Room for Love (9 page)

“If she found out I was only doing it because Stan told me to?” Nate shook his head. “Hell, yes. Look, I’ll talk to her some more, I’ll ask her. But I’m not going to pretend anything.”

Stan gave a heavy sigh, and Cyb wondered where the bar staff were with his second pint. He was always more manageable when he’d relaxed a bit. “Play it any way you want, Nate. But remember, it’s your livelihood at stake here, too.”

Cyb was watching Nate, waiting for his response, so she saw the look he threw at his grandmother, a secretive sort of glance, and she wondered what Moira knew that the rest of them didn’t.

Whatever it was, Cyb wasn’t feeling any better than she had when listening to Mr. Norton’s offers. If anything, she felt worse. And, looking around the table, so did everyone else. Probably not the time to try to discuss passion with Stan, she decided.

It would either be a very somber, or a very exciting, dance night that evening.

* * * *

The only good thing about Anna arriving early, Carrie decided, was that she’d managed to get rid of her before the Seniors returned and started decorating for dance night. And before Nate got back. Nate, she knew, would have questions.

She really didn’t want to answer them.

Sighing, she stared up at the Union Jack bunting strung around the dining room and tried to decide if she liked it more or less than last week’s international flags. At least she was reassured her decision not to let Cyb put it up until the last moment had been the right one. God only knew what Anna would have made of it, since she didn’t even approve of the beautifully stitched unicorn tapestry that had hung behind the reception desk for the entirety of Carrie’s life.

She hadn’t approved of anything much, actually. “Other than the location, I’m really not sure this inn has what we need, Carrie,” she’d said, shaking her head with disappointment.

“If you just look a little deeper...”

“Is there solid gold wallpaper under the hideous lilac stuff in the bridal suite? No? Shame.”

Then Carrie’s flash of inspiration had struck. “Better. I’ve got a potential bride.”

But even the promise of Ruth’s wedding hadn’t been enough to win Anna over fully. Bunting would probably have tipped her over the other edge.

Still, in context, the bunting looked quite jolly. Along with the posters Stan had hung after Anna’s departure, when Carrie had been working up in the Green Room again and thus unable to stop or question him, the dining room began to resemble a 1940s American army base. Complete, apparently, with its own Wren, ready to keep the soldiers company in return for some nylons.

“Cyb, that’s a...great costume.”

Cyb grinned at her from under her perfectly pin-curled hair. “Isn’t it? It belonged to my older sister, you know. She married an American during the war. Moved to Ohio when it was all over.”

“It certainly seems to fit with the theme,” Carrie assured her. “Are many dance nights so...Second World War centric?”

Cyb laughed. “Oh, no. Only the second Monday of every month.”

“Of course.” Because that was totally normal.

“We even have food like they’d have had on the American bases in Britain,” Cyb chattered on. “Jacob did some research for us on the internet and found all sorts of exciting recipes. And Stan runs old movies on the screen at the far end without the sound on. And we play all these wonderful thirties and forties songs to dance to. And–”

“Cyb?” Nate interrupted the monologue from the doorway. “I think Gran’s looking for you in the drawing room. She’s finalizing the song list for this evening.”

Cyb bustled straight off, and Nate came in, apparently unconcerned by the sudden time warp.

“No costume?” Carrie asked, hoping to forestall the inevitable questions about Anna’s visit, and Nate chuckled.

“I should be so lucky. Just wait until Gran gets done with Cyb.”

Carrie noticed the Donut Dugout sign in the corner, and suddenly felt more optimistic about the evening. If she could just distract Nate long enough for him to forget everything she told him about Anna...

Nate opened his mouth to ask something, but shut it again when Izzie appeared in the doorway calling for him. “We’ll talk, later,” he promised before disappearing again, with Izzie babbling something about ticket collection. Carrie sighed with relief. Only another three or four hours to go.

