by Susan Page Davis, Darlene Franklin, Janelle Mowery, Lynette Sowell
At eight o’clock, Luke came down from tucking Andy in and met Jayne in the hall.
“All set. Your mom promised to listen for him in case he wakes up while we’re gone.”
As he held her coat for her, sleigh bells jingled and the soft thud of a horse’s hooves on the snowy drive reached them. Mr. Ross greeted them cheerfully as they went out and climbed into the sleigh. The starlit night gave them a perfect view of the frozen lake as he guided the horse along the shore lane.
“It’s so beautiful tonight,” Jayne said.
Luke put his arm around her and drew her close. “You’re beautiful. I love you, Jayne.”
With a contented sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you, too. You and Andy.”
After a moment, he said softly, “Then I might hope you’d consider a future with us?”
“Oh, yes. You definitely could hope that.”
Luke leaned over and kissed her, and she knew they had more than a wisp of hope. She settled back with his arms still around her and looked to the sky again. The gleaming stars were no match for the fireworks exploding inside her.
They entered the inn through the back door. Ted and Diane sat at the kitchen table with mugs of hot chocolate before them. Luke’s pulse picked up just on principle. He hadn’t expected to see them so soon.
“Hey, Jaynie, you’ll never guess what.” Her father turned to face them. “One of Hillary’s friends e-mailed. She wants to know if she can bring six couples here on Valentine’s weekend with a Romance in Paris theme.”
“Wow.” Jayne looked up at Luke. “What do you think?”
He shrugged. “I think it’s a step toward what you want for the inn. What do you think?”
Ted and Diane were watching them with puzzled frowns.
“I guess Hillary gave us a glowing recommendation, before she even got home,” Jayne said.
“Yes,” her mother replied, searching her daughter’s face. “Jayne, what’s going on?”
Jayne chuckled. “Not much. It’s just that the topic of a Valentine’s wedding had come up during the sleigh ride. But we can work around this booking, can’t we, Luke?” She looked up into his face, smiling confidently.
Luke’s heart pounded. Life with Jayne would never be dull. He slid his arm around her waist. “I’m sure we can.”
Award-winning author Susan Page Davis is a mother of six who lives in Kentucky with her husband, Jim. She worked as a newspaper correspondent for more than twenty-five years in addition to homeschooling her children. She writes romances and cozy mysteries and is a member of ACFW.
CHRISTMAS DUETS
Lynette Sowell
Dedication
For my amazing and talented sisters, Cat and Amy, with much love …
Above all, love each other deeply,
because love covers over a multitude of sins.
1 PETER 4:8 NIV
Chapter 1
Marcella Goudreau frowned out the window at the snow-covered mountains of Castlebury, Vermont. She shivered, in spite of the fire that glowed in the fireplace of the Lady’s Bower. For the next week at Barncastle Inn, she and her sister, Amity, were planning a series of their own performances. The rafters of the inn’s barn would echo the classic tunes from White Christmas. The Goudreau sisters never made it to Broadway. Amity married Pete Carruthers during her sophomore year of college and derailed that particular dream.
Marcella didn’t regret missing Broadway and being a middle school music teacher instead. Christmas vacation equaled two weeks away from her students. The middle school choirs had rehearsed their Christmas songs so many times that Marcella started singing them in her sleep.
The thought of her students made her smile in spite of all that was at stake this Christmas. She and Amity, hitting the stage again like they hadn’t in years. So it was only for a small barnful of guests—it was something. If only their grandparents, Memé and Pepé, would understand the significance of the White Christmas numbers. White Christmas wasn’t just part of their Christmas traditions, it was part of their family’s history.
Marcella turned from the peaceful scenery outside as her sister entered the bedroom. “Hey! You guys made it. How was traffic?”
“Not bad. We had to wait for Pete to get home from the office, so the worst was over. I thought the kids were going to pop, they were so excited to get on the road.”
Marcella gave Amity a hug. “I can’t believe the last time we saw each other was Thanksgiving.” Her sister, petite and blond, with big brown eyes, looked barely old enough to be out of high school, let alone be a renowned soloist with the Springfield Symphony orchestra and the mother of two kids.
