by Anita Hughes
“We already heard the carolers,” Lola said stubbornly. “I thought we were going to work on the program after dinner.”
“I really have to get some work done,” Emma said apologetically. “And you’re lucky to have your dad to yourself at Christmas. You should do something festive.”
* * *
Fletcher paced around the library and listened to the sound of laughter coming from the dining room. He didn’t really want to be in the library; he didn’t even want any more scotch. But after the gingerbread mousse, Lola had run upstairs to Skype Cassandra, and Fletcher had no desire to linger with the other guests.
He couldn’t remember being so out of sorts. Graham had always marveled at how he stayed calm in any situation. Once a famous actress had run off to Rome the week before the play opened. On opening night, the actress was at the theater waiting for the curtain to go up, and Graham wondered how Fletcher had found her when there were dozens of hotels in Rome. Fletcher explained that only a few hotels could provide the actress the pampering she expected: warm towels spritzed with her favorite perfume, and a pot of tea with brown sugar before bed to help her vocal cords.
No wonder Emma and Lola had left; he’d behaved like a little boy at dinner. But he had glanced from Megan’s place setting to Lola’s expectant face and felt like a complete failure. At least when he and Cassandra divorced, they’d sat Lola down and explained that it wasn’t anyone’s fault. He had let his fiancée drive off in the middle of their vacation, and there was no one to blame but himself.
He opened the door of the library and ducked down the hall. The sound of music came from the conservatory and he peered inside. A glass chandelier dangled from the ceiling; one corner of the room was taken up by a Christmas tree, and the fireplace was hung with stockings. Outside the window, the sky was lit with stars.
But none of that registered—not the toy trains arranged under the tree, or the candles flickering on the mantel, or even the sweet scent of mistletoe. All he noticed was a girl sitting at the piano. Her head was bowed, and she wore a burgundy blouse that was as bright as fireflies.
The girl glanced up, and he realized it wasn’t a girl at all—it was Emma. She caught his eye and he felt suddenly thrown off-balance, like when he’d first arrived in New York and was always getting on the wrong subway.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here,” he said, stumbling over his words.
“I finished helping Betty in the kitchen, and didn’t feel like going upstairs,” Emma answered.
“The piano was always a bigger draw than schoolwork.” Fletcher entered the room. “You still play beautifully.”
“I’m out of practice,” Emma said, shaking her head. “There’s not much call for a copywriter to play John Lennon’s ‘Imagine,’ and I could as easily fit a piano into my apartment as an elephant.”
Fletcher stood next to the piano and put his hands in his pockets.
“I’m sorry about my behavior at dinner,” he began. “Lola was being stubborn, and I—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Emma interrupted. “I’m sure a leak in Megan’s apartment was upsetting.”
“There wasn’t a leak, or a fire,” Fletcher admitted. “Megan left because she was angry.”
“I see…” Emma’s voice trailed off.
Fletcher didn’t know why he wanted to defend himself to someone he hadn’t seen in eleven years. But somehow he couldn’t keep silent.
“Megan is very focused on her career,” he began. “She was upset that I wanted to help with the talent show instead of attending a theater party in Manhattan.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” Emma said, putting up her hand.
“You and Lola have become friends.” He kept talking. “I shouldn’t have lied to Lola. I guess I was embarrassed. What kind of guy lets his fiancée leave during a Christmas holiday?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, and Lola loves you no matter what.” She looked at Fletcher. “You have a wonderful daughter.”
There was something so easy about talking to Emma. He remembered long nights of worrying what they would do after graduation: whether Fletcher could expect to land a theater job, and if Emma would be able to afford to live in Manhattan on whatever salary she earned straight out of college.
“It’s been so long since we saw each other,” he blurted out.
“We just had dinner. And we spent all day yesterday passing out programs.”
“I mean really saw each other,” he said, his voice quiet. “More than ten years.”
“I really have to do some work.” She got up from the piano. “Maybe you should go for a walk. Don’t be too hard on yourself.” She paused, and he remembered how her smile used to make him happy. “You and Megan are engaged. I’m sure it will all work out.”
“Emma,” he said, stopping her.
“Yes?” She turned around.
“I don’t know if it will work out,” he answered. “Megan accused me of not caring about our careers. She said I need to figure out my priorities.”
Emma was silent, and he wished he hadn’t said anything. His and Megan’s relationship had nothing to do with Emma.
“Then you probably should,” Emma said finally. “Good night, Fletcher. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
Fletcher walked down the steps of The Smuggler’s Inn and headed toward Main Street. It was the kind of crisp cold he remembered from winter nights at Colby. The clear sky and swath of stars always made it seem warmer from his dorm window, but when he crossed the field to the campus theater or hurried to the library to collect Emma, the freezing air would bite into his clothes.
He just needed to do a few laps around the village green before he went upstairs to Lola. What a miserable evening; first he’d lost Megan, then he’d snapped at Lola, and now he’d poured out his troubles to Emma.
The carolers stood on the stage in front of him, and he wished he had brought Lola. They could have made snowmen and shared molasses cookies.
But he couldn’t treat his daughter like a teddy bear he held when something was wrong. He was a grown man; he had to sort things out for himself.
