by Anita Hughes
“That’s a great story, but I just don’t know,” Emma said doubtfully. “Fletcher has an ex-wife and a daughter and a demanding career. Even if he was single, there isn’t any room in his life for me.”
“Fletcher found time to fall in love and get engaged to a woman he barely knew,” Bronwyn reminded her. “Reuniting with you will be like slipping on a favorite pair of kid gloves.”
“What if you’re wrong? Fletcher and Megan are probably just having a tiff, and it will blow over.” Emma sighed. “They’ll come down to dinner together and Megan will look even more beautiful because she spent another afternoon at the beauty parlor. She’ll keep her hand on Fletcher’s arm to show she’s not angry, and Fletcher won’t notice anyone else in the dining room.” She groaned. “I should skip dinner and stay in my room.”
“Synchronicity can only take you so far, and then you have to do the work,” Bronwyn said sternly into the camera. “Take a bath and wash your hair. Put the curling iron on low so you get a few sexy waves. And use that Lancôme deep lash mascara you sent me—it really works.” She studied Emma. “Wear something that matches your fingernails. They look gorgeous.”
“I got my nails done; it’s called Christmas Burgundy.” Emma glanced at her nails and felt a little brighter.
“Your burgundy silk blouse would go perfectly. And wear the charcoal jeans,” Bronwyn suggested. “How many women our age can wear slim-fit jeans? You have great thighs, and you should show them off.”
Emma pressed the END button and gazed out the window. It was dark outside; the stars were diamond buttons on a swath of black velvet.
There were so many unbelievable things she took for granted every day: that when she dialed Bronwyn’s number, her voice could be heard across a phone line as if she were in the same room. When she put sliced apples and pie crust in the oven, it miraculously came out as an apple pie. Why shouldn’t she believe in synchronicity?
Fletcher’s watch lay on the desk, and she rubbed it as if it were a magic genie. She couldn’t stay in her room when Betty was serving pork rib eye and all those delicious cheeses. And why shouldn’t she wear something festive to dinner? It was Christmas week; it was nice to feel pretty while she was on vacation.
Fourteen
Three Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
FLETCHER STOOD IN FRONT OF the bathroom mirror and lathered his cheeks with shaving lotion. Megan would be back from the beauty parlor soon, and they would all go downstairs to dinner.
Sometimes a scotch and a hot shower was all he needed to put things in perspective. He and Megan didn’t have any problems that couldn’t be worked out. And he could tell Lola was happy. She had knocked on his door earlier and said Betty was making pork rib eye and she hoped he was hungry.
The guestroom door opened and he peered into the mirror. Megan was wearing a wool dress and black leggings. Her long legs were showcased by suede boots, and her blond hair fell smoothly down her back.
“Dinner is in half an hour; Betty is cooking up a feast,” he called happily. “You don’t need to change, you look stunning the way you are.”
“When were you going to tell me it would be impossible to let Haley out of her contract because you’d lose Alec Baldwin, too?” Megan appeared in the bathroom mirror.
Fletcher’s stomach dropped and he put down his razor.
“Where did you hear that?” He turned around.
“It doesn’t matter where I heard it. What’s important is if it’s true,” Megan said.
“I told you I had to check with the producers before I could offer you the lead, and that they have the final say,” he reminded her.
“But you never said it was virtually impossible!” Megan exclaimed. “You never mentioned that my getting the part was about as likely as Oprah Winfrey wandering into The Smuggler’s Inn. Even I understand that the producers can’t do anything to upset Alec Baldwin,” she said furiously. “You let me believe I had a chance when there was none at all.”
“I did try to tell you.” He touched her hand. “But the older sister is a great part, and there will be leads in other plays.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she said, snatching away her hand. “When I was younger, directors thought I was too sophisticated to play the ingénue. Soon I’ll be thirty, and I’ll be too old to be anything but the best friend or some other supporting role. I’ve spent the last four years humiliating myself at auditions alongside actresses who’ve never read a book because I want to be a star, not so I can be on the second page of the program.”