“I know. With all the symphony’s performances, and kids’ school stuff, it’s been crazy.” Amity pulled some wayward strands of her hair behind one ear. “This was a good idea you came up with, getting us all together here in Vermont. Pete and the kids are getting unpacked. They’re in the Library Suite. It’s amazing. You should see it. It’s two levels. They have a spiral staircase, and stacks of books. What a special Christmas this will be, for all of us.”
“Well, I hope it doesn’t turn into a huge disaster.” Marcella sighed and sank onto her bed.
“What could turn into a huge disaster?” Amity grunted as she wrangled her oversize suitcase. The monstrosity filled up part of the floor space of the room, but Amity managed to get it next to the bed.
“Christmas, that’s what.”
“We’ve got to do something. I don’t want a repeat of Thanksgiving. When Memé threw the gravy boat at Pepé—”
“Don’t remind me.” Marcella studied the contents of Amity’s suitcase. “How much clothing did you bring? We’re only here for a week, you know.”
“I wanted to be prepared. Plus, all the costumes are in the other bag. Downstairs.” Amity pulled out the first of aseries of button-down blouses. “Blah. I should have put these shirts in Peter’s garment bag.”
“We’ll be prepared for the White Christmas numbers. I know that much.” Marcella sank onto her own bed. She looked forward to sharing a room with her sister, something that hadn’t happened since they were in high school and drove each other crazy. “But when Memé realizes that Pepé’s going to be here too, there’s no telling what’ll happen.”
“It’s Christmas. You have to believe that what we’re trying will remind them that over fifty years of marriage isn’t worth throwing away over a disagreement.”
Marcella rolled onto her back and sighed. The mattress was divinely comfortable. If she let herself, she could be dozing within a few minutes. But she couldn’t get the problem between Memé and Pepé out of her mind.
She finally said, “It’s not just a simple disagreement. Pepé’s been brainwashed. And I know who’s responsible.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sean McSweeney, that’s who.” Marcella rolled onto her side.
Amity took out a stack of sweaters and shook them out, one by one. “His new friend?”
“Yes. I mean, I was glad when Pepé said he was going to Northampton’s Veterans facilities to use their weight room. He stopped complaining about his back. Then he met Mr. McSweeney. Or Dr. McSweeney. He works at the VA hospital but used to be in the Army. Anyway, Pepé always says Sean this, Sean that.” Marcella reached for the nearest throw pillow and hugged it. “And then he joined a local power-walking team. They’re doing a 10K relay in January. “
“What makes you think he’s been brainwashed? I think it’s a good idea that he’s gotten more active.”
Marcella shook her head. “It’s more than getting in better shape physically. Pepé has changed. He doesn’t act the same. He used to love chess, and playing dueling pianos with me.” Marcella raised her hands. “Every time I called the past few months, Memé says he’s not home. She’s withering away without him.”
“Well, we’ll get to the bottom of what’s going on. I can’t believe Memé kicked him out.” Amity finished tucking the r
est of her clothes into the chest of drawers on her side of the room. She shook her head. “Do you know anything at all about this Sean McSweeney?”
“Not much. He’s a veteran, like Pepé. Doesn’t seem to have any family, from what Pepé said. Likes working out, running, camping, movies. And the last time I asked about where the man lives, Pepé got angry. Said they were just fine and he was paying Sean room and board.”
“Don’t look so sad,” Amity said as she lifted the now-empty suitcase off the bed. “We’ll all be here, under one roof. You just need to believe it’ll work out.”
“I hope so.”
Amity flashed a smile at Marcella. “C’mon, Mopey. Jayne Gilbert wants to show us the barn where we’ll be having the shows.”
“Mopey, right.” Marcella threw the pillow at her sister. Amity ducked and the pillow smacked the closet door. Somehow, it was easier to act like a kid again at Christmastime. And one whole week, here at Barncastle Inn. Marcella reached for her coat.
