Love at Mistletoe Inn

by Cindy Kirk

  Obviously Verna knew this man and felt comfortable around him. Still, since her aunt seemed so determined to get dinner on the table, Hope would be a good niece and offer to show him around.

  Before she could make the offer, the man turned. Her heart dropped to her toes. She didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or cry. Not more than she could bear? God apparently had more faith in her than was warranted.

  “Hello, Hope,” she heard John say. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Dinner in the Prentiss household was always served family style. Tonight was no exception. A large platter held pieces of fried chicken, John’s favorite. Bowls of whipped potatoes, green beans, and carrots sat in the middle of the farmhouse table.

  Hope’s appetite had vanished, but she was determined to get through the meal if it killed her. It would be the best way to find out exactly what had brought John back to Harmony . . . and how long he planned to stay.

  She’d been tempted to ask earlier, when she’d first seen him in the kitchen. But when he drew her to him in a quick embrace, she’d lost the ability to form a single word. Though she’d seen him at various holidays, he hadn’t touched her since the night they’d . . . married.

  By the time he released her and she’d regained her power of speech, John was out of the house, promising to be back by dinnertime. Now here he was, sitting across from her.

  If he was uncomfortable in her presence, it didn’t show.

  “I didn’t get a chance to ask you earlier.” Hope passed him the gravy boat and spoke in what she hoped was a casual tone. “How long will you stay this time?”

  Other than Christmas or Thanksgiving, his visits had only lasted a day or two before he was back on the road again for Portland. He was an artist, specializing in sculpting. Hope had to admit the piece he’d given Verna last Mother’s Day—a figure of a woman with arms outstretched toward the sky made out of steel, data cables, and ten-inch-long nails—was impressive. Almost as impressive as the man himself.

  Hope watched John add to the whipped potatoes some of the white chicken gravy that Verna claimed was a special recipe. Actually, what made it different—and so delicious—was the addition of bacon drippings that Verna saved in a jar.

  Meeting her gaze, John smiled. Hope was ashamed to admit her traitorous heart fluttered. When she was a teenager, she’d been convinced that he was the handsomest boy on the planet. With his jet-black hair, piercing blue eyes, and features that could have come from a Roman warrior, John had been every young girl’s fantasy. He was even handsomer now.

  He’d let his hair grow long until the dark strands brushed his shoulders. The extra twenty pounds of muscle he’d put on for high-school sports had disappeared, leaving a leaner frame and even more pronounced cheekbones. But his lashes were still long and those perfectly sculpted lips just as tempting.

  Hope couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, recalling how he used to trail kisses down her neck while whispering sweet words of love. She wondered suddenly what it’d feel like to kiss him again.

  The mere thought had her lips tingling.

  “What did you ask me?” His eyes remained fixed on her.

  Hope blinked, confused.

  “She asked how long you planned to stay.” Verna resumed her seat at the table after removing perfectly formed biscuits from a cast-iron skillet and dropping them into a heated bread basket.

  Hope had been convinced she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite, but then Verna handed the basket to her. The wonderful aroma teased her nostrils. She took a biscuit and began to butter it, conscious that John was still looking at her.

  “How long?” she repeated when he didn’t answer but continued to stare.

  “Didn’t Verna tell you?” John cast a curious glance in his foster mother’s direction. He appeared to relax at Verna’s encouraging smile. “I’m moving back to Harmony.”

  The biscuit Hope had been buttering slipped from her fingers onto the bread plate. “Why, that’s . . . wonderful.”

  She picked up the biscuit and tried to gather her thoughts. It seemed like a quirk of fate that, on the day she discovered they might still be married, John showed up in Harmony.

  Consoling herself that John’s proximity would only make getting an annulment—if it proved necessary—that much easier, Hope bit into the biscuit.

  Verna nudged Hope’s hand with the bowl of carrots and persisted until Hope added a few to her plate, then passed the bowl to John.

  His fingers brushed hers, and a sizzle of heat traveled up her arm.

  Hope inhaled sharply. Her reaction made no sense. She was reacting to him as if their connection had never been severed.

  Botheration, nothing was making any sense. Hope put a hand to her head and closed her eyes for a second.

  “Are you okay?” Concern filled John’s voice.

  She opened her eyes and forced a wan smile. “Just a little headache. It was a long day.”

  “Tell me about the bridal fair,” Verna urged. “I’ve been so busy getting dinner made that we haven’t had a chance to talk.”

  “John’s decision to move back is so much more interesting.” Hope shifted her attention to him. “What made you leave Portland? I thought you liked it there.”

  “I did.” He added carrots to his plate. “But Harmony has always felt like home. And I can work from anywhere.”

  He hadn’t really answered her question, but to press further might appear as if she was hounding him . . . or was overly interested.

  “You and Verna have a great thing going with Harmony Creek,” he said, bouncing the conversational ball back to her. “I’d think that’d be enough to keep you busy, but she tells me you’re doing payroll for the Tuttle banks as well as some tax work in the spring.”

  It appeared Verna had done quite a stellar job updating John on her life. Too bad her aunt hadn’t done quite so well keeping Hope informed of his activities.

