A Christmas Bride

by Hope Ramsay

  “You think?”

  “Of course he is. And it stands to reason he doesn’t want us kicking up any kind of fuss. But, you know, a fuss would sure make it harder for the county to move forward. Nobody ever got justice by staying quiet.”

  “But making noise doesn’t guarantee justice either. I mean, look at me. I haven’t gotten justice for all those patients who got defective hip replacements.”

  Mom reached across the table and captured one of Willow’s hands. “But you will get them justice. One day. And as far as this park proposal goes, baby doll, Dusty is your friend, and while a park is nice, we need to give him some support.”

  Willow nodded. “Okay, Mom. Let me talk to Dusty and see what he thinks. In the meantime, I’ve thought about your idea of a paint-in. I think we should do it, before it gets too cold. Would you help me organize it?”

  Mom grinned. “I happen to be killer with a bucket of paint.”

  “I know. That’s why I asked.”

  * * *

  The Red Fern Inn was two hundred years old and boasted a room where George Washington had supposedly once slept. As far as Poppy Marchand was concerned, the historical evidence for this claim was slim at best.

  On the other hand, Poppy had many photographs of Winston Churchill hunting with William Archer McAllister, the original owner and builder of Eagle Hill Manor. There was no doubt that Churchill had slept at Poppy’s inn. So had dozens of congressmen, senators, a governor or two, and numerous statesmen. The photographic evidence lined the upstairs hallways.

  So it was a trifle annoying to find herself sitting in the Red Fern’s dining room with Faye and Viola. When Craig had been alive, she’d been forbidden to set foot in the tiny inn owned and operated by Bryce Summerville. She still felt like a traitor every time Faye Appleby invited her to lunch here.

  Poppy would rather have eaten at the Olive Garden down at the highway interchange, but Faye would never stand for that. Neither would Viola.

  “So I have news,” Faye said, hoisting her wineglass. “Arwen has confirmed that Roxanne Kopp was at Jamie Lyndon’s birthday party. She got the news from one of her friends who works up at the winery. Apparently she was all over David like a cheap suit.”

  “Not cheap,” Viola said, “more like a designer suit. I’ve done some research on her, and her father is loaded. He’s the Kopp in Lyndon, Lyndon, and Kopp, and runs the firm from his DC office. Here, I found a photo of her on social media.” Viola fired up her iPhone and angled it so both Faye and Poppy could see.

  Poppy studied the photo and concluded that Roxanne Kopp was precisely the sort of woman one might expect a man like David to marry. Beautiful and with an impressive pedigree. Shelly would have hated this woman on sight.

  “She’s quite beautiful,” Poppy said.

  “Well, if she has Pam Lyndon’s approval, that immediately disqualifies her,” Viola said. “Pam is a terrible matchmaker. Everyone knows this. She’s the one who matched Nina up with Jeff’s father. And that marriage lasted less than two years.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Faye nodded. “So, let’s not get discouraged by this Roxy woman. Instead I think we should focus on the qualities we’d like to see in David’s next wife, besides the fact that she has to like Poppy, of course.”

  “Good idea,” Viola said, looking Poppy in the eye. “What kind of woman do you think we should be looking for?”

  “I have no clue,” Poppy said.

  “Oh, come on, you must have some idea. I know this is hard, but it’s important for you and for Natalie. And for David, of course.” Faye reached across the table and gave Poppy’s hand a squeeze. “We all miss Shelly.”

  Poppy nodded. “And as near as I can tell, that’s the main problem. Pam may be trying to push this Roxanne woman at David, but I’m not entirely sure he’s ready to have anyone pushed at him. He still wears his wedding ring, and he’s become a hermit. He doesn’t go to church. He doesn’t go out. He just works and goes fishing whenever he can, and sometimes he drinks alone in his room. I’m quite worried about him. I don’t think he’s sleeping well.”

  “Not the epitome of husband material, is he?” Faye said.

  “No, I’m afraid not. Ladies, I think this is going to be much harder than we think. And I’m still worried about the morality of what we’re planning. I don’t really believe in manipulating people.”