“You’re only twenty-six—there’s plenty of time to be a star.”
“Maybe in dreary England where they still perform Twelfth Night every season, but not in New York. Celebrity is all about youth, and there will come a time when the blond highlights won’t distract from the creases on my forehead or the lines around my mouth.”
“What are you saying?” Fletcher asked.
“My career is important to me, and I thought it was to you too.” She walked into the bedroom and opened the closet. “I’m going back to New York for Jordan Roth’s New Year’s Eve party. Are you coming?”
Fletcher grabbed a towel and wiped the shaving cream from his cheeks. Megan unzipped her suitcase, and Fletcher felt sorry for her. How could she not see that she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever met, and that a few wrinkles wouldn’t change that?
“I can’t leave,” Fletcher said. “I promised Lola and Betty I’d help with the talent show.”
“Do you remember when we met in that taxi going downtown?” Megan stood up straight. “You were desperate to get to the theater, and I thought I’d found someone like me: someone who wouldn’t let a bad back or a sudden downpour or no taxis stand in the way of keeping the most important job in the world. Then we talked in that bar after my performance and I’d never felt so understood. I loved you, Fletcher, and I thought you loved me. But you’re putting the problems of someone you barely know before our future.”
“I’m doing it for Lola, not Betty,” Fletcher corrected. “And we agreed there would be other theater parties.”
“You’ve changed, Fletcher,” Megan insisted. “How can you consider getting married in Vermont? Holding our wedding at the Plaza will be one of the best things that happens to our careers. And what about what I want? I’ve always dreamed of a big church wedding.”
“When I was at Tiffany’s picking out the ring, I wasn’t thinking about the play,” Fletcher said stiffly. “And why shouldn’t we get married in Vermont instead of New York? We can still get married in a church. Directing the summer festival is tempting. It would be good for Lola to be in the fresh air, and New York is dead in August.”
“It can’t always be about what’s good for Lola. What about what’s good for me? I can’t imagine wearing a satin Vera Wang gown in a church in Snowberry. If we want fresh air, we can go to the Hamptons, or hope to get invited onto someone’s yacht,” Megan said, bristling. “Do you really think I’d spend the summer acting with a bunch of has-beens, picking apples for fun and checking my skin for ticks?”
“A lot of renowned actors do summer stock,” Fletcher insisted. “When I was at college, I saw Robert Redford perform at a theater in Maine.”
“Maybe after I won a couple of Tonys and an Oscar, but not now,” Megan said vehemently. “You need to take a look at our future.”
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“When you proposed in front of the fountain at Lincoln Center, I imagined attending opening nights and maybe tackling Hollywood together. I was prepared for the hard stuff, too: helping you read scripts and sitting through your rehearsals, even when I only had a few lines. I even enjoyed Lola—she was with her mom most of the time, and when she’s around, she’s entertaining. But I’m not sure what your priorities are anymore.”
“I didn’t realize I had to have priorities. I thought it was enough to be in love,” Fletcher said before he could stop himself.
“That’s the thing about love—you have to actually care about what the other person wants,” Megan retorted.
Megan zipped up the suitcase and walked to the door. Her boots made a clip-clopping sound on the hardwood floor, and every step was a pain in Fletcher’s chest.
“It seems we both need to do some thinking. I’m going to Jordan’s party. Goodbye, Fletcher, and happy new year.” She turned the handle. “I’ll give your regards to Jordan, and I hope the talent show is a success.”
The door slammed shut, and Fletcher was alone in the room. The navy blazer he was going to wear to dinner lay on the bed next to his dress shirt. He had been going to ask Megan whether the blazer was too formal, and if he should wear his new sweater.
How could he go down to dinner now? Lola would ask where Megan was, and Fletcher would have to say she went back to New York.
He picked up his phone and dialed Graham’s number.
