by Jen Peters
“And I’m glad. I wouldn’t like you so much if you were her.”
Ree finally met his eyes, at least enough that he could see unshed tears still lurking there. He kissed her nose, then her eyelids, then leaned down to meet her mouth. She smiled against him, then melted into his arms and his kiss.
“Hey, Mitch,” Carson said, poking his head in from the dining room. “When you can tear yourself away, you’ve got other guests here you really ought to say goodbye to.”
“Coming,” he said.
“Do you mind if I stay here?” Ree asked hesitantly.
He gave her one more kiss, more lingering than he should have, and said, “You take all the time you need.”
Mitch wrapped things up with the other dignitaries, glad for their assurances that they’d come back—and bring their friends with them. He said his last goodbye just in time to see Ree climbing into her old Honda.
“Wait!” he called, sprinting to her car. No way was he letting her leave without making sure she was okay. He caught the driver’s door just before she closed it.
“C’mere,” he said, reaching for her hand and pulling her out to stand within his arms. “You’re not running off now, are you?”
She shrugged, uncertainty still in her eyes.
“Oh Ree,” he groaned, “I wish I could stay and take you for a day off tomorrow, but I can’t. I have some critical casework I have to be in the office for this week. And with the Markov wedding on top of all the regular opening stuff, you’ll be plenty busy.” He kissed her lightly. “But I’ll be back on Friday to help.”
She looked up at him, vulnerability still showing, and he tried to channel all his reassurances through his eyes. He reached up to stroke her cheek, then bent his head to meet her warm, willing mouth.
This woman…she did something to him, made him feel things he was never willing to feel before. He had to keep her in his life, but it wasn’t time for major pronouncements yet. Not in their relationship, and not while his career was in crisis. But he didn’t want to lose her, either. He yearned for his grandfather’s advice, but it was too late for that.
In the meantime, he could anchor both of them with a kiss that surely had to tell her how he felt.
After an incredibly long, restless night, Ree hefted a shiny, new steak knife in her hand, wishing she could throw it against the wall instead of placing it carefully in the armoire. Despite Mitch’s consoling kiss, the evening had left her unsettled and edgy. Aiming a knife at an imaginary Melanie Xanthe would relieve a lot of tension—and feel far better than it probably should.
How dare any woman come in and diss her like that? And not just her, but Mitch and the inn and the whole town!
She closed the drawer carefully and then kicked the empty box across the room.
“Whoa, watch it there!” Robin held her hands in front of her for protection.
Ree blushed. “Sorry, I just…”
“Needed to let off a little steam?” Her friend picked the box up and brought it back. “I was going to ask how last night went, but maybe I don’t have to.”
“Robin, you wouldn’t believe it. This woman showed up, a real witch who took pleasure in cutting down everything I did. You should have seen her—she even wore a safari outfit to show how far from civilization we are!”
“Not invited?”
“Definitely not! But she knows Mitch and decided she needed to come down and claim him.”
“Claim him? As in ownership?”
Ree practically spat. “She kissed him. She was all over him, marking him as hers.”
“And what did Mitch do?” Robin plunked herself in a dining chair.
“After he finished kissing her, you mean?”
Robin gasped. “No!”
Ree let her breath out in a whoosh. “No, not really. At least he says not, no matter what it looked like. He says they work in the firm together and they’ve gone to parties together, but that’s all.”
After a moment, Robin said, “I hear another ‘but’ in there.”
Ree sat next to her and sagged. “You know my track record with men. It would be just my luck that Mitch falls into the pattern. That this was all too good to be true.”
“No way. I’ve seen you and Mitch together, and that’s not it. She’s just a conniving shrew and Mitch is telling the truth.”
Ree shrugged. “Maybe. But I still haven’t figured out how his career meshes with the person he seems to be. It’s there, niggling in the back of my brain.” She gave herself a mental shake. Hashing it over wasn’t going to get her anywhere, wouldn’t change anything. “Come on,” she said, standing up and pulling a box of crystal goblets to her. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
The activity helped lift her mood. So did talking about the Markov wedding.