  “We’re not manipulating anyone. We’re matchmaking. There’s a big difference,” Viola said with a grin.

  “Hmmm, same thing in my book,” Poppy replied as she pushed her lettuce around her plate. The salad dressing had too much vinegar. The food at the Red Fern had never matched the quality of the food Antonin had prepared at Eagle Hill.

  “Well, since we aren’t sure what kind of woman David might be interested in, maybe we should think about women with strong maternal qualities. After all, this is as much about Natalie as it is David,” Viola said, pulling a small notebook from her purse and handing it to Poppy. “Now, I’ve made a list of women who have a reputation for being kind and generous and connected to the community. You tell me which of these women we should focus our attentions on.”

  Poppy scanned the list of names. “Don’t you think Joanne Ackerman is a little old for him? She must be forty if she’s a day.”

  “I know,” Viola said on a sigh. “But she’s a stalwart member of the St. Luke’s Ladies Auxiliary, and she has such impeccable taste. I think she’d make an excellent congressman’s wife and a wonderful mother. Plus she would decorate David’s new house to the nines. I’ve always wanted to hire her to redo my living room.”

  Poppy shook her head. “No. Scratch her off the list. And Alicia Mulloy is way too young for him. She couldn’t be more than twenty-five.”

  “So?” her friends asked in unison.

  She supposed they had a point. Men like David were always marrying much younger second wives, and Alicia was active in the Girl Scouts.

  Poppy stared at the list. Courtney Wallace’s name was there, which made sense since she was a nurse practitioner at Dr. Page’s office and a really sweet woman of David’s age. Faye’s niece, Arwen, was on the list, too, but that was probably because Viola didn’t want to hurt Faye’s feelings.

  The list was comprehensive, but still, one name was absent.

  “I don’t like this list,” Poppy said, handing it back to Viola. She laid her fork across her salad plate.

  “Poppy,” Faye said, “we thought you had come around to thinking this was a good idea, but if you don’t—”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I have a candidate, but it’s a complicated situation.”

  “Who?” they asked in unison.

  “Willow Petersen.” Poppy said the name and watched as both of her friends displayed the expected disapproving facial reactions.

  “Now, ladies, before you object, let me explain my reasons.”

  “I’m dying to hear them,” Faye said.

  “Well, for starters she was Shelly’s best friend, and I can’t help but feel that Shelly would approve of her. After all, Shelly named Willow as Natalie’s godmother. Even more important, over the last few days, Willow and Natalie have spent a lot of time together. Last Friday I walked into the library, and the two of them were down on the floor playing dolls together. Natalie was giggling.

  “Have you any idea how long it’s been since that child giggled about something?” Poppy’s voice wavered, and she had to blot her eyes with her napkin.

  “We didn’t know,” Faye said.

  “I know. That’s why I just told you. Look, ladies, I watched Willow grow up. She was always underfoot, hanging around with Shelly. To be honest, I mothered her some because I always felt she needed it. It can’t have been easy being Linda Petersen’s daughter. And now, here she is, lavishing attention on Natalie. I agree that she stayed away too long, but it seems to me she’s making up for that.”

  “Well,” said Faye, “it’s a bold move, I’ll give you that. But are
you sure they fit? I mean, Willow and David have Shelly in common. They’ve been friends a long time. Do you think they could become, you know, lovers?”

  “I don’t know,” Poppy said, although she suspected that David and Willow had started to notice each other in that way.

  “We need to throw them together and find out what happens. Maybe you could ask Willow to babysit Natalie. Maybe on bridge nights. That way David and Willow and Natalie would all be together. Alone.” Faye drew out the last word into something quite suggestive.

  “That’s not going to work. David watches Natalie on bridge nights. And if he’s not available, I send her off to Charlotte’s Grove for an overnight with her other grandmother.”

  “Hmm. Well, maybe you could spring it on him or something. Like a surprise,” Viola said.

  “No, wait, I have an idea. You’re having that paint party on Saturday, aren’t you?” Faye said.