“Fletcher,” Graham answered. “I’m talking to you more than when you’re on the other end of Notting Hill. You’re lucky you caught me; I’m having pre–New Year’s Eve drinks with a woman I met last night. We were both waiting for the valet, and she accused me of getting into her Mini Cooper. It turns out we had the same car, right down to the racing stripes.”
“New Year’s Eve isn’t for three more nights,” Fletcher said.
“If we like each other, we’ll progress to dinner, and then the ball at Claridge’s on New Year’s Eve,” Graham explained. “Claridge’s is two hundred pounds a ticket, and we agreed it would be foolish to spend that much money unless we’re certain we enjoy each other’s company.”
“She sounds perfect for you,” Fletcher chuckled. “Let me guess, she’s an analyst, or something else to do with numbers.”
“Securities specialist at the Bank of London,” Graham clarified. “Why did you call? Is something wrong?”
“Megan left,” Fletcher said. “She went back to New York.”
“What do you mean, she left?” Graham asked.
“She discovered that the producers would never let Haley go because they’d lose Alec Baldwin too,” Fletcher said miserably. “She accused me of leading her on, letting her think she could have the lead in the play.”
“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” Graham inquired.
“I tried, but she wouldn’t listen. She had this idea that the director could do whatever he wanted.” He sighed. “She should never have asked in the first place.”
“There’s no harm in asking. You begged to direct As You Like It when you were barely more than a kid with a few college credits in Shakespeare,” Graham reminded him. “It took two more seasons until you were allowed to direct your first play.”
“Megan isn’t used to being told no,” Fletcher said. “She’s going to attend Jordan’s party alone.”
“Are you sure this hasn’t something to do with Emma?” Graham prodded. “You spent all day with her yesterday, and—”
“I swear, Emma has nothing to do with this!” Fletcher exclaimed. “Megan said I need to figure out what my priorities are.”
There was a silence, and Fletcher wondered if they had lost the connection.
“I’m sorry, Fletcher, but I have to agree with Megan on this,” Graham said finally. “For your sake and Lola’s, deciding what you want is a very good idea.”
Fletcher hung up, and there was a pain between his shoulders as sharp as the icicles hanging from the roof of The Smuggler’s Inn. It would be so easy to slip down to the library and bring the bottle of scotch upstairs.
He walked back into the bathroom and lathered his cheeks with shaving lotion. The least he could do was join Lola for dinner. She was counting on him, and he wouldn’t disappoint her.
* * *
“Fletcher, Lola, you both look so festive tonight,” Betty said, greeting them in the dining room. Fletcher had decided on the new sweater, and Lola was wearing a green velvet dress with red tights. “Where’s Megan?”
“She had to go back to New York,” he said quickly. “It was an emergency. There was a leak in her apartment.”
He told himself he was protecting Lola by lying about the reason Megan left. If he and Megan worked things out, Lola would have worried for nothing. But in reality, he was embarrassed to admit the real reason Megan had gone back to New York.
“It’s odd that the doorman didn’t take care of the leak,” Lola said to Betty. “Megan lives in a fancy apartment building with a doorman like Cammi’s father. Cammi’s father gives his doorman a Christmas bonus, and the doorman would do anything for him; every time Cammi’s grandmother stops by unannounced, the doorman says Cammi’s father isn’t home.”
“Maybe Megan’s doorman can’t be so easily bribed,” Fletcher said under his breath. He took Lola’s hand and beamed at Betty. “We just need a table for two.”
“I’m afraid all the small tables are taken; I had to turn a couple away.” Betty surveyed the room. “Everyone is dining at the inn tonight. I’m glad; I have a special announcement.”
Fletcher and Lola sat at a round table, and Fletcher tried to ignore the extra place setting. The room looked so festive, with silver and gold lights twinkling on the Christmas tree and logs crackling in the fireplace.
Betty walked to the front of the room and tapped a fork against a wine glass.
