor’s teasing smile, Kate removed the lid from the tub and lifted out the first string of lights. She got on the stepladder next to the Christmas tree, which stood eight feet tall and was tucked into the alcove in front of a Victorian bay window. Getting the tree had been the one holiday activity she and Conor had squeezed in before his trip. On a frosty morning, with several inches of new snow on the ground, they’d hiked into the woods behind the pasture and found the bushy Douglas fir standing on its own in a clearing, looking as though it had been waiting for them.
Still as green and fresh as the day they’d carried it home, the needles released their pine-scented perfume as Kate carefully threaded the lights among the branches, pausing every so often to look out the window. The exterior scene contrasted sharply with the atmosphere inside, where it was warm and cozy and the aroma of Abigail’s homemade rolls mingled with that of a slowly roasting turkey.
As predicted, the weather had turned nasty during the past hour, and Kate was relieved everyone in the group had arrived already. Anticipating the weather, all twenty-eight of them—insurance sales managers, spouses and guests—had come early and were in their rooms, preparing for the evening’s festivities.
Once they’d begun pouring in, Kate had experienced a small panic attack. She hadn’t entertained a group this large in a long time. As the lobby filled with designer luggage and New York accents she worried their big-city expectations might incline more towards spa treatments and luxurious amenities rather than simple, country hospitality.
Sh
e soon realized her fears were groundless. The guests were in a cheerful mood, responding to her with friendly enthusiasm, and when Conor showed up at the front desk they were instantly besotted, captivated by his bantering wit and Irish brogue. Kate had seen several of the women exchange pop-eyed glances while taking in his other attributes—the husky voice, the tall, athletic frame, the silky dark hair and matching eyes.
He’d be pitching in behind the bar later on, and Kate imagined he was in for a busy evening, but it was after four already, and he was still across the road in the dairy barn, milking the cows.
Wondering why he wasn’t back yet, she looked out the window, straining to see through a swirling curtain of snow and freezing rain. It slanted across the sky in windblown sheets, making it hard to see the road, much less the barn on the hill across from it.
He probably wasn’t dressed for the change in weather. She’d seen him outside earlier, layered with only a fleece vest over a maroon thermal shirt. He’d be be soaking wet and chilled to the bone by the time he got back.
Kate gasped, feeling a pair of hands lightly squeeze her waist. Their grip tightened as her start of surprise set her off-balance on the ladder. She twisted around to see Conor—perfectly dry—looking up at her with a smile of apology.
“Sorry, but I thought it was safer than calling out to you. You looked a million miles away.”
“Where did you come from? I thought you were still in the barn.”
“I came back through the kitchen door. That was my first mistake. The second was asking Abigail if she needed anything. She seems to think we’re feeding a squad of Marines. I do believe I’ve peeled two hundred potatoes in the last half hour. What do you need me to do next?”
“Just one more thing.”
Kate hopped down from the ladder, first bracing her hands on his shoulders and then letting them slide down his arms. She lifted her mouth to his, her fingers moving over the waffled texture of his shirt, pressing against the taut muscles underneath as they kissed. She breathed him in—the smell of his skin and the cotton fabric warmed by it, the malty scent of grain and fresh air, and somewhere in the background a soap fragrance with hints of cedar. She hadn’t gotten nearly enough of this, lately.
Conor leaned into her, cupping the back of her neck with one hand as he kissed her, but when hers slid up under his shirt and over his back he took a deep breath and reluctantly pulled away.
“Have mercy, Kate. Sure I’m hanging by a thread, here. Don’t start something we can’t finish.”
“Who says we can’t? Help me get this tree decorated and I’ll finish whatever you want.”
Stationed on one side of the dining room behind the long mahogany bar, Conor eased the cork from another bottle of Bollinger Champagne. The task gave him a chance to observe the stylishly dressed guests, their bright conversation mingling with the background jazz that conjured a Manhattan state of mind, and also to look across the room at a brassy-toned redhead with an ample, hour-glass shape. She was more than an eyeful, wearing a white mini-dress that adhered to her like a tight, elastic bandage, but at the moment his attention was fixed on the glass of red wine in her hand.
She’d spilled one on the floor already, shrieking apologies at Kate, who’d knelt at her feet, pouring club soda on the stain while assuring her the Oriental rug wasn’t valuable—which he knew was a lie. Conor watched the woman’s wrist, bonelessly flapping in time with her animated voice. Anticipating the second glass would soon be joining the first, he placed another tumbler of soda water and a towel on the bar.
That was the limit of any attention he could contribute to the cause. He was too busy keeping up with the insurance managers, a crew of boisterous drinkers with wide-ranging tastes. Considering the countless hours of his life he’d spent parked on a bar stool, Conor was surprised at how many times he’d been stymied by requests for drinks he’d never heard of before. Thankfully, the company’s office manager—a pleasant, heavyset woman traveling solo—was saving him the trouble of paging through the bartending guide. She presented drink orders and the instructions for making them along with doses of gossip that kept them both entertained.