  Poppy nodded. “Yes, Willow and her mother organized it. God help us, I hate to think about all those amateurs dribbling paint all over my wood floors.” Poppy picked up her wine and took a healthy swig.

  “Well, paint can always be cleaned up, Poppy,” Faye said. “But I’m thinking we need to make sure that David doesn’t go off fishing on Saturday. Maybe you can tell him that you’re worried about the mess or something and insist that he stay and oversee the madness. And then we can spend the entire day making sure that Willow and David spend time together.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Viola said. “We can reassess our plans after the painting party. Because if there aren’t any sparks between them, then there aren’t any sparks. We want Natalie to have a wonderful mother, but she has to be a mother her daddy loves and desires.”

  Poppy glanced from Faye to Viola and back again. “I don’t know about this,” she said. “It seems so, I don’t know, dishonest or something.”

  “Maybe,” Faye said, “but remember we’re doing this in the name of love.”

  Chapter 10

  The weather gods cooperated on the Saturday before Thanksgiving by providing a perfect, sixty-degree, Indian-summer day for the Eagle Hill Manor paint-in. Thirty-two volunteer painters—friends of the bride and groom, members of Mrs. M’s bridge club and church group, and a few of Mom’s protester friends—were expected.

  Willow had stocked two dozen paint rollers, an equal number of trim brushes, and gallons of paint in fabulous colors: Flirt Alert red for the lobby, French Parsley green for the dining room, Smooth Silk ivory for the first-floor restrooms, and Cotton Blossom white for the front facade and all the inside trim.

  Over the last two days, thanks in large measure to the members of Mrs. M’s bridge club, the floors had been covered with plastic drop cloths, the walls had been prepped and spackled, and the worst of the peeling paint from the inn’s grand portico had been scraped away. Walter Braden himself had promised to get up the tallest ladder and scrape and paint the dental trim around the portico’s eaves.

  Willow arrived at Eagle Hill Manor at oh dark thirty and let herself in using the key Poppy had given her two weeks ago, right after David hired her to manage Melissa’s wedding and reception.

  All was in quiet readiness as she headed toward the kitchen carrying two sacks filled with donuts and bagels. She wasn’t at all surprised to find Mrs. M in the kitchen with Faye and Harlan Appleby. Natalie was there, too, looking sleepy in her pj’s as she ate a bowl of cereal, her hair a big red tangle. One glance at the little girl put a smile on Willow’s lips. She was adorable. Shelly would be so proud of her.

  The inn’s giant coffee urns were already hot, and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the air. “Bless you,” Willow said as she dropped the grocery sacks on the stainless-steel countertop. “I could use a cup of that. What can I do to help before the volunteers arrive? I figure we’ve got about half an hour.”

  Poppy filled two large, polystyrene coffee cups and pressed them into Willow’s hands. “First things first. Would you do me a favor and take this out to David? He’s out on the patio being his usual grumpy morning self. Faye and I will take care of putting out the donuts and bagels. We’re also making iced tea, and Walter should be here with the ice and the keg of beer shortly.”

  “David’s here?” Willow asked.

  “Where else would he be?”

  “Uh, well, I just thought he’d be off fishing or working or something.”

  “Well, he’s not. He told me this morning he wanted to keep an eye on things.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps you should ask him.”

  Willow stood there for a moment trying to figure out a way to avoid this chore. She’d been successful in avoiding David for the last week even if she had failed to rein in her red aura or forget the looks he’d given her last Sunday when they’d gone fishing together.

  “Go on, he’s waiting,” Mrs. M said, a note of annoyance in her voice.

  Willow straightened her shoulders and strode off toward the French doors to the library. She’d deliver the coffee and make a quick retreat back to the kitchen. Easy-peasy, no need to spend any more time with him than was absolutely necessary.

  She found him exactly where Mrs. M said he would be, on the terrace, sitting in one of the wrought-iron lounge chairs watching the sun rise. It was chilly out there, but he’d fired up a couple of the professional-grade propane heaters. As usual, he was dressed for the country club, not a paint-in, in a pair of crisply pressed khakis, a blue Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater, and expensive-looking leather loafers.