Amity put on her own jacket. “Promise me you won’t mope if things don’t go the way we planned.”
“I promise.” Marcella linked arms with her sister as they entered the hallway. Sounds of big band music drifted up from the parlor below.
Jayne Gilbert, innkeeper extraordinaire, had promised the Goudreau family a week to transport them back in time, back to post–World War II Vermont. Marcella could almost imagine the inn was a short drive away from the fictional Pine Tree, Vermont, where old General Waverly waited for Bob Wallace, Betty Haynes, and company to arrive on the train to help him have a merry Christmas.
“I can’t believe you cleared out your house down-payment piggybank to rent the inn.” Amity paused on the landing. “But Pete and I talked. We’re going to chip in for this week, too.”
“It’s worth every penny to me if it means seeing Memé and Pepé together again. I didn’t want to put stress on your budget, which is why I didn’t say anything about the cost at first.”
“Girl, we would have ended up spending plenty if we’d taken the kids to Disney World for Christmas.” The two women continued down the stairs. “This is going to be an experience the children won’t ever forget.”
“I know. This probably isn’t nearly as exciting as Disney World.”
“Hey, we’re slowing down this week. No television, no Internet. It will be great for the kids, to have an old-fashioned Christmas.”
“Jayne was genius to find the vintage radio shows for thekids to listen to. It’ll help keep them entertained while we practice our numbers.”
“Sure you don’t mind sharing a room with me?” Marcella asked.
“Not at all. It’ll be like old times. Then on Christmas Eve, I’ll join Pete and the kids in their room.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Marcella caught the whiff of supper, a New England boiled dinner. Her mouth watered. Pot roast and seasoned vegetables. Plus, the scent of baking bread. “Wow, Mrs. Barncastle must be quite the cook.”
Jayne Gilbert was smiling as she entered the room, a coat draped over her arm. She looked about Marcella’s age, and her red sweater accented her glossy dark hair. “Yes, my mother is a superb cook. I keep having to remind her that she and Dad are retired, that this is supposed to be their vacation, but I can’t get her out of the kitchen or keep her from trying to ‘help’ our chef.”
Marcella gave Amity a knowing glance. “We know what you mean. Our mom has worked in the food service department at Smith College for years.”
Jayne slipped on her coat. “Let me show you ladies where the performances will be held so you can see the setup. We’ve already started advertising in the village, and we expect the barn to be packed this week.”
“That’s great. And you found a male soloist for the duets?” Marcella asked. She couldn’t imagine singing “White Christmas” without a baritone to blend her own voice with.
Jayne pushed on the inn’s main door and led them onto the porch. “Sure did. Jonathan Sevigny, a local music student. He’s home on winter break from the Boston Conservatory and will be all set to start rehearsals tomorrow. Remind me to show you the posters we had printed and distributed in town.”
“Wonderful.” Marcella and Amity followed Jayne from the main part of the inn. The Barncastle, as the locals called it, fairly took Marcella’s breath away with its exterior and its towers. The paved parking lot had a driveway that sloped away from the house to an immense red barn that could have been taken straight out of an artist’s rendering of the Vermont landscape.
They stopped at a pair of massive white doors at least twelve feet tall. Jayne reached for the handle of the door on the right.
“And here is where we’ll have the shows.” She slid the door away from its mate, and they stepped into what looked like a small auditorium, lined with about fifty folding chairs. “We insulated the building and ran a heating system inside, too. I know when you open the doors there’s a draft, but it gives people the feeling of a barn. And it’s quite snug when the doors are closed.”
A raised stage ran the width of the opposite end of the barn, with two doors on each side of the stage.
“We do have a backstage area, and the two rooms off both sides of the stage are former horse stalls that we enclosed for changing rooms.” Jayne’s voice echoed off the timbers.
“Perfect,” Marcella said. “I’ll have room to set up my keyboard to the side of the stage. We brought accompaniment CDs for some of the numbers, but I’m planning to play ‘White Christmas’ and ‘Blessings’ live.”
“What are your musical backgrounds, again?” Jayne asked.