“A Barbados Fizz. What the hell is that now, Toni?”
“Something nobody drinks unless they’re bragging about their luxurious timeshare in the Caribbean. That’s for Bob Eastman’s wife.”
“It starts with rum, I expect?”
“And ends with it. Throw some pineapple juice in the middle and a little ginger ale on top.”
“You’re sure about it, are you?”
“Of course not, honey. I’ve never heard of it either, but she won’t know the difference.”
Conor had to admit the evening was turning out better than he’d hoped, but then his expectations had been extremely low. It could hardly be worse than the tedious week he’d spent in London, completing paperwork, undergoing medical tests to rate mental and physical fitness, and then slogging through endless meetings in the antiseptic conference rooms of the British Secret Intelligence Service. After listening to pedantic intelligence officers talk about him instead of to him for hours on end, it was clear he was being wheeled around for their appraisal, so that they might reflect on the uses they could get out of him.
He’d returned to Vermont, jet-lagged and jaded. Discovering the inn convulsed in frenzied preparation for a party of New Yorkers who would arrive in three days’ time wasn’t the homecoming Conor would have chosen, but the inconvenience was a small price to pay for the pleasure of seeing Kate’s optimistic spirit restored. To her, the last-minute booking was a godsend, and he could put up with just about anything that brought the smile back into her stunning blue eyes.
They were shining with happy relief as she approached now with three more bottles of Champagne, pleased by the success of the party so far. She’d styled her auburn hair in a loose braid secured with a bit of ribbon to match her forest green dress. A long curl had come loose, falling across the corner of one eye. Maintaining his professional decorum, Conor resisted the urge to take the strand between his fingers.
In wry gratitude for his vigilance, Kate acknowledged the glass of soda water. “I’ve lost track of which ones belong to each other, but whoever brought that woman in the rubber dress, I’ll bet you a bottle of Champagne she’s not his wife.”
“Even if I liked Champagne I wouldn’t take that bet.” Conor accepted the bottles and buried them in the tub of ice sitting on the counter behind him. “Is she buckled already, do you suppose? Seems a bit early. She’s thrown more booze on the floor than she has down her throat.”
“I can’t tell,” Kate said. “Maybe it’s how she is all the time, but I should get Dominic to pass more hors d’oeuvres on that side of the room. Do you need anything else, here?”
“Not yet, but check back in ten minutes. This feckin’ crowd is putting it away like they’ve been forty years in the desert.”
He sent her off with another tray of filled Champagne flutes and then turned to a tall, gray-haired man who’d settled on a stool at the end of the bar, holding a half-empty glass of his own.
“Top up the Champagne for you, sir?” Conor reached for one of the open bottles but the man made a sour face.
“I can’t stand the stuff, either. I’ll take a Jameson on ice.”
“Oh, thanks be to God. I know how to make that one, anyway. Original or Special Reserve?”
“Didn’t know they made more than one. Your choice.”
“They’ve five or six, actually, and I’ve had them all. We’ll make it the Reserve, so. Holidays are a good excuse for a splash out, right?”
The man shrugged, his expression noncommittal. “Good as any, I suppose.”
He took the bottle down from the top shelf, and as he filled a glass with ice Conor gave his customer a curious glance. He had deeply shadowed eyes and a putty-toned complexion that spoke of long hours in sunless rooms. He looked relieved to be in a quiet corner away from the action. Staring at the drink Conor placed
in front of him, he nodded.
“Good decision, taking a pass on that bet. She’s not my wife.”
Oh, bloody hell. Conor felt his face reddening. “Sir, I’m very sorry. I’d no business to be--”
“Forget it.” He waved off the apology. “She’s not a paid escort, although I’m sure everyone here assumes she is. Jessica bartends at a club I go to once in a while. She’s a good kid.”
“Right. Grand.” Conor nodded, his voice emphatic, hoping to avoid further discussion of Jessica, and deeply anxious not to open a line of conversation about the nature of the club.
“They say it’s time to get on with my life.” The man continued staring at his drink. “Funny how friends think they’re doing you a favor, picking a deadline for you, and you’re an aggravation to them if you ignore it. The sad-sack widower who won’t get over himself and move on. So, this is me, moving on, just not in a direction anyone expected. Serves them right.”
He raised his glass in a mock toast and turned on the stool to offer the same salute to Jessica, who was casting a spell over the unattached men in the group. She gave them both a toothy smile and a wave. Conor thought she looked a good twenty years younger than the man who’d brought her. He wondered if she was “a good kid” or an opportunist, or whether the two were mutually exclusive, in this instance. If her date had brought her along purely for shock value, his motivations weren’t any nobler than hers.
The man swiveled back, his ironic smile fading. Appearing to read Conor’s mind, he took a long sip of whiskey and then placed the glass on the bar with deliberate care.
“Yeah. Bad idea. I knew it as soon as we got here. Thought about getting my own room, but Toni says there aren’t any. If it wasn’t a five-hour drive, I’d head home tonight.” He grimaced. “Makes me look like a bastard, right? As well as an idiot.”
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