The carolers sang the first verse of “Silent Night”; all around him, families crowded the stage. Christmas lights were strung across the village green, and a vendor was selling cinnamon rolls.
Megan and Graham and even Emma had said he needed to figure out his priorities. He wanted a happy family and a career he enjoyed. And he wanted to spend Christmas with the people he loved.
Fifteen
Two Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
EMMA STOOD AT THE SIDEBOARD in the dining room and filled her plate with sausages and scrambled eggs. There was a bowl of granola and pitchers of milk and orange juice.
It was mid-morning, and a few guests were lingering over coffee and the newspaper. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and a soft snow was falling. She was about to sit down when she noticed a small figure sitting at a table by the door. Lola’s face was hidden behind a book, her wavy red hair caught by a red ribbon.
“Good morning.” Emma approached her. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Hi.” Lola put down the book. “You have to try the English muffins, they’re delicious. Betty even bought me some English marmalade from the Snowberry General Store. It’s much better than American jam.” She sighed theatrically. “Sometimes I miss England so much, especially at Christmas. There’s no place like London during the holidays.”
“You have to give New York a chance.” Emma sat down and glanced at Lola’s book. “What are you reading?”
“It’s called Understanding Your Parents During the Divorce.” Lola slid it across the table. “I read a review in the newspaper. Sometimes adults going through a divorce act crazy, and you can’t take it personally. Like when my parents don’t tell me the truth.”
“What do you mean?” Emma asked, forking scrambled eggs onto whole-wheat toast
.
“I Skyped my mother last night, and she still didn’t mention the new baby,” Lola said. “She was standing in the kitchen next to a jar of pickles and an open bag of potato chips. My mother hates pickles, and she would never eat potato chips; she says they’re just grease and salt. It must be pregnancy cravings. There was an article in one of my mother’s magazines about a pregnant woman who eats two peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches every night before bed. Ugh, that sounds so mushy.”
“I’m sure your mother will tell you soon,” Emma said gently. “Maybe she wants to wait until you get home.”
“And my father lied to me about the reason Megan left.” Lola’s face fell.
“How do you know?” Emma asked. “Don’t tell me you were listening outside the door.”
“I didn’t mean to! I swear, it must be fate that makes me overhear all these important conversations. It never happened before I arrived in Snowberry. I was looking for my dad and heard him talking to my godfather on the phone. He was telling Graham why Megan went back to New York, and it wasn’t because of a leak in her apartment,” Lola said dejectedly. “My father sounded really upset, and whatever Graham said didn’t make it better.”
“You really have to stop listening to other people’s conversations,” Emma commented.
“I couldn’t just barge into the room, and it was too interesting to leave.” Lola ate a bite of muffin. “I don’t understand why my father lied. I don’t care that Megan left; I know she doesn’t like me.”
“Of course Megan likes you. And … men have their pride,” Emma said slowly. “Maybe your dad doesn’t want you to think less of him.”
“This book says grown-ups are supposed to be wallpaper,” Lola sighed. “You don’t notice them at all because you’re busy being a kid. Even Betty told a fib. She said we had to wait until later to do the programs because she had to go to the market. But when she came into the dining room, she was wearing a white blouse and smelled of perfume. No one wears white to squeeze vegetables, and she wouldn’t be able to smell the fruit over her own perfume. She was probably meeting Stephen.”
“Maybe you should concentrate on yourself and not worry about the adults,” Emma counseled her.
“Someone has to worry about my father. He didn’t even realize Megan wanted to marry him to help her career.” She pushed back her chair. “I’m going upstairs to finish writing my postcards.”
Lola ran upstairs, and Emma cut into her sausage. There was the sound of footsteps, and Fletcher was standing in the doorway, holding a shopping bag.
“Good morning,” she said when he approached the table. “You missed Lola; she went upstairs.”
“Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. “It’s snowing outside, and I could use a cup of coffee.”
Emma nodded and Fletcher walked to the sideboard. She noticed how handsome he looked; a scarf was wrapped around his neck, and he was wearing a gray overcoat.
“I went out early and bought Lola a present,” he said when he returned. He reached into the bag and brought out a small box. “I bought you something too. It’s not much; there weren’t a lot of stores open in Snowberry this early.”
Emma unwrapped the paper and took out a faux-fur key chain.
“The shopkeeper said holding the key chain is a wonderful way to warm up your hands while you’re driving. But then I realized you live in New York, and probably don’t drive a car,” he said apologetically. “I got Lola a faux-fur bookmark. Half the things in the store were faux fur; there was even a faux-fur laptop case.”
“It’s perfect, thank you,” Emma said, laughing. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I wanted to thank you for taking care of Lola at kids’ club. This is your vacation too, and you’ve spent almost every afternoon with my daughter,” Fletcher said. “And I also wanted to apologize for behaving badly at dinner. Ten years in the theater, and I can’t drink more than one scotch. Graham says that’s what’s holding back my career—many directors only do their best work after they become hopeless alcoholics.”
“I’ve enjoyed spending time with Lola—and your career is doing wonderfully,” Emma insisted. “You’re having a play produced on Broadway.”