And tickets at least suggested people might be paying to attend the evening, which gave Carrie some comfort. But, since this was an official Avalon Inn event, did that mean she actually had to attend? She’d avoided last week’s, but she supposed she’d have to take part sometime. Except it had been a long day, and she’d been looking forward to a night in with Pusscat…

Moira arrived next, incongruously carrying an iPod. “Finally, despite Stan’s best efforts, the playlist for the evening is ready.”

Carrie watched as she settled the iPod into a dock attached to the speakers on either side of the room. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have those in 1944.”

Moira shrugged. “Bet the people running the dances wished they did, though. Much easier to look after than a band.”

“True,” Carrie said, wishing more brides were willing to be so pragmatic. It would make her job a lot easier. “It really is looking pretty impressive in here.”

Grinning, Moira said, “Just wait until everybody gets here. Then you’ll see a sight. Speaking of which, time for me to go and get ready.” And with that, she bustled off through the door.

In the end, it was just too tempting. As a compromise, Carrie changed out of her black suit and into a brown cotton pencil skirt and cream blouse, and curled up in one of the leather chairs in the drawing room that provided her with a good view of the lobby. With Pusscat dozing on the chair opposite her, Carrie flicked on her laptop, counted three new emails from Anna’s iPhone since she’d left and got back to work on her schedules.

The dance night attendees arrived in ones and twos, and a rowdy group of four elderly gentlemen in what might have been their original service uniforms except they fit too well. Carrie vaguely remembered that demobbing involved giving them back, anyway.

Each one in turn greeted Izzie on the reception desk with smiles and high spirits, handing over their tickets, or buying them on the spot if necessary. Izzie in turn was cheerful, efficient and obviously beloved by the guests.

Carrie was amazed.

When the clock ticked over to eight o’clock, Carrie closed her laptop and, ignoring Anna’s emailed summary of their new agreement from that morning as it arrived in her inbox, followed the crowds into 1944.

Suddenly, she wanted to know what kept the Seniors so tied to her inn.

* * * *

Nate didn’t know where his gran had found the costume, but he suspected eBay. She’d become quite the computer whiz since Granddad had died. Regardless, she showed up with it, every 40s night, and wouldn’t leave until he put it on. He’d given up the fight by this point.

“Maybe you could ask Carrie if you could do this place up a bit,” Moira suggested, perched on the very edge of the summerhouse sofa. “If you decide to stay.” She was fishing. Gran always did like to know his exact plans, and he had to admit to finding a perverse pleasure in holding out on her.

“I think she’s got bigger things to worry about at the moment. As you told me.” And despite his reluctance to fall in with Stan’s plan, Nate knew he’d have to find out how much worse the situation had become since Anna’s visit that morning.

Nate sighed, straightened the collar of his ‘authentic replica American army shirt, circa 1944’ and tried to make his hair stay flat. If it wasn’t tidy enough to appease Gran, he knew from past experience she would come after him with a comb and some Brylcreem. He’d really like to try and avoid a side-parting tonight.

“Besides,” he added, coming out of the bedroom, “I like it this way. It’s homey.”

“It’s a mess.” Moira narrowed her eyes at him. “As is your hair. Come here, I brought my comb.”

Nate sighed, but followed instructions and went to sit on the sofa. There was, he reflected as a slick of Brylcreem hit his scalp, something humiliating about being styled by your grandmother. Especially at the age of thirty.

By the time Moira had finished fussing and they had walked up to the inn, the party was in full swing. The Andrews sisters crooned from the speakers, Walt attempted to dance while still holding on to his Campari and soda and Stan, Nate noticed with a wince, was making his way through the dancers toward them.

Gran, coward that she was, gave a little wave to nobody and said, “Oh, Nate, I think I see...” before disappearing off without even a complete excuse.

Stan reached him and swung an arm up to somewhere approximating Nate’s shoulders. Given that Stan was a full head shorter than him, Nate figured that was quite an achievement in itself. “Nate, my boy. I’ve got it all set up for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nate said, hoping he really didn’t. He could guess, but none of his speculations were particularly comforting. Stan opened his mouth again, and Nate jumped in with, “I don’t want to know what you mean.”

