“Cyb, that’s a...great costume.”
Cyb grinned at her from under her perfectly pin-curled hair. “Isn’t it? It belonged to my older sister, you know. She married an American during the war. Moved to Ohio when it was all over.”
“It certainly seems to fit with the theme,” Carrie assured her. “Are many dance nights so...Second World War centric?”
Cyb laughed. “Oh, no. Only the second Monday of every month.”
“Of course.” Because that was totally normal.
“We even have food like they’d have had on the American bases in Britain,” Cyb chattered on. “Jacob did some research for us on the internet and found all sorts of exciting recipes. And Stan runs old movies on the screen at the far end without the sound on. And we play all these wonderful thirties and forties songs to dance to. And–”
“Cyb?” Nate interrupted the monologue from the doorway. “I think Gran’s looking for you in the drawing room. She’s finalizing the song list for this evening.”
Cyb bustled straight off, and Nate came in, apparently unconcerned by the sudden time warp.
“No costume?” Carrie asked, hoping to forestall the inevitable questions about Anna’s visit, and Nate chuckled.
“I should be so lucky. Just wait until Gran gets done with Cyb.”
Carrie noticed the Donut Dugout sign in the corner, and suddenly felt more optimistic about the evening. If she could just distract Nate long enough for him to forget everything she told him about Anna...
Nate opened his mouth to ask something, but shut it again when Izzie appeared in the doorway calling for him. “We’ll talk, later,” he promised before disappearing again, with Izzie babbling something about ticket collection. Carrie sighed with relief. Only another three or four hours to go.
And tickets at least suggested people might be paying to attend the evening, which gave Carrie some comfort. But, since this was an official Avalon Inn event, did that mean she actually had to attend? She’d avoided last week’s, but she supposed she’d have to take part sometime. Except it had been a long day, and she’d been looking forward to a night in with Pusscat…
Moira arrived next, incongruously carrying an iPod. “Finally, despite Stan’s best efforts, the playlist for the evening is ready.”
Carrie watched as she settled the iPod into a dock attached to the speakers on either side of the room. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have those in 1944.”
Moira shrugged. “Bet the people running the dances wished they did, though. Much easier to look after than a band.”
“True,” Carrie said, wishing more brides were willing to be so pragmatic. It would make her job a lot easier. “It really is looking pretty impressive in here.”
Grinning, Moira said, “Just wait until everybody gets here. Then you’ll see a sight. Speaking of which, time for me to go and get ready.” And with that, she bustled off through the door.
In the end, it was just too tempting. As a compromise, Carrie changed out of her black suit and into a brown cotton pencil skirt and cream blouse, and curled up in one of the leather chairs in the drawing room that provided her with a good view of the lobby. With Pusscat dozing on the chair opposite her, Carrie flicked on her laptop, counted three new emails from Anna’s iPhone since she’d left and got back to work on her schedules.
The dance night attendees arrived in ones and twos, and a rowdy group of four elderly gentlemen in what might have been their original service uniforms except they fit too well. Carrie vaguely remembered that demobbing involved giving them back, anyway.
Each one in turn greeted Izzie on the reception desk with smiles and high spirits, handing over their tickets, or buying them on the spot if necessary. Izzie in turn was cheerful, efficient and obviously beloved by the guests.
Carrie was amazed.
When the clock ticked over to eight o’clock, Carrie closed her laptop and, ignoring Anna’s emailed summary of their new agreement from that morning as it arrived in her inbox, followed the crowds into 1944.
Suddenly, she wanted to know what kept the Seniors so tied to her inn.
* * * *
Nate didn’t know where his gran had found the costume, but he suspected eBay. She’d become quite the computer whiz since Granddad had died. Regardless, she showed up with it, every 40s night, and wouldn’t leave until he put it on. He’d given up the fight by this point.
“Maybe you could ask Carrie if you could do this place up a bit,” Moira suggested, perched on the very edge of the summerhouse sofa. “If you decide to stay.” She was fishing. Gran always did like to know his exact plans, and he had to admit to finding a perverse pleasure in holding out on her.