“It could put us on the map, Robin. If Mrs. Markov tells her friends, and her daughter tells hers, word will get out, and we could have weddings here all next year!”
Robin crumpled the packing paper and tossed it into a corner. “You sure you can get the gardens ready in time? And all the stuff you need? I mean, you can’t seat 35 people in here." She looked around the dining room dubiously.
“Of course not. We’ll have all the tables on the back porch. Tiny lights, even if it’s daytime, and fresh garland. It will be charming. And I’ve already lined up rental places for the extra chairs and tables, and we’ll need tablecloths, and centerpieces—Mom will probably do those." She stared off into space, picturing small, intimate tables with three simple roses, baby’s breath, and a lavender ribbon.
“Earth to Ree,” Robin said, waving her hand. “If your mom does the centerpieces, doesn’t that mean you’d be doing the centerpieces?”
“Oh, right.” Ree deflated. How could she forget that? She’d need to explain to her mother that she wouldn’t have the wedding business after all. “Okay, that’s another problem I need to solve. But that’s what I get paid the big bucks for, right? Oh, and she’s asked for rolled napkins to go in special napkin rings that she’ll send up. Anyway, it’s a ton to cram into this week, but we can do it.”
“We?” her friend squeaked. “What’s this we stuff?”
“You’ll help me, right? I mean, we need to pull this off perfectly to impress Mrs. Markov.”
Robin shook her head. “I’m all thumbs with this stuff, remember? Like when we tried to do our own corsages?”
“It was sixth grade—everyone was all thumbs. And we looked really dorky, too." That was back when Ree had wanted to do everything her mother did, and wanted to prove to her that she was capable of helping in the shop. And then when she did prove it a few years later, look where it landed her.
“Anyway,” Ree said, “Mrs. Markov said that—”
“I’ve heard that name before,” Robin mused. “Didn’t she have a son who played football?”
Ree snorted. “If she did, they never would have played us. Big schools don’t play tiny ones, remember?”
“No, it wasn’t that anyway. How old is her daughter?”
Ree shrugged. “She didn’t say. Late twenties or early thirties, I would guess, judging from the mother-of-the-bride’s age.”
Robin shot off the stool. “Mother of the bride! That’s it!" She whipped out her phone, typed into it, then sat down and groaned. “I knew it. This is bad.” She handed her phone to Ree, who looked at the screen and gasped.
Mrs. Markov was a top-tier wedding planner.
Not just the bride’s mother, but an expert who knew wedding venues backward and forward.
Eventually, her friend’s voice crept into her consciousness. “You can do this, Ree. What were you just telling me about the intimate tables and all the twinkly lights? And the centerpieces just so?”
“Then why did you say this was bad? It is bad. She’ll be judging us every step of the way.”
Robin’s arm slid around her shoulders. “Breathe, Ree. I’m sorry I said that. I shouldn’t have. You’ve learned this, you’ve traine
d for this. And you have a great plan. It will be a beautiful wedding.”
Ree took a deep breath, her body loosening as she let it out. Robin was right—she could do this. She had a plan, she just needed to execute it. She took another breath, then nodded and grabbed her notebook. “Thanks, Robin.”
Her friend smiled and stepped back. “That’s what BFF means.”
“It keeps my mind off Mitch, too.”
Robin left to take care of her dogs, and Ree kept on with her notebook. With Mrs. Markov being a wedding planner, she’d have even higher expectations. Everything had to be perfect, with back-up plans for the back-up plans.
She wondered why Mrs. Markov hadn’t said anything. In fact, she’d specifically said “nobody cares like the bride’s mother.”
Then Ree sat back, finally understanding.
This was a test.