“I’m a middle school music teacher,” replied Marcella.
“And the two of us have always sung together from the time we were kids,” said Amity. “I’m also a soloist for the Springfield Symphony. Cello. But I can play keyboard as well.”
“Your demo CD was beautiful.” Jayne led them toward the stage area. “I’m really looking forward to seeing the villagers enjoy your performances.”
“Thank you. And we appreciate you working out a barter for part of our booking fee,” said Marcella. She assessed the stage. Yes, there’d be plenty of room for them to have a Christmas tree set up for the grand finale.
“You’re sure it won’t feel like a working holiday to you?” Jayne looked concerned.
“Not at all,” Amity was quick to answer. “We don’t get to sing together nearly as often as we used to.”
“I’m glad you’ll have a chance to perform here, then. This is the first year we’re opening performances to the town, too.” Jayne glanced back toward the barn doors. “When will the rest of your party arrive?”
“Mom and Dad will be here after Dad gets off work. They’ll be bringing our grandmother. Pepé, that’s our grandfather, said he’ll be here soon.” Marcella pulled out her phone and grinned. “He actually texted me about thirty minutes ago. Imagine that. Pepé, texting.”
“The directions said after we get off Route 91, we go west on Route 9 and continue through Castlebury,” said Armand Goudreau. He kept glancing from the road to the paper in his hand.
Sean McSweeney negotiated the traffic rotary on Castlebury’s town green. The center of the village had a gazebo with a sign that proclaimed PICTURES WITH SANTA every Saturday night until Christmas. A red brick church with a white steeple flanked the edge of the traffic circle and formed a ring with Castlebury’s library, a coffee shop, general store, and a consignment shop. Straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Crashing the Goudreaus’ Christmas is a bad idea. Bad, bad idea. Sean shook his head. But Armand Goudreau wouldn’t hear of leaving Sean alone at the apartment during Christmas week. Even after Sean explained he was used to having a solo Christmas, Armand growled at him about getting his suitcase packed.
“I’m long past seventy and you’re young enough to be one of my grandkids,” Armand had said. “You get your gear together and spend Christmas with us. My granddaughter has bought out some fancy
Vermont inn for Christmas week. I can’t let the family down.”
So here they were, negotiating the traffic rotary and trying to get out of the congested traffic of a Vermont village.
“You think your wife will be there?”
“‘Course she will. That doesn’t mean anything. She kicked me out of our house, but she’s not kicking me out of Christmas.” Armand gripped the door handle. “Watch your speed before you hit something.”
Grouchy old man. Sean smiled at Armand’s gravelly toneand ignored the crack about speeding. “Of course she can’t kick you out of Christmas. Are you going to talk to her about moving home?”
“Why should I?” Armand studied the directions again. “She’ll keep nagging me about my pills and when I should go to bed, and asking how come I don’t want to play dominos with the Kurchinskis anymore.”
Sean gave up for now. The more someone tried to talk sense to Armand, the worse the man stonewalled. He didn’t think it was all that bad at the Goudreaus’ house. He’d met Armand’s wife, Ruby, twice. She reminded him of his own grandmother, who passed away when Sean was twelve. His own grandfather had died less than three months after Grandma.
It wasn’t surprising when he found himself striking up a friendship with Armand Goudreau, who started working out at the gym for veterans in Northampton, Massachusetts. What was surprising was the Friday after Thanksgiving, less than four weeks ago, when Armand showed up on Sean’s doorstep, suitcase in hand.
“She kicked me out,” Armand had said.
They finally broke free of the Castlebury traffic, and twilight descended as they headed west.
After they snaked a few miles into the Vermont foothills, Sean easily saw the sign for Barncastle Inn. He turned into the drive and caught sight of the castle. Lights in the windows cast welcoming shadows on the darkening parking lot and patches of snow in the yard. Lights also glowed in a nearby barn. A cozy, welcoming place, with its pair of turrets and porch. Elegant, too. Sean hadn’t brought a suit. He hoped he wouldn’t be underdressed.