A Christmas Bride (5 page)

D
avid's uncle Jamie, the CEO of the Lyndon family's vineyard and agricultural business, believed in putting up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving. There were good marketing reasons for this, but the real reason was that Uncle Jamie was a Christmas junkie whose birthday fell the first week of November, and he just liked having tinsel around when he blew out the candles on his cake.

As a result, Jamie's birthday party—a big bash held at the winery every year—marked the unofficial start of the holiday season for the Lyndon family.

He'd outdone himself this year. White lights twinkled in the naked wisteria vines that wove through the patio's pergola. Two gigantic wreaths hung on the barn doors that led to the tasting room. Yards of pine roping wrapped every post, beam, and window frame.

“Bah humbug,” David mumbled as he and Natalie walked down the path that led from the parking lot to the winery's tasting room.

“What does that mean, Daddy?” Natalie asked.

Busted
. “It's just an expression.”

“An expression of what?”

His face burned. How do you tell a kid that you hate Christmas? “When you're older, you'll understand,” he said. Boy, he was a master at using that line.

It worked this time because Natalie was more excited about Uncle Jamie's birthday party than she was curious about his foul mood. She skipped ahead, drawn to the shiny tinsel the way moths are drawn to candlelight. Her enthusiasm for the holiday was enough to drive any respectable Scrooge right into a bottle of bourbon.

But maybe it was okay. Natalie certainly didn't understand how the holidays coincided with the bleak advent calendar in David's heart, which counted down the days until the anniversary of her mother's death.

They entered the brightly lit tasting room, and Natalie shed her coat in one lightning-fast move and then shot forward, disappearing into the crowd of party guests without even a backward glance. David deserved that. His Christmas spirit had been killed two years ago.

He picked up Natalie's jacket from where she'd dropped it, shed his overcoat, and headed in the direction of the cloakroom. He hadn't gotten far when Roxanne Kopp, the long-legged, dark-haired daughter of his law firm's managing partner, intercepted him. He'd known Roxy since they'd both been children, and he knew his mother, father, and boss wanted something to blossom between them.

“David,” she said in a voice like silk over warm skin. She plucked the coats from his fingers. “Let me help you with that.”

Roxy was all grown up now and had a Siren somewhere in her distant heritage, or maybe a Rhinemaiden, given her family's German ancestry. Either way, she possessed the ability to whisper unsuspecting men to their doom. Her low, sultry voice wasn't her only weapon. She was slim, tanned, and had a nice rack, which she was expert at displaying.

Tonight she wore a tight skirt, a pair of screw-me heels, and a white, sheer blouse with half the buttons undone. Lace and cleavage peeked out from the V of her neckline. It was hard not to notice.

“Roxy,” he responded as he stomped on the urge to snatch his coat from her manicured hands. He didn't want to deal with her tonight. He didn't want to look at her cleavage, even though she was shoving it in his face.

But he was a man. A lonely man whose sex life had been cut off two years ago. So he did look. The view was impressive but uninspiring.

Roxy took care of the coats and then sidled up to him, deftly taking him by the arm. His whole body reacted to her touch. But he didn't want her. He had to stop himself from pulling away from her.

“David,” she whispered, leaning her breasts into his arm, “you don't have to be frightened of me.” Her breath feathered across his cheek. “I could show you a good time. And, baby, you look like you need something like that. Besides, we've been friends forever. You can trust me.”

He wasn't frightened. But he didn't want a mindless hookup with Roxy either. They each deserved more than that. He let his thumb wander over to touch the gold band he still wore on his left hand. Being attracted made him feel guilty. He still took his vows seriously. He wasn't ready to let them go.

He wanted to get away from Roxy, but there was no graceful way to escape. So he let her hang on his arm as he snagged a glass of Bordeaux from one of the circulating waiters. And then he followed her lead as she headed toward the fireplace, which was roaring away in full holiday blaze, its mantel festooned with greenery and colorful quilted Christmas stockings.

