A Christmas Bride (2 page)

But he had more discipline than that. So he swallowed down his anger and said, “You have a firm grasp of the obvious.” Then he gave Willow his implacable, bulldog scowl—the one he'd regularly used to intimidate people as chairman of the Jefferson County Council. It bounced right off her.

“Come on, I'll show you the secret path.” She swished past him and headed down the main path a few strides. He followed as she took a left turn off the main footpath and onto a muddy rut that was most definitely not a regular path.

After a short walk, they emerged from the woods into a small clearing near Morgan Avenue. The meadow looked neglected, as if it hadn't been mowed in some time. The wild grass had grown knee high, and even now, the first week of November, yellow and white wildflowers bloomed everywhere.

Off to the left a few paces stood the tumbled-down limestone church that was known as Laurel Chapel. No one had worshipped there in almost a century, and its sanctuary was now open to the sky, its arched windows broken. Beside it stood the oldest cemetery in town, where a few of David's forebears had been buried. The graveyard was ringed by a dry stone wall that was in good repair. St. Luke's, the Episcopal church in town, took care of the cemetery. Laurel Chapel had once been the Episcopalians' place of worship before they built the big church in town a hundred years ago. The congregation had sold the land up here, along with the old church building, as a means of raising the funds for their much grander place of worship. In the years since, the building had fallen to ruins.

David knew this place, but he'd never walked here from the inn before. He'd always come by car and parked in the gravel lot adjacent to the ruins of the church. Hikers seeking access to the Appalachian Trail frequently parked there, especially in the spring when the mountain laurel bloomed.

The laurel had been in bloom that day, long ago, when Shelly had brought him up here full of ideas and plans for their wedding. She'd wanted to put up a tent on this meadow and hold the reception at her parents' inn.

That wasn't possible, of course. The guest list for their wedding included senators, governors, and the vice president. The meadow by Laurel Chapel wasn't anywhere close to secure enough for a guest list like that. So they'd been married in Washington, DC, with the Secret Service in attendance.

“I know for a fact Shelly brought you here,” Willow said as if reading his mind. “I'm surprised you didn't know about the hidden path. The old chapel always was Shelly's secret place.”

He didn't respond. What could he say? He should have known this. Instead, he walked past her toward the church and through the empty doorway into the nave. Leaves lay in clumps across the stone floor where once the pews, altar, and pulpit had stood.

“Natalie, are you hiding in here?” he asked.

A little whimper from the corner of the sanctuary was his answer. He moved forward through the gloom and found his daughter sitting in a pile of leaves. She hugged her knees with a pair of grubby hands, and her head rested on dirty leggings.

The pull of muscles across his shoulders eased at the sight of her. He lived in perpetual fear of losing her. He wanted to pull her into his arms and spoil her. But what kind of father would that make him? She needed discipline.

“Natalie,” he said in his sternest voice, “I won't tolerate this kind of behavior from you. What were you thinking, running away from me? You could have been injured or worse.”

His daughter looked up at him, her chin wobbling while defiance sparked in her deep brown eyes.

“Sweetheart, I know you're disappointed about your swimming time trials, but it's Election Day, and Grandmother's party is important. Not just to her, but to me. Didn't I explain last night that there will be important people at this party that I have to be nice to because I'm thinking about being a congressman? Those people want to meet you too.”

“I don't want to meet them.”

Of course she didn't. But that didn't change things. Like it or not, Natalie would grow up as a congressman's daughter, like he'd grown up as a senator's son.

“Sweetie, we talked about this, remember? When I was growing up, there were lots of times when I had to do things that I didn't want to do because Grandfather is a senator. But I did as I was told. Because I am a Lyndon, and Lyndons make sacrifices.”

Natalie wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jacket, and he almost corrected her before he remembered that he didn't have a handkerchief with him today because he hadn't been to the laundry in more than a week.

He became acutely aware of his failings as a parent. Natalie did that to him. Often.

“I don't want to go. I want to beat Meghan in breaststroke. She's always telling everyone she's faster than I am.”

“I'm sorry. But there will be another set of time trials next month, and swimming competition doesn't start until the spring. Election Day comes once a year. Besides, you don't want to make Grandmother unhappy, do you? You know how unpleasant that can be.”

Natalie's mouth thinned like Shelly's used to whenever they argued about Mother. But this time Mother was right. David needed to be at her barbeque this evening because he was planning a run for Congress next year. Important donors and political consultants would be in attendance, and they all wanted to meet Natalie. Like it or not, she was the candidate's daughter, and the two of them were a package deal.