“I want to thank everyone for joining us tonight. I left the kitchen door open so the smell of pork rib eye would entice you, and it seemed to work.” She let out a little laugh. “Christmas week has always been my favorite time of the year, because it’s a chance to slow down and be with the ones you love. I’m so happy you decided to spend this week at The Smuggler’s Inn. There won’t be a talent show tonight because I want everyone to rest up for the talent show on New Year’s Eve. It’s going to be at the Snowberry Playhouse, and I hope you can all join us.” She paused and her eyes grew misty. “Events like this make me realize the value of good friends. I’m so grateful to Fletcher and Lola and Emma for helping to save the inn.” She waved her hands. “Now, please eat, before the pumpkin soup with sour cream gets cold.”
“Emma is here!” Lola swiveled in her chair and pointed to a table in the corner. “We have to ask her to join us.”
“No, we don’t.” Fletcher turned around.
“She’s sitting alone, and Betty needs more tables,” Lola argued. “If Emma dines with us, Betty can give the table to someone else.”
Before Fletcher could protest, Lola darted across the space. Fletcher sipped his water and wished he had followed his original plan of taking the bottle of scotch to his room.
Emma approached the table and Fletcher almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair was softly curled, and she was wearing tight-fitting charcoal-colored jeans.
“Hello.” She smiled at Fletcher. “Lola made it sound important that I sit with you, but I don’t want to interrupt.”
“There’s nothing to interrupt.” Lola sat down. “Megan went back to New York. There was a fire in her apartment.”
“It was a leak, not a fire,” Fletcher corrected, and wondered why he was so irritable. It wasn’t Lola’s or Emma’s fault that Megan wasn’t here.
“I’d love to join you, if it’s all right.” Emma pulled out a chair. “I eat too much when there’s no one to talk to, and I’m going to get fat.”
“You look lovely,” Fletcher offered, and there was a catch in his throat. “You have the same figure you had in college.”
“I doubt that. When I was twenty, I could eat anything,” she said and smiled at Lola. “Your father worked at Ye Olde Candy Shoppe, and he’d bring me bags of saltwater taffy.”
“Dad’s right, you don’t have to worry about getting fat.” Lola studied Emma critically. “But you’re not too skinny like Megan. She’s like the models in my mom’s fashion magazines. They eat lettuce with a squeeze of lemon for dinner, and they never eat ice cream.”
“Megan eats ice cream all the time,” Fletcher said, and was
suddenly desperate for a drink. Discussing his fiancée who had just stormed off to New York with his daughter and his old girlfriend was more than he could handle.
“If you excuse me, I need something in the library.” Fletcher pushed back his chair.
Lola looked at Fletcher and pointed to a cabinet next to the Christmas tree.
“You don’t have to drink the scotch in the library. Betty keeps a bottle in the dining room.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said when he returned to the table. His chest was warm from the scotch and he felt more in control. “I had a difficult afternoon. There are some issues with the play, but they’ll be worked out.”
“I’m the same way,” Emma said, cutting into her potato. While Fletcher was getting the scotch, the soup had been replaced with pork rib eye, sautéed spinach, and baked potato in its own jacket. “I thought I wouldn’t do any work in Snowberry, but there’s always new emails.”
“Working isn’t any fun on vacation.” Lola wrinkled her nose. “You should come to see the sled dog races with us tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Fletcher cut in.
“Why not?” Lola asked. “You said the sleigh was big enough for all of us.”
“I’ve got to make the sets for the talent show. There isn’t time to watch the races,” Fletcher said too loudly. “And even if there was time, a bunch of dogs yapping in the freezing cold doesn’t sound like fun.”
An awkward silence settled over the table, and Fletcher felt terrible. He shouldn’t have raised his voice, and he shouldn’t have snapped at Lola. But the misery of Megan leaving, combined with having to make small talk with Emma, made him feel as gutted as the remains of the baked potato on his plate.
“If you’ll excuse me, I promised Betty I’d help with the gingerbread mousse.” Emma stood and smiled at Lola. “You should take your father to see the carolers. It’s a perfect night to sip apple cider and listen to them sing ‘Twelve Days of Christmas.’”