Ree knew it as surely as she knew she wanted to work in Europe next year. If Ree could pull this wedding off on such short notice, with all of Mrs. Markov’s requirements met the way she wanted, then the McCormick Inn would have more wedding business than they knew what to do with. Mrs. Markov would recommend it to clients and colleagues both.
But if they failed…
Ree gripped her pen tighter. There was no way they were going to fail.
* * *
“You know, what this place needs is an old Victrola,” Harriet told Ree before she drove off two days later.
Ree couldn’t get the old time phonograph out of her mind now. Somehow a Victrola with its curving speaker horn seemed romantic, bringing visions of long, flowing gowns or dashing young couples dancing a lively Charleston.
Would Harriet buy a replica or search for an antique? Ree dashed to the flower shop to get some work done before interviewing a few people for housekeeping positions. As she poked rose and lily stems into an arrangement, her mind filled with possible images of what the Victrola might look like—how big was the record box? Would the horn be black or brass?
As she finished off the bouquet with edelweiss and greenery, she suddenly wondered what was left in the storage unit Mitch had rented. The mansion’s attic had been taken over by insulation, ductwork and plumbing, not to mention a small sitting area and a half-bath. The guys had moved a whole lot of old stuff from out of there, and Ree wondered if they included a Victrola. Or even a small statuette to go in the memorial garden, maybe half-hidden so it would add interest but not take away from Mitch’s sculpture.
She finished the flowers and did three interviews. The best was a lady who not only had tons of experience, but folded hand towels into artwork.
As soon as she ordered the background checks, Ree headed for the storage unit. She raised the garage-type door and stared in dismay.
There was hardly any room inside the cement-floored space. Spindly chairs, a worn desk, and several ratty sofas nested into each other. Large pictures were wrapped in blankets and numerous cardboard boxes were stacked against one wall. Where to start?
She hoped a Victrola would be too large to be in a box. There was no way she was rummaging through those and then re-stacking them! So she moved lamps, looked in corners, checked the space where chairs were nestled upside down into couches. Nothing. Harriet would just have to find one through one of her contacts.
But Ree’s curiosity was piqued. She still didn’t like the landscape Harriet had picked to hang in the welcome hall. So what were the paintings hiding here?
She carefully unwrapped one, setting the blanket aside and turning the painting over. Another landscape, all in monochromatic browns. Ugh. Why would anyone paint that? And why would Mitch keep it?
She re-wrapped it carefully and opened the next. It was a portrait of a young woman, her blonde hair styled with top curls, her smile knowing, her eyes sparkling with mirth. She was beautiful, as was the sapphire evening gown she wore. Ree was intrigued, but there was no identifying plaque attached to the fancy gilt frame.
She re-wrapped it, set it next to the first painting, and pulled the packing paper off the last one.
The man staring out at her was Mitch!
Well, perhaps not. His dark hair was cut differently and he wore an old-fashioned suit, but the same gray-green eyes blazed with energy and the mouth quirked up with the same smile. His nose, his jaw, everything said this was a portrait of Mitch. Except it wasn’t.
She carefully replaced the blanket around it, maneuvered it into the backseat of her car, and locked up the storage unit. There were questions to be answered.
Back at the inn, she unwrapped the portrait of Not-Mitch and studied it. There had to be clues here. She didn’t know men’s fashion enough to date it, but it was earlier than the 70s at least, or he’d be in bell-bottoms and his hair would be longer. Somewhere around the 40s or 50s, maybe.
There was a signature on the bottom, but all she could read were the initials— P and A. Not enough to Google.
She wished now she had brought the woman’s portrait with her. The frames matched, they were similar ages—were they a couple? And could she have read the artist’s signature on that one?
Then she gave herself a hard mental slap and turned the portrait over, carefully resting it against the wall.
In the top right corner, in delicate handwriting, was penciled “Alexander F. McCormick, 1949.”
Ree sank onto the floor in front of the painting. This was old Mr. McCormick? But why did he look exactly like Mitch? He wasn’t a McCormick.