“I think she’s got bigger things to worry about at the moment. As you told me.” And despite his reluctance to fall in with Stan’s plan, Nate knew he’d have to find out how much worse the situation had become since Anna’s visit that morning.
Nate sighed, straightened the collar of his ‘authentic replica American army shirt, circa 1944’ and tried to make his hair stay flat. If it wasn’t tidy enough to appease Gran, he knew from past experience she would come after him with a comb and some Brylcreem. He’d really like to try and avoid a side-parting tonight.
“Besides,” he added, coming out of the bedroom, “I like it this way. It’s homey.”
“It’s a mess.” Moira narrowed her eyes at him. “As is your hair. Come here, I brought my comb.”
Nate sighed, but followed instructions and went to sit on the sofa. There was, he reflected as a slick of Brylcreem hit his scalp, something humiliating about being styled by your grandmother. Especially at the age of thirty.
By the time Moira had finished fussing and they had walked up to the inn, the party was in full swing. The Andrews sisters crooned from the speakers, Walt attempted to dance while still holding on to his Campari and soda and Stan, Nate noticed with a wince, was making his way through the dancers toward them.
Gran, coward that she was, gave a little wave to nobody and said, “Oh, Nate, I think I see...” before disappearing off without even a complete excuse.
Stan reached him and swung an arm up to somewhere approximating Nate’s shoulders. Given that Stan was a full head shorter than him, Nate figured that was quite an achievement in itself. “Nate, my boy. I’ve got it all set up for you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Nate said, hoping he really didn’t. He could guess, but none of his speculations were particularly comforting. Stan opened his mouth again, and Nate jumped in with, “I don’t want to know what you mean.”
Stan gave a sage nod and dropped his arm. “Plausible deniability. I understand. Good move.” He inched even closer and lowered his voice to a grumbly whisper. “Let’s just say, you’ll know when it’s time, right?” He gave a meaningful look over at Jacob’s Donut Dugout, and Nate saw Carrie already there and, judging by her outfit, almost in the spirit of things. She was even wearing red lipstick.
She looked good in red lipstick.
Stan poked him in the ribs and disappeared in the direction of the stage. Deciding to ignore the sense of foreboding in his stomach, Nate headed for the food and hoped for the best.
“What exciting new recipes have we got today, Jacob?” Nate smiled at Carrie in what he hoped was a friendly but neutral manner, just in case Stan was still watching, and turned his attention to the trays of donuts before him.
When they’d started the 40s nights, Jacob had been excited to learn from his culinary research that, during the war, Donut Dugouts had been set up for the visiting American soldiers. Apparently they used a special donut mix, which never became available in the UK once the fighting was over, so Jacob had started investigating how to make his own donuts from scratch.
Apparently there were considerably more donut recipes than anyone had expected. Jacob was still working his way through the first file of printouts.
“Apple and cinnamon donuts, lemon and lime donuts, vanilla sugar donuts and plain ones for Stan
,” Jacob told him, pointing at each in turn.
“I can recommend the vanilla,” Carrie added through a mouthful of crumbs.
Nate chanced a look over at her, and had to smile at the way sugar stuck to her lipstick and her auburn hair floated over the shoulders of her creamy blouse. “You look nice,” he said, without really meaning to. And at least she didn’t look like someone who’d just been told she had to sell her home. That was something. “I like the lipstick.”
Carrie blushed a rosy pink, and the color clashed with both her lipstick and her hair, which somehow just made Nate smile even more. “Izzie ambushed me. Said it was compulsory.”
“It should be.”
Carrie glanced away, taking another bite of her donut, just as Stan’s voice came over the speakers. He was up on the stage, Nate realized, microphone in hand, looking serious and somber, and with the attention of the entire room.
Nate sighed, and reached for another donut. This, undoubtedly, was Stan’s sign. And it just wasn’t ever going to end well.