  She pushed through the French doors. “Good morning,” she said in a falsely bright voice as she crossed the patio. “Mrs. M said you needed coffee. I’m the designated coffee bearer.” She held out the cup.

  He looked up at her, his dark eyes filled with a spark she didn’t want to see. The damn propane heaters must have been turned up to blast furnace level. Either that or just looking at his handsome face gave her hot flashes.

  He took the coffee from her, their fingers inadvertently touching, while her core melted down. Damn. She needed to find someplace else to be in a hurry. “So, you’re good? I have things I need to do,” she said as she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb.

  “You have a minute?” he asked.

  Crap. Would it be bad if she said no? “Sure.” She remained standing.

  “Poppy insisted that I hang around today,” he said. “She seems to be worried.”

  “Worried? About what? Mrs. M gave me the impression you were the one who was worried.”

  “Me? I’m not worried about anything except the size of my credit-card bill after you feed everyone breakfast and lunch.”

  The man was frugal to a fault. “Feeding people breakfast and lunch will be cheaper than hiring professional painters. So don’t get all Scroogy on me, okay?”

  He cocked his head and gave her a sideways glance. “I think that’s precisely Poppy’s problem.”

  “What? That you’re being cheap like Scrooge, or that I’m feeding everyone who volunteers?”

  He gestured toward a chair, clearly annoyed by her snark. “Have a seat, Willow. It might be the only time you get to sit down all day.”

  “No, I really have things—”

  “Sit down,” he commanded.

  She sat and took a sip of her coffee, scalding her tongue in the process.

  “I think Poppy is worried that your volunteers are going to ruin the inn with their shoddy work.”

  How dare he? First of all, she was willing to bet her life that Mrs. M wasn’t at all concerned about shoddy work. She’d admired the efforts of Harlan and Walter over the last couple of days. They would be there watching, making sure the volunteers didn’t do any damage, and Mrs. M knew it.

  “Well, I guess we’ll just have to trust in people, won’t we? Especially since beggars can’t be choosers.” Her annoyance came through loud and clear in her tone.

  “Whoa, back off,” he said. “This isn’t coming from me. I’m
just saying that Poppy is worried. And I guess all of this is just a little upsetting for her, you know? I mean, she’s lived in this house for decades.”

  “Yes, I know that. I’m very sensitive to the situation. Are you?”

  He gave her the patented Lyndon frown. “Of course I am. I hope you will be too.”

  Had she somehow hurt Mrs. M’s feelings? She only wished she knew what she’d done. As far as Willow could tell, she and Mrs. M were getting along just fine. She looked down at her coffee cup, suddenly worried that her enthusiasm for the inn had turned Mrs. M off or something. Maybe she’d been just a little too gung ho. Damn.

  “I’m sorry, David. But I can assure you that I have been very sensitive to her situation.” Willow stood. “I’ll go talk to her now.”

  “No. Sit down. Don’t talk to her. Just be…” His voice faded out.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He took a big gulp of coffee. “I’m terrible at stuff like this.”

  They lapsed into silence for a moment before he spoke again. “I like your sweatshirt,” he said. It was a complete non sequitur.

  “It’s more than twenty years old. Perfect for painting.”

  “I have one just like it that I used to wear all the time. You know, it’s funny, I never thought about this before, but we kind of missed each other at the University of Virginia. You did your undergrad there and I did law school, but we were never there at the same time, were we? We were like ships passing in the night.”

  He tried to smile. It reached his eyes but not really his lips. What was he trying to say? She didn’t get it. But she was quite certain that if they’d been together at college they would have been friends. Period. Shelly and David were an established couple by the time he went off to Harvard undergrad. And Willow was focused on her future, not romance.

  She ought to be focused on her future right now.

  So she leaned forward. “You know, David, if you have an old UVA sweatshirt, you might want to put it on. Because that Ralph Lauren sweater and the Italian loafers aren’t exactly what I’d call painting attire.”