  “I like to stay busy.” She stabbed a carrot with her fork. “And I’m in the critical years of building my portfolio. I put most of the money from my accounting work into the market. So far, so good.”

  “I’d have expected you to be more conservative in your investments. Perhaps a CD or maybe a money-market account.”

  Hope narrowed her eyes. Was he making fun of her? His stoic expression made it difficult to tell. “The return on a CD or money market wouldn’t even keep up with inflation.”

  “But no risk,” he said, a tiny smile hovering on the corners of his lips. “From what I remember, you’re averse to risk taking, for any reason.”

  The heat rose up Hope’s neck like a fire in dry kindling, reaching her cheeks in seconds. She wasn’t fooled by his innocent expression. No, sirree.

  She slammed the glass she’d brought to her mouth back on the table with such force the milk sloshed in the air. Placing her hands on the edge of the table, Hope leaned forward. When she spoke, her voice was razor-sharp. “What I’m not willing to take are foolish risks.”

  “I believe this time together around the table is the perfect opportunity to let you in on my latest brilliant plan,” Verna interrupted, her tone cheerful but determined. “I’m going to call it Mistletoe Inn.”

  Hope sat back, suddenly confused. “Call what Mistletoe Inn?”

  “The house, of course.”

  “What house?” John asked.

  “The one you’re sitting in, silly.” Verna’s lips lifted in a pleased smile, as if knowing she now had their full attention. “I’ve decided to open my home for weddings—initially, during the month of December only. We’ll offer small wedding packages. Couples can marry in the parlor and use the entire main level for the reception. We’ll make a few rooms on the upper level available for the wedding couple and their guests.”

  “When did you decide this?” Hope couldn’t hide her confusion.

  “I’ve been considering it for some time.” Verna added a dollop of honey to her biscuit.

  “I thought”—John spo
ke slowly, as if maneuvering his way through a minefield—“that you enjoyed your privacy and liked having friends and family over for holiday decorating and activities. How are you going to do that if you have people in your home for weddings?”

  “I agree.” Hope exchanged a look with John. She had mixed emotions about their shared solidarity in opposing this venture.

  “It would only be for a select few.” Verna carelessly waved a hand. “It wouldn’t be one of those ‘come one, come all’ kind of things.”

  “Do you have a couple in mind?” Hope asked. “Is that what prompted your decision?”

  “No.” Verna took a bite of chicken, then delicately wiped the edges of her mouth with a linen napkin. “But I’d like to start this year.”

  What was her aunt thinking? December was two months away. If they wanted to do this right, that didn’t give them much time.

  Now wasn’t the time to go into the particulars, but Hope intended to speak with her aunt about this scheme soon.

  She lifted a piece of chicken that had somehow found its way onto her plate and took a bite. As the delicious blend of spices melded with the succulent meat, she realized she hadn’t asked John where he planned to live.

  “Have you given any thought to where you’ll live?” Hope asked. “I’m sure you’ll want your privacy.”

  She recalled that much about him. That meant there was zero chance of him wanting to live under Verna’s roof for more than the few days it would take him to get settled.

  “I wanted John to stay in the house with us,” Verna said. “It would be wonderful having him here again. Despite my begging, he said no.”

  A smile began to form on Hope’s lips.

  “So I offered him the carriage house.”

  They’d renovated the apartment over the carriage house last year when Verna had thought about renting it out. But then she’d reconsidered, not sure if she wanted someone she didn’t know living so close.

  “It’s perfect.” Verna’s voice reverberated with excitement. “All that space was going to waste. And John will be able to use the carriage house for his art.”

  “The space isn’t that large.” Hope knew she was grasping at straws, but a sick panic had begun to rise from her belly.

  “True,” John admitted. “But it’ll be big enough.”

  Hope’s eyes met his and she couldn’t look away. It was as if his eyes were the ocean and she was once again being drawn from the shore to that spot where she would be in over her head. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m taking Verna up on her offer. I’ll be moving into the carriage house. Like I said before . . .” Those brilliant blue eyes held a hint of challenge. “I’m here to stay.”

  Hope was grateful John didn’t accompany her and Aunt Verna to Sunday services. The moving van hauling his work equipment and a few personal items had arrived shortly after the family dinner last night, and he’d been “busy” getting settled.

  Though John had always prayed with them before meals and usually attended church services with them around the holidays, Hope wasn’t certain where he was on his faith journey. Frankly, she didn’t care.

  Perhaps that wasn’t very Christian of her, but right now the only thing she had to be thankful for was that he wasn’t going to be staying in a bedroom down the hall. On the same property was bad enough.

  For now she was determined to keep her distance. She wasn’t ready to talk about their ‘maybe’ marriage yet. That’s why, when John had turned down Aunt Verna’s invitation to the soup supper this evening, she’d abandoned her plan to spend a quiet evening at home.

  “Earth to Hope.”

  Hope blinked and realized Chet had maneuvered them into the soup line while she’d been lost in her thoughts. The event in the church basement was to raise money for a youth mission trip. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “You look especially lovely.” Actually, with his stylishly cut blond hair and all-American good looks, Chet was the lovely one. He had a face made for campaign posters.