* * * *
It took Carrie a moment to stop marveling at the sight of Nate Green in his uniform and tune in to what Stan was actually saying. After all, the way the khaki shirt emphasized the width of Nate’s shoulders was, quite frankly, much more interesting than any speech Stan could make. Possibly more interesting than any speech Winston Churchill might have been making in this weird time warp.
But then Stan said, “I know all of you here knew and loved Nancy Archer,” and Carrie started paying attention.
“She will be sorely missed, and I’m sure, for many of us, nothing will really be the same now that she’s gone.” Stan looked mournfully down on the crowd and, for a moment, Carrie felt a pang as she realized these people probably knew her grandmother better than she ever had. Even Nate looked affected, although the look on his face seemed more apprehensive than grief-stricken.
“But here tonight, we have with us Nancy’s granddaughter, Miss Carrie Archer.” Stan brightened up with these words and gestured to where Carrie stood, donut in hand and probably with sugar around her mouth. Out of nowhere, a spotlight came to shine on her, and she tried to wipe at her lips without anyone noticing. Nate handed her a napkin, and she gave him a grateful smile.
“Miss Archer is, I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear, the new owner of the Avalon Inn. And in honor of her arrival, our next song will be one of Nancy’s favorites.” Stan signaled to Izzie, who was hovering over the iPod in the corner, and the first strains of The Very Thought of You flooded through the room. “Nate, old boy,” Stan said, with an odd tone in his voice. “Why don’t you take your new boss for a turn around the floor?”
Carrie didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look so unexcited at the prospect of dancing with her. “You don’t have to...” she began, but Bing Crosby’s voice started out of the speakers, smooth and warm, and all Carrie could think of was nights dancing around the attic room with Nancy, and she lost the rest of the words she’d meant to say.
Nate obviously saw her discomfort and took pity on her, because he grabbed her hand and, to the applause of the crowd, led her onto the dance floor.
“I’m a rubbish dancer,” she managed, as he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close.
“Doesn’t matter.” Nate fixed one of her hands on his back, still clasping the other tight, and began to move. “Just sway a bit. They’ll get bored of watching in a moment and join in.”
“I’m sorry.” Bing sang about living in a daydream and she thought, with the heat of Nate’s palms warming her skin through her blouse, that she knew exactly what he meant.
“What for?” Just as Nate had promised, other couples were joining them on the floor, finally. Stan and Cyb took a turn not far from them, and as they passed, Stan winked, although Carrie wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or Nate, or why.
“You having to dance with me.”
Nate laughed, and several dancers nearby turned to look at them. He moved his head closer to hers, until Carrie could feel his breath against her ear. “Trust me, compared with my usual partners at these things, dancing with you is a real treat.”
He straightened up, and Carrie’s neck felt cold at the absence of his warm breath. At least, that was her excuse for the shiver running up her back when he tugged her close again.
“You didn’t look so pleased when Stan ordered you to take me out for a twirl,” she pointed out. A thought occurred to her. “Or was that because he called me your boss?”
Nate looked perplexed. “You are my boss.”
Carrie shrugged, and promptly lost the rhythm. “I wasn’t sure how happy you were about that.”
“Doesn’t bother me, to be honest.” Nate swung them out of the way of a passing couple. “I like having more time to work on my garden.”
“Then what was bothering you?”
Nate rolled his eyes. “Bloody Stan and his machinations.” Carrie blinked up at him, confused, and he obligingly elaborated. “Cyb heard the offers from the lawyer this morning to buy the inn. Stan wants me to romance you into telling me whether or not you’re planning on selling. I told him I’d just ask you outright, ‘How did it go with your boss?’ but apparently Stan wants to play this his way, whether we like it or not.”
“I’m not selling,” Carrie said, choosing to ignore the part about a virtual stranger trying to manipulate her love life. “Not unless I’m forced to.”
“That’s what I told him,” Nate said with a nod.
“Oh?”