Stan gave a sage nod and dropped his arm. “Plausible deniability. I understand. Good move.” He inched even closer and lowered his voice to a grumbly whisper. “Let’s just say, you’ll know when it’s time, right?” He gave a meaningful look over at Jacob’s Donut Dugout, and Nate saw Carrie already there and, judging by her outfit, almost in the spirit of things. She was even wearing red lipstick.

She looked good in red lipstick.

Stan poked him in the ribs and disappeared in the direction of the stage. Deciding to ignore the sense of foreboding in his stomach, Nate headed for the food and hoped for the best.

“What exciting new recipes have we got today, Jacob?” Nate smiled at Carrie in what he hoped was a friendly but neutral manner, just in case Stan was still watching, and turned his attention to the trays of donuts before him.

When they’d started the 40s nights, Jacob had been excited to learn from his culinary research that, during the war, Donut Dugouts had been set up for the visiting American soldiers. Apparently they used a special donut mix, which never became available in the UK once the fighting was over, so Jacob had started investigating how to make his own donuts from scratch.

Apparently there were considerably more donut recipes than anyone had expected. Jacob was still working his way through the first file of printouts.

“Apple and cinnamon donuts, lemon and lime donuts, vanilla sugar donuts and plain ones for Stan,” Jacob told him, pointing at each in turn.

“I can recommend the vanilla,” Carrie added through a mouthful of crumbs.

Nate chanced a look over at her, and had to smile at the way sugar stuck to her lipstick and her auburn hair floated over the shoulders of her creamy blouse. “You look nice,” he said, without really meaning to. And at least she didn’t look like someone who’d just been told she had to sell her home. That was something. “I like the lipstick.”

Carrie blushed a rosy pink, and the color clashed with both her lipstick and her hair, which somehow just made Nate smile even more. “Izzie ambushed me. Said it was compulsory.”

“It should be.”

Carrie glanced away, taking another bite of her donut, just as Stan’s voice came over the speakers. He was up on the stage, Nate realized, microphone in hand, looking serious and somber, and with the attention of the entire room.

Nate sighed, and reached for another donut. This, undoubtedly, was Stan’s sign. And it just wasn’t ever going to end well.

* * * *

It took Carrie a moment to stop marveling at the sight of Nate Green in his uniform and tune in to what Stan was actually saying. After all, the way the khaki shirt emphasized the width of Nate’s shoulders was, quite frankly, much more interesting than any speech Stan could make. Possibly more interesting than any speech Winston Churchill might have been making in this weird time warp.

But then Stan said, “I know all of you here knew and loved Nancy Archer,” and Carrie started paying attention.

“She will be sorely missed, and I’m sure, for many of us, nothing will really be the same now that she’s gone.” Stan looked mournfully down on the crowd and, for a moment, Carrie felt a pang as she realized these people probably knew her grandmother better than she ever had. Even Nate looked affected, although the look on his face seemed more apprehensive than grief-stricken.

“But here tonight, we have with us Nancy’s granddaughter, Miss Carrie Archer.” Stan brightened up with these words and gestured to where Carrie stood, donut in hand and probably with sugar around her mouth. Out of nowhere, a spotlight came to shine on her, and she tried to wipe at her lips without anyone noticing. Nate handed her a napkin, and she gave him a grateful smile.

“Miss Archer is, I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear, the new owner of the Avalon Inn. And in honor of her arrival, our next song will be one of Nancy’s favorites.” Stan signaled to Izzie, who was hovering over the iPod in the corner, and the first strains of
The Very Thought of You
flooded through the room. “Nate, old boy,” Stan said, with an odd tone in his voice. “Why don’t you take your new boss for a turn around the floor?”

Carrie didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look so unexcited at the prospect of dancing with her. “You don’t have to...” she began, but Bing Crosby’s voice started out of the speakers, smooth and warm, and all Carrie could think of was nights dancing around the attic room with Nancy, and she lost the rest of the words she’d meant to say.