“None of that seems important. I’m worried about Lola.” Fletcher stirred his coffee. “Megan and Lola and I were going to be a family. Now Megan is gone, and Lola will be disappointed.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Lola,” Emma said. “She seems quite happy.”
“It’s not easy for a child to go through a divorce. I thought I’d be married forever,” he said absently. “But then there was a new girl from Connecticut in Lola’s class at school in England. The parents were divorced; the father was designing a museum in London, and the mother worked for some British fashion brand.
“Cassandra began spending less time at the theater; she wanted Lola to have a normal childhood. She started doing things together with the father and the little girl. It began innocently enough: taking the girls to pantomimes in the park, having them around for fish and chips while I was at the theater. The next thing you know, Cassandra and Chuck were in love.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma said quietly.
“The funny thing was, I had to follow Cassandra to America. Chuck’s contract was only for a year, and then he moved back to Connecticut. His ex-wife still lives in London, and Chuck sees his daughter in the summer and on holidays. So Lola’s part of this tidy family in Connecticut, but when she’s with me we’re like a rowboat in Central Park that’s missing an oar.”
Emma thought about Cassandra having another baby, and wondered how Fletcher would react. But it wasn’t her place to tell him, and she wasn’t about to cause him more pain.
“I’m sure Lola doesn’t see it that way,” Emma said. “All she talks about is how she’s going to be the biggest star on Broadway.”
“Lola likes being with you.” Fletcher looked at Emma. “I was wondering if you’d join us at the Vermont Teddy Bear factory this morning.”
“I thought you had to work on the sets at the playhouse,” Emma reminded him.
“Stephen texted and said he had to run some errands and wouldn’t be back until this afternoon.”
“Betty put off doing the programs until after lunch, too,” Emma said, grinning. “I think there’s a budding romance.”
“I promised Lola we’d do something fun, and it’s too chilly to watch the sled dog races,” Fletcher explained. “Please—it would be more fun if you were there.”
Fletcher had given her a present, and now he was asking her on an outing. But she didn’t know if Megan had left for good, and she didn’t want to get hurt.
Fletcher waited for her reply, and she realized she was being ridiculous. They’d spent hours in the village distributing posters, and she hadn’t given it another thought. It was only the Vermont Teddy Bear factory, and Fletcher was probably just asking as friends.
“Why not?” Emma shrugged. “I can’t be the only person at The Smuggler’s Inn working when everyone is playing hooky.”
“I’ll tell Lola.” Fletcher stood up and smiled. “And thank you for listening; I feel much better.”
* * *
Emma sat at the desk in her room and clicked on her computer. The FaceTime icon blinked and Bronwyn’s face appeared. She was wearing a floppy hat and the most incredible sunglasses Emma had ever seen. They were a bronze color, with small rhinestones that glinted at the camera.
“I wasn’t sure if you were still on the plane,” Emma said. “And where did you get those sunglasses?”
“We arrived half an hour ago,” Bronwyn said. “These were in the window at the hotel gift shop. Do you think they’re too much?” She peered into the camera. “You should see the women walking through the lobby; they’re all incredibly fit, and have perfect tans. I caught my reflection in the revolving doors and saw a pale New York mother who hasn’t been in a gym since 2014. I had to buy something to make myself feel better.”
�
�How will they make you feel when you get the room bill?” Emma laughed.
“It’s vacation. And Carlton feels so badly about not being here yet, he said I should spoil myself and the girls.” Bronwyn smiled. “He really is sweet. The suite was full of flowers when we arrived, and he had the concierge deliver buckets and spades for the girls. They were so thrilled, they couldn’t wait to get to the beach.”
“You and Carlton are lucky to have each other,” Emma agreed. “Fletcher invited me to go to the Vermont Teddy Bear factory.”
“The Vermont Teddy Bear factory?” Bronwyn peeled the price tag off her hat. “That sounds as romantic as Carlton asking me to check the blister on his foot after a tennis match. Where’s Megan? The last time we talked, Fletcher and Megan were having a tiff, and you were going to wear your most drop-dead outfit to dinner.”
“Megan left,” Emma answered.
“‘Left’ as in, she went back a few days early because she had a family emergency? Or ‘left’ as in, ‘I get the Pottery Barn sofa, and you can have the engagement ring back if you really want it’?”
“Fletcher made some excuse that Megan had a leak in her apartment. But Lola is positive it’s because she couldn’t have the lead in the play,” Emma said. “Fletcher was pretty upset. He told me all about his divorce. He thinks it’s his fault Cassandra fell in love with another man.”
“He discussed Megan and his ex-wife?” Bronwyn said.
“What’s wrong with that?” Emma asked.
“He’s putting you in the friend zone. He’ll come over when you’re in New York in rumpled sweats and a baseball cap to hide the fact that he hasn’t showered in a week.” Bronwyn shuddered. “Your television will be permanently on the History channel, where he’ll watch soldiers blowing each other up to remind himself he’s still a man. You don’t want Fletcher to tell you his problems. You want him to take you to dinner at sexy French restaurants, where you talk about the imbalance of power in America, or whatever single people do on dates until it’s time to get in each other’s pants.”