Or was he? Relatives didn’t have to have the same last name as earlier generations. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the computer, kicking herself for not doing it earlier.
A Google search turned up plenty of information. Mitchell Blake was a Mergers & Acquisitions lawyer for McCormick & Associates—so he was connected. He was credited with numerous hostile takeovers and had been in line for a partnership. Instead, he had just inherited the majority shares in the firm.
Her breath came in tight, tiny gasps.
Mitch didn’t just work as an attorney, he owned the firm.
He was probably richer than rich.
And he’d never said a word.
Ree’s fingers clicked mindlessly on various articles. Her eyes scanned the words without taking in their meaning, until she stopped at a picture.
Mitch with a dazzling Melanie Xanthe at a society function. His arm was draped around her shoulders, and she was gazing rapturously up at him.
Business associate, my foot!
Ree pushed through her work for the next two days, receiving supplies for the inn, supervising the finishing touches inside and out, squeezing in flower arrangements and college assignments when she could. Her mind churned as she planted azaleas in the memorial garden. She played out possible confrontations with Mitch as she snipped roses for the entry table. She thought about simply ignoring it all as she unpacked linens and made beds.
Accusing Mitch of keeping secrets wasn’t fair—a man had a right to his private life, after all. Except shouldn’t he be sharing some of that private life with her by now? If they were going to have any future together, he needed to—
She stopped cold, the lavender sheet falling gracelessly to the mattress.
A future together? As in a long-term commitment? She’d been falling in love and thought he was too. But was she really ready to think about something…permanent…with anyone? Except…she wouldn’t be so frustrated about Melanie Xanthe if she didn’t feel so connected to Mitch. A connection she had been sure he shared. The feel of her hand in his, the warmth in his eyes when they talked, those delicious kisses…
She shut off the thoughts. If he shared the connection she felt, if he was falling in love with her too, surely he would have told her who he was.
She couldn’t just ignore this. She was too curious, too wrapped up in him. Besides, she was so involved with the McCormick Inn that she had her own connections to Mr. Alexander F. McCormick.
The inn would help her discover the answer.
She left
the unmade guest room bed and hurried to the welcome hall, pulling the boring landscape off the wall and setting it aside to be wrapped and put in the storage unit. She measured the spacing, tapped in new picture hangers, then hefted Alexander McCormick’s portrait into the space. She’d order a plaque with his name—it was fitting for the McCormick Inn, after all.
She’d see what Mitchell Blake had to say about that.
Chapter 26
Mitch’s tension began to ease as soon as he turned off the freeway and up into the mountains Friday. Between the majesty of the trees and the lack of traffic, his soul felt freer before he even reached the town.
The week had seemed endless, making decisions as CEO that affected nearly a hundred attorneys, dealing with new clients eager for his expert machinations, searching for a career shift that he could actually live with.
He had no answers, but his heart lightened more as he entered McCormick’s Creek. The inn, the excitement of the wedding the next day, and Ree. He couldn’t help feeling better knowing he was about to see her.
Mitch trotted up the steps of the McCormick Inn, but stopped abruptly in the entry hall. Someone had been snooping in the storage unit.
There, above the Queen Anne table and its bouquet of iris and roses, was the portrait of his grandfather. His eyes had dimmed in recent years, but Mitch remembered their intensity well. A fresh wash of grief mixed with the anger rising in his heart. It would be impossible for anyone to see the portrait and not know who Mitch really was.
“Ree!” he bellowed.
She came out of the dining area. “Yes, Mr. Blake,” she said too sweetly. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She hadn’t just been snooping, she was playing some game that was obviously coming to a head. “Did you hang this?” His voice was steel.
“Why yes, of course. Don’t you think it’s an improvement over the landscape?”
“Why were you in the storage unit? What were you looking for?”
She marched up to him, hands on her hips. “I was looking for a Victrola, one of Harriet’s ideas. I found this instead. Anything you want to tell me?”