He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you want a time-out?”

She gave him a mutinous scowl.

“Do you? Because it can be arranged. Honestly, Natalie, I just don't know what I'm going to do with you. I don't like this attitude you've suddenly developed.”

The quiver in her lower lip intensified.
Damn
. He hated it when she cried.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked, fully expecting her to either burst into tears, give him the eight-year-old death stare, or pitch a tantrum.

She opted for a version of the death stare, complete with big tears that spilled down her cheeks, leaving dirty tracks on her face. “Yes, Daddy,” she said in a forlorn voice as she stood. His heart wrenched when she hung her head and started walking toward the door.

He turned and found Willow Peterson standing behind him, her hands on her hips, her gaze sharp and unforgiving.

“You don't get to judge me,” he barked. “I have a career too.”

She lifted one shoulder and blinked. “I'm not judging you, David. I was just wondering if it's true what Mrs. M said—that you're planning to sell the inn because you're going to run for Congress.”

“I never promised Shelly I would keep the inn. And I wish to God Almighty she had listened to me. Because if she'd listened, she would have given up those silly plans of hers. And if she'd given up those plans, she'd never have gone to New York to meet with an architect. And if she'd never gone to New York, she would be alive today.”

And with that he stepped around his wife's so-called best friend and left the ruined chapel behind.

I
t was happy hour when Willow strolled into the Jaybird Café and Music Hall in downtown Shenandoah Falls. The scent of beer and French fries jolted her with a wave of deep nostalgia as she took the last open seat at the bar.

Willow's family had owned and managed the Jaybird for more than thirty years, providing farm-to-table menu choices and live music on Friday and Saturday nights. The café was a second home for Willow and her younger sister, Juni, who'd come along a couple of years after the family had settled in Northern Virginia. Many a night, Willow and Juni had eaten their dinners at the café, done their schoolwork at one of the tables, and crashed on cots in the back.

Now the little baby who had once toddled around the place was the café's manager and backup bartender. Tonight she was busy dealing with a larger-than-normal happy-hour crowd, who were drinking and keeping tabs on election results on the television screens scattered around the dining room.

“What have you been up to today?” Juni asked from behind the bar.

As usual, Willow's sister was channeling Mom this evening. She wore a blue East-Indian print dress that she'd probably bought at the Haggle Shop, the local consignment store that had a large section of vintage clothing. Juni had dark curly hair that reached her waist, and even though she and Willow shared a mother, they looked nothing alike. Willow had straight blond hair and eyes that were a mossy shade of green. Juni's eyes were as dark as espresso coffee.

“I spent some time at Eagle Hill Manor. Did you know David Lyndon's selling the place?” Willow asked.

“That's not surprising. The inn's been closed for a couple of months.” Juni leaned toward the bar and spoke in a low voice. “If I had the money, I might just buy that old place.”

“Since when do you have a burning desire to be an innkeeper?”

Juni shrugged. “Don't know. I just have a feeling, you know?”

Juni was always having “feelings” about stuff. She could also allegedly read auras, tell fortunes with tarot cards, and heal people with crystals. In short, Juni couldn't have been less like Willow if she tried.

“What do you think?” Juni asked. “You're the one with the MBA from Wharton. Could Eagle Hill be a business opportunity?”

“I'd have to do some market research. I know nothing about the hospitality sector.”

Juni shook her head. “It's amazing how much time you waste with your research. I say go with your gut this time. My gut says that someone is going to make a pile of money with that place.”

“Someone with liquid assets,” Willow said. “Which isn't me. Hey, can I beg a beer and one of your bacon cheeseburgers? I'm desperate for comfort food, not Mom's fried eggplant.”

Juni gave Willow a madonna-like smile as she pulled a draft. “If you tried eggplant, you might like it.”

Willow shook her head and made a gagging noise. “I have tried it.”

Juni put the beer in front of her sister. “I'll put in an order for the cheeseburger. I gotta go. It's crazy in here tonight for a Tuesday.”

Juni headed off to fill a drink order, leaving Willow alone to brood about the dismal state of her life. She had no job and no prospects.

After what Restero had said about her in the
Wall Street Journal,
it was likely that potential investors and venture capitalists would regard her as high risk. She couldn't self-fund anything. She was without assets or collateral.

