by Hope Ramsay
He glanced down at his clothing. “I wasn’t planning on painting.”
“That’s obvious. You just planned to sit out here and criticize the rest of us, right?”
“Look, I was planning to go fishing, but Poppy asked me to stay and keep an eye on things, okay?”
“Fine, you do that.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “But here’s the thing, David—thirty people, give or take, are about to arrive here to help paint the inn in time for Melissa and Jeff’s wedding. No one is paying these volunteers. No one is coercing them. They’re showing up because they care about their friends, and some of them might even care about you and Mrs. M and this place that used to mean so much to your wife. And not just to your wife, to the entire town of Shenandoah Falls.
“People used to come up here every Christmas to see the decorations and have holiday tea. They want to keep that tradition alive. So that’s why these people are coming—to help friends and to recapture something that’s important to them. If you want to keep an eye on things and be helpful and positive, then I suggest you stop sitting there judging people and go change your clothes and be ready to wield a paintbrush.”
* * *
David sat in the chair after Willow left, sipping his coffee and watching the sun creep up over the barren branches of the big oak tree on the east lawn.
He’d deserved the tongue-lashing Willow had just given him. He’d behaved like a total freaking jerk. Probably because he was inappropriately attracted to her, and she knew it.
And that explained why she’d been avoiding him these last few days.
It was enough to drive a man insane. And make him completely inarticulate.
There were several things he wanted to say to Willow Petersen, and none of them had anything to do with Poppy or the paint party. He wanted to thank Willow for her suggestions with respect to Mrs. Welch. And he wanted to express his gratitude for the attention she’d been giving to Natalie. Not to mention the fact that she was managing Melissa and Jeff like she was a professional wedding planner.
Yeah, he was a jerk. A grumpy, Scrooge of a jerk. Maybe he needed a few ghosts to give him a visit. Or maybe the spirit of Christmas present had just visited him and told him exactly what he needed to do.
He drained his cup and headed back to the caretaker’s cottage behind the inn, where he dug through his closet and found his UVA sweatshirt. Like Willow’s, it had a little tear in the seam around the neck, which made it perfect for painting.
By the time he got back to the big house, the volunteers were arriving. He hung back, watching as Willow and her mother took charge. Harlan Appleby, Dusty McNeil, and Walter Braden were the designated crew chiefs, and each of them took a group of volunteers. They all seemed to know what they were doing.
“Hey, Daddy, are you going to paint?” Natalie came flying out of the kitchen wearing a pair of jeans that were short in the legs and an old Washington Nationals T-shirt.
“I guess I am,” he said.
“Oh, goody, you can paint with me. Miss Willow told me to volunteer with Mr. Appleby.” She took him by the hand and dragged him off to the dining room. “We’re here,” Natalie announced in her playground voice.
Harlan looked at his latest recruits. “Do either of you have any experience?” he asked.
“Nope.” Natalie shook her head, her ponytail dancing.
“You?” Harlan asked, giving David a hard, assessing glance.
David’s face heated. “Uh, well, no, actually