His mother was waiting there, sipping a glass of red.

“Hello, dear,” Mother said, giving him a warm and somewhat intense hug. She pushed him back at arm's length. “I heard that you and Heather had a visitor this morning.”

Here it came. He braced for her displeasure.

“Did you really tell Jeff he should elope?”

“What?” Roxy pulled away a fraction of an inch. “David, you didn't. Really?”

“I wasn't the one who put the idea in his head. Jeff made it quite clear that Melissa didn't like your plans for her wedding. He asked me to host the wedding at Eagle Hill Manor and then threatened to elope. I called his bluff. It seemed the simplest solution to his problem.”

Mother and Roxy rolled their eyes in unison. He sipped his wine, fortifying himself for the battle to come.

“They can't elope,” Mother said in her take-no-prisoners tone. “It would be a disaster. We need that wedding, David. You of all people should realize that. We're inviting all the A-list New York donors, most of whom are Nina's good friends.”

Mother hadn't said anything he didn't already know. But for some reason the truth, spoken out loud in that tone of voice, raised a deep shame that spilled through him like a poison.

Shelly would be so disappointed in you
.

Willow's parting words, meant to hurt, had done their job. She'd left him scored and bloody on the inside.

“Did Shelly cry the night before our wedding?” he asked.

Mother's gaze narrowed. “David, what on earth…?”

“Did she? Willow Petersen says she did.”

“I have no idea. David, your wedding was beautiful. My goodness, we had the vice president there. And your father managed to work out that deal on—”

“She did cry. And she never said one word about it.”

“David, really, we're not talking about Shelly. I know this is hard for you, but—”

“Yes, Mother, I know. We're talking about my political career and Dad's political career and how my wedding was mostly about that deal Dad worked out with the vice president. And, you know, I can suddenly see Jeff's point.”

“David, really, listen to—”

“No, you listen.” He pulled away from Roxy and pointed rudely at his mother's chest. “I don't want this wedding to be about my election. And I sure as hell don't want to play host to anyone at Eagle Hill Manor. So if neither of those options is going to work for Jeff and Melissa, then the best thing they could do for themselves and the rest of us is to elope.”

He turned away and strode through the crowd looking for Natalie. He found her sitting on Uncle Jamie's lap, having a fabulous time being the center of attention.

Damn. He didn't want to stay here a minute longer. He wasn't in any kind of holly-jolly mood. He just wanted to be alone. Didn't people understand that? The second anniversary of Shelly's death was coming up. This time of year would never, ever be happy for him again.

What he wanted was to drown himself in the bottle of bourbon waiting for him at home.

“Natalie. We're going,” he said.

His daughter looked up. He wasn't immune to the disappointment in her dark chocolate eyes.

Damn.

That look clawed at him, and he had to suppress the urge to drop to his knees and give his child an endless hug and promise that he'd find some way not to disappoint her all the time.

But he didn't know how to make his knees bend or his arms open. Besides, if he stopped and gave Natalie a hug right here in front of everyone, he might hold on to her forever. He might not be able to let go. He might weep.

And Lyndons weren't supposed to cry. Not in public. Not even in private. And certainly not in the presence of their children.

If there hadn't been some urgency, Willow might have taken as long as a week to put the finishing touches on her business plan. But there wasn't any time. If she was going to buy the inn in time for Melissa's wedding, she needed to get her act together.

So she spent all of Thursday closeted in her tiny bedroom under the eaves at Serenity Farm doing quick and dirty market research via the Internet. By Friday morning she had a written plan. It had holes and gaps, particularly in her estimates of the costs of fixing up the inn. But it would have to do. She had an eleven o'clock appointment with Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon.

She pulled out her Christian Dior suit and a pair of no-name basic heels. Black might be a boring color, but no woman ever went wrong wearing it to a business meeting. Let Hillary Clinton wear jewel tones. Willow believed that black was the new black.