She'd blown all her assets to retain the law firm of Astor, Roswell, and Cade—a firm with a track record for defending people in her situation. The US False Claims Act was supposed to protect corporate whistle-blowers from harassment and job retaliation, but those provisions meant nothing until Willow got a court date. Until she proved that Restero and its CEO, Corbin Martinson, had committed Medicare fraud by knowingly selling defective hip replacements, she would always be a disgruntled troublemaker out for revenge.

She was mulling over this depressing reality when a thirtysomething woman with straight black hair and sky-blue eyes sidled up to the bar and ordered a margarita, a manhattan, and a lemon-drop martini. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman, but Willow couldn't quite place her.

The woman turned, her forehead rumpling. “Willow? Oh my God, is that you? It's me, Courtney Wallace, remember, from tenth grade?”

Willow blinked a few times, trying to jibe this beautiful woman with the Courtney Wallace she'd known in high school. That Courtney had zits and braces and was the undisputed geek girl in their graduating class.

“Hi,” Willow said, suddenly awkward.

“It's been years, Willow. Are you visiting for a while?” Courtney asked.

“No. I've moved back. I'm living with Mom at the farm.” Her face heated with the humiliation of being thirty-four years old and suddenly living at home with her mother.

“That's wonderful,”

No, it wasn't wonderful, but Willow refrained from saying that out loud.

“Here you go,” Juni said as she finished mixing Courtney's drink order. “You want to put this on a tab?”

“Yeah,” Courtney said, picking up the margarita and the lemon-drop martini. “Come on, Willow. Grab your beer and the manhattan and come on back to say hey to the girls.”

Willow didn't want to socialize with high school acquaintances. Not with her life in shambles. It would be embarrassing. But Juni had other ideas. “Go,” she said, giving a little wave from behind the bar. “You need to reconnect, you know? I'll send your burger over when it's ready.”

And that was that. Willow had been hung out to dry by her little sister, who was so obviously trying to get her to move on with her life. Willow gave her sister the stink eye, then picked up her beer and the manhattan and followed Courtney off to a table in the back corner where two women were sitting.

“Hey, guys, look who I found at the bar,” Courtney said as she placed the margarita in front of a woman with long dark hair and smart-girl glasses and the lemon drop in front of a thin woman with brown hair carefully styled in a smooth pageboy.

The women at the table blinked up at Willow, the confusion on their faces proving that they hadn't recognized Willow any more than Willow had recognized them.

“The manhattan's mine,” Courtney said as she plopped down on one of the empty chairs. “Sit down, Willow.”

Willow sat and then immediately started thinking of ways to excuse herself. She didn't know or remember any of these people, and she didn't want to endure the awkwardness that always came when people realized who she was.

By the same token, she didn't want to be rude either. She had to live in this town, and she knew how things worked. Being pleasant was the best way to get along with people—especially those who were ready to judge her for whatever reason.

Lemon-Drop Girl cocked her head and stared. “Do we know you?” she asked.

“Oh, for goodness' sake,” Courtney said, gesturing with her manhattan. “This is Juni's big sister, Willow. She was my lab partner in tenth grade and one of the very few people at Braddock High who never once said a single word about my braces or my zits.” She turned toward Willow with a sheen in her eyes. “I'll never forget that day when you punched Dusty McNeil for calling me a pizza face and told him he was lewd, rude, and socially unacceptable.”

Willow had no recollection of this specific incident, although she had frequently called Dusty all kinds of names. The two of them had spent high school endlessly dissing each other. And when they weren't hurling insults, they were bass-hole buddies with fishing rods, whiling away the hours on Liberty Run. Willow had worked hard to rise above that younger version of herself.

“I'm Arwen Jacobs,” Lemon-Drop Girl said. “Juni and I were in the same graduating class, which probably explains why I don't remember you.”

“Hi, Willow. I also graduated in Juni's class,” Margarita Girl said. “I'm Melissa Portman. My grandmother owned the bookstore in town, and I remember you coming into Secondhand Prose with Shelly Marchand all the time.”

The memory warmed Willow. “You were the skinny kid with big glasses who always had her nose in a book.”

Melissa nodded. “Yup, that's me. I remember that you never bought many books, but Shelly was addicted to paperback romances.”

Which Shelly had consumed like candy until David Lyndon had come down from the hill to fish on Dusty McNeil's land. And then Shelly had found her own real-life romance.

“It's so sad the way she died,” Arwen said as she lifted her lemon-drop martini. “Here's to Shelly, the local girl who landed her prince.”

“Yeah,” Courtney said, lifting her manhattan. “To Shelly.”

Willow raised her beer but said nothing. Having spent all afternoon at the inn and the old chapel, she didn't trust her voice. Shelly's death had left a hollow, achy place in Willow's heart.