  “Thank you,” Hope said, surprised by the compliment. “I love your new shoes.”

  “Ferragamos,” he said with a pleased smile, and she felt her heart warm.

  Chet had been extra charming today. As if trying to make up for breaking their Saturday night date, he’d sat with her and Verna during church this morning, then asked if she’d sit with him at the soup supper this evening.

  At the time, she’d told him she didn’t think she would make it. That was before she knew John was staying home. She wasn’t surprised Chet planned to attend. Such an event was prime campaigning territory.

  “I’m happy you decided not to wear jeans.” His palm rested lightly against the small of her back. “It’s important for a woman to look like a lady.”

  It wasn’t the first time Chet had said something like that, and she’d always let it slide. “You have something against women wearing pants?”

  She could see he’d caught the slight edge to her voice and that it had surprised him. Well, his archaic attitude rubbed her wrong.

  “I’m simply saying it’s important to me that you always look your best when we’re out together. If I decide to run for office, and it’s looking that way, your attire and actions will be a direct reflection on me.”

  “First, if you do decide to be a candidate, you’ll be running for the state legislature, not for President of the United States.” Though she considered the whole conversation ridiculous, she kept her voice low in deference to his position in the community. “Second, I’m not your steady girlfriend or your wife.”

  She didn’t get a chance to say more because Tom Coffey, Chet’s political advisor, appeared. “The photographer I brought along wants to speak with you. I think he’d like to get some shots of you mingling with the churchgoing crowd.”

  Tom, a slender man with a receding hairline, shot Hope an apologetic look. “I’m afraid I have to steal him away for a while.”

  Hope simply smiled. She remained in line, chatting with an older couple standing next to her. She was nearing the long, rectangular tables holding large Crock-Pots filled with soups when Amity strolled up.

  “You don’t mind if I join my friend, do you?” She shot the couple in line behind Hope a blinding smile.

  “Certainly not, young lady.” The portly older man appeared enchanted by Amity, who looked angelic in a surprisingly demure white cotton eyelet dress. “We’ll all reach the same place. As long as you don’t take all the chili, I’ll be happy.”

  “We’ll make sure to leave plenty,” Hope assured him.

  “Unless I’m unable to resist temptation.” Amity gave the man a teasing wink.

  He cackled.

  Amity smiled, then shifted her attention back to Hope. “Surprised to see me?”

  “I am,” Hope said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Verna mentioned this little shindig when I ran into her in the market this afternoon.” Amity’s smile flashed. “She sold me a ticket while I was a captive audience in the checkout lane.”

  “I bet she got you to toss in a little more for the youth group’s trip to Haiti.”

  “She’s a salesperson, your aunt. She’s always got her fingers in some pie.”

  Hope opened her mouth, prepared to tell Amity about Aunt Verna’s Mistletoe Inn idea, when John entered the room. Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved henley, he fit in with the casually attired crowd more than Chet did in his dress shirt, trousers, and Ferragamo loafers.

  Amity followed the direction of Hope’s gaze and let out a low whistle. “Ooh la la. He’s a real hottie. Do you know him?”

  “That’s John Burke, Verna’s foster son.” Hope fought to keep her voice casual as John’s eyes met hers and he started across the room. “I’ve mentioned him to you. He just moved back to Harmony.”

  Since Amity had only recently moved to town, it wasn’t surprising she’d never met John.

  When he reached them, Hope performed quick introduct
ions, then decided to be polite. “Will you join us?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You won’t be intruding. Hope and I are best friends.” Amity offered him a brilliant smile. “Since you two are already friends, that means I should know you too.”

  John looked amused. “Is that how it works?”

  “Absolutely,” Amity said with a decisive nod. “Hope said you just moved back. But she didn’t tell me much else. Are you an accountant too?”

  “Hardly.” As John began to explain his work as an artist, Hope was impressed he’d been able to support himself by doing something so unusual.

  “I’d love to see your work sometime,” Amity said. “I’m a big fan of Boris Kramer’s art.”

  “Really?” John appeared surprised by her knowledge. “My stuff is more along the lines of Karen Cusolito. She and I both do a lot of work with mixed media, but mine is on a much smaller scale. Her sculptures weigh tons and often need to be set by a crane. I’m not quite at that point yet.”

  “What is mixed media?” Hope found herself drawn into the conversation despite her desire to keep her distance.

  “Just how it sounds,” John said, appearing pleased by her interest. “An artist uses a variety of media—for example, metal and wood—on a project.”

  “I’d love to see what you’re working on now,” Hope said without thinking.

  He smiled at her. “I’d love to show you.”

  Amity asked several more questions before John was hailed by a friend from high school and left to speak with him and his wife.

  Amity’s gaze followed him for several seconds, then she turned to Hope. “You’ve been holding out on me, Chickadee.”

  Hope stared after the man who might still be her husband and sighed. “You have no idea.”

  The next morning, John was unpacking boxes in the downstairs “carriage area” of his new home when Hope appeared. The distressed look on her face had him rising and crossing to her in several long strides. “What’s wrong? Is it Verna?”