For the past decade, most of her sales meetings had been in giant skyscrapers located in New York or London or Hong Kong. But today she parked her POS Honda in the town lot on North Second Street and walked to Secondhand Prose, where Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon spent his days.

She had to walk under the scaffolding to find the bookshop's entrance and was pleasantly surprised to find a cat tree in the front window. A big, gray cat slept there like a sentry, with one amber eye trained on the sidewalk. There had always been a cat tree in Secondhand Prose's front window, although the cat Willow remembered from her childhood had been a tabby.

Aside from the cat in the window, almost everything else about the bookshop had changed. Gone were the dusty bookshelves and the disorganized mess of used books stacked every which way. Now the place smelled like old books and had a vibe to it, like one of those bohemian indie bookstores in the Village or Brooklyn. Recessed lighting had banished the gloom, the wide plank wood floors had been refinished, and the building's interior brick walls had been exposed. Comfy chairs now occupied several nooks where customers could sit and read to their heart's content, and the merchandise included literary gift items and some new titles in addition to the fabulous collection of old books.

She headed toward the checkout counter, where a hipster dude wearing a literary T-shirt manned the cash register. “Hi. I'm here for a meeting with Mr. Talbert-Lyndon,” she said.

The clerk looked like a refugee from Brooklyn with his slightly shaggy hair, five-o'clock shadow, and the blue T-shirt that said
Be silly. Be honest. Be kind
. Willow had never heard that quote, but the T-shirt claimed it had been penned by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Who knew someone that old and dusty could be so fun?

The clerk gave her the once-over. Something about those dark eyes seemed familiar. “You must be Willow Petersen,” he said.

“Mr. Talbert-Lyndon is expecting me.”

That got a laugh. “The last name's not Talbert-Lyndon. It's just plain Talbert now.” He held out his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Willow. You didn't have to dress up for me.”

Uh-oh. Her confidence plummeted about as fast as the heat raced over her face. She'd done a lot of research on Jefferson Talbert's net worth and not once had she bothered to look at a photo of the guy. She'd assumed that he'd dress in the Lyndon uniform of choice—a gray or blue suit. “Uh, oh, um, hi,” she said, shaking his hand.

“So, you said you had something you wanted to talk about. Something about Eagle Hill Manor?”

Great. This was not going as planned. She'd anticipated making this pitch in an office, across a desk. Not standing here in the middle of a store. But there didn't seem to be an office in sight. She was going to have to do an elevator pitch.

She took a big breath to slow her pulse and pulled her plan out of her briefcase. “I met Melissa at the Jaybird a few days ago, and she was telling me how much she wanted to have her wedding reception at Eagle Hill Manor. I know you talked to David Lyndon about that. And I know he wasn't very cooperative.

“And all of that got me to thinking, especially since your cousin is putting the inn up for sale. It's a great opportunity.” She handed him her business plan.

“An opportunity for what?”

“For investment. That's a plan,” she said, nodding at the papers she'd put into his hands, “for renovating the inn and turning it into a wedding destination.” She continued on, gaining confidence as she gave him her three-minute summary of the opportunity, the equity position, and the expected ROI. Then she stared him right in the face and asked for a boatload of money. It was just as hard to ask for gigantic sums of money as it was to ask for smaller amounts. So she went big.

Jefferson Talbert-Lyndon smiled at the figure and said, “Your reputation precedes you.”

This was not what she'd expected to hear. She counted to five and made a show of reading the words on his shirt. If only she could be silly about this. Honesty had not worked for her. And she'd always been kind.

The smile faded from his face. “You know, this is tempting, but my situation is complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“I wasn't talking about the business. The truth is, I'm not interested in investing in an inn. The failure rate for businesses like that is high. And the rate of return isn't all that stellar either. To be honest, I would prefer to convince David to host the wedding. I shouldn't have to buy him out to make that happen.”

“I see. But David is unlikely to do that.”

“I know. And that's why Melissa and I have more or less decided to get married in Vegas. It's easier all the way around.”