“As a technical point, I don't think David Lyndon is a prince,” Melissa said, “but I'll drink to Shelly.”

“You know,” Courtney said, giving Melissa a direct, blue-eyed stare, “you need to give up this thing you have about the Lyndons. David Lyndon
is
a prince. And you are about to marry another prince of the same family.”

“His last name isn't Lyndon. It's Talbert.”

“What's all this about?” Willow asked, suddenly curious.

“Melissa just got engaged to Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon, the journalist. She's never been a big fan of the Lyndons, which is why it's so funny that she's marrying one of them,” Arwen said.

Melissa's cheeks pinked. “Don't listen to them. They tease me all the time about this. But the thing is, Jeff, my fiancé, legally changed his name. He's Jeff Talbert now. The Lyndons need to get that into their thick skulls.”

Willow recognized Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon's name. He'd made news last spring with an article that put an end to the president's first choice for the Supreme Court. He was also Nina Talbert's son, and Nina was one of America's richest heiresses.

“We were just discussing the wedding,” Arwen said. “In fact, that's the main reason we're here drinking.”

“You've got that right,” Melissa said, picking up her margarita and draining it.

“Go easy on that, girl. Remember what happened the last time you overdid it with the margaritas? It was crying-jag city, and we don't want that to happen again, right?” Courtney said, then turned toward Willow. “You see, the problem is that Melissa wants a small wedding, but Jeff's mother and father have invited the world. Which is awkward because his father is Thomas Lyndon and his mother is Nina Talbert. So when I say ‘the world,' I mean a lot of people. Like four hundred of them.”

“Also,” Arwen added, “since Jeff's mother and father are divorced and his father is the ambassador to Japan, he's deputized his sister-in-law, Pamela Lyndon, to make sure that the wedding is up to the usual Lyndon standards. And even worse, Pam Lyndon and Nina Talbert are old friends from college. So they've planned this big Christmas wedding in New York City. At the Plaza Hotel. And they have, more or less, completely ignored Melissa's opinions about virtually everything.”

Melissa
thunk
ed her head on the table a couple of times. “I hate this wedding. I need another margarita.”

“Aw, c'mon, sweetie. You don't have to get married in New York. You know that.” Courtney gave Melissa's back a little rub.

Melissa looked up. “You're right. Jeff and I are going to elope.”

“You'll do no such thing. That's what this intervention is all about tonight,” Courtney said.

“We're here to convince you to plan your own alternate wedding,” Arwen said.

“How can I do that? There's no time to plan a wedding. Not to mention the fact that Jeff's mother and aunt will be furious with me.”

“They'll be furious if you elope, and so will Arwen and I. No woman really wants to elope,” Courtney said, then turned toward Willow. “Don't you think that's true, Willow?”

Willow had never given this question any thought. After Corbin Martinson's betrayal, marriage wasn't on her short-range to-do list. It wasn't even on her long-range bucket list. “I don't know much about weddings,” she said. “But I do know that if anyone can drive a girl to Vegas for a quickie wedding, it's Pam Lyndon.”

“Boy, you sure have that right,” Melissa said on a deep breath.

Willow continued. “Shelly wanted a small wedding with a reception at Eagle Hill Manor, which was her
home
, for goodness' sake. But Pam wanted something else altogether. And Shelly was bullied into this big, extravagant thing in DC. There were three hundred guests at her wedding, not to mention Secret Service at every door because the vice president was there. It was awful.”

Melissa's eyes brightened behind her glasses with a sheen of tears. “Pam Lyndon is a royal pain in the ass.”

A fierce need to protect Melissa settled in Willow's gut. “Don't you let Pam Lyndon make you cry,” she said. “Shelly made one concession after another. Nothing was the way she wanted it—not even her wedding dress. And then, on the night before the wedding, she ended up bawling her eyes out. I had to sit there and hold her hand. It was awful.”

Willow took a big sip of her beer, trying to push away the sudden burning memory of that night. David and Shelly had loved each other, and their wedding could have rivaled a royal wedding. Unfortunately, it wasn't the wedding Shelly had wanted.

“Thank you, Willow,” Melissa said, taking off her glasses and wiping her eyes. She sat up straight and looked at her friends. “Okay, girls, I admit it. You're right. I shouldn't have to elope and I shouldn't have to go to New York to get married in some hotel with a zillion strangers as wedding guests. Shenandoah Falls is my home. It's where Jeff and I will live after we're married. We should get married here, with our friends and family present.”