Nate smiled down at her, and she felt something in her chest go just a bit gooey. “I told them all you love this place too much to sell.”
“Well, you’re right.” Carrie wondered why that was so disturbing. He’d only known her for a week, but he spoke like he knew all her secrets.
“So, how did it go with your boss?”
Too late, Carrie remembered she’d been trying to avoid getting into this position with Nate tonight. He asked too much, too close. And somehow she knew that he wouldn’t approve of the deal she’d struck with Anna.
“It could have gone worse,” she said tentatively, and Nate just looked down at her with raised eyebrows. “Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“That you are.” Nate rubbed a small circle at the small of her back, and Carrie felt blood rushing to her cheeks.
“Anyway, it was just an initial visit. You know, she just wanted to get a look at the place.” She was babbling, Carrie knew, and likely to give away everything she hadn’t wanted to tell him. But it was just so hard to concentrate on anything except his skin against her. “I told her it’s going to take time to get it into shape. But I’ve got two weeks to make it...acceptable to a potential bride. If I can do that, if they book, then Anna will invest.”
Nate stopped rubbing. “So you’ve got to make this place appealing with no money?”
“I have some savings,” Carrie said, because I have a credit card sounded so much worse. She already felt stupid enough about letting Anna get the upper hand in the negotiations. ‘I’ve got a potential bride,’ she’d said, and Anna had looked disbelieving. ‘Let me try and sell it to her,’ she’d begged, and Anna had said ‘Fine,’ and it was only later Carrie had even realized that left her with no budget for the work. “We’ll just have to concentrate on the easy, cosmetic stuff for now, and promise changes to the rest before the wedding.”
“Well, at least you’re still getting paid, right?” Nate said, and Carrie stubbornly did not mention that, according to Anna’s last email, she was now officially on unpaid leave. She might need his help, but she didn’t need his pity. And did it really count as help anyway, when he was officially her employee? Nancy hadn’t thought so.
“On the plus side,” she said, dragging the conversation toward the positives, “the potential bride is my cousin. And she loves this place.”
As long as Ruth and Graeme hadn’t actually broken up over the choosing of the ring, of course. Oh God, she was going to h
ave to phone and check.
“That’s good,” Nate said, pausing before adding, “I know you want to do this yourself, I mean... I know it’s your inn. But you are going to need help, you know.”
Carrie was saved from answering by the end of the song. They stilled, arms around each other, for a long, silent moment, only broken when Nate said, “Stan will be pleased, anyway.” He moved away, and Carrie felt a shiver of cold. “That you’re not selling, I mean.”
“Then you’d better go tell him.” Carrie took a step nearer the Donut Dugout. At least Jacob and his sugary morsels of goodness didn’t try to understand her.
“Carrie,” Nate called, and her body turned to him despite her best intentions. “They’re just concerned, you know. They love this place. Now they know you’re staying, they’ll do everything they can to help you.”
She nodded to show she’d heard and turned away. After all, how much help were they really going to be? So far, all they’d done was book up her hotel on days when she could use it for more profitable endeavors, and turn back time to 1944. Neither of which was going to make a successful wedding venue.
And she couldn’t help but notice that Nate hadn’t said he’d help. He hadn’t even said he was going to stay.
Not that she cared, of course.
Time, Carrie decided, for another donut.
* * * *
“That was a lousy stunt, Stan,” Nate said, cornering the older man by the sound system. Cyb took one look at them and quickly found something important she had to be doing somewhere else, which Nate appreciated. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as unobservant as he’d always thought.
Stan gave him a sly smile. “Oh, I don’t know. You seemed to be enjoying it.” He chuckled at the face Nate pulled. “All right, I’m sorry. But most importantly, did it work?”
Nate sighed. “I asked her outright. No pretense.”
“And she said?”
Over at the donut stand, Nate could see Carrie laughing at something Jacob had said while she selected her next donut. Obviously not too scarred by the whole incident, then. That was something.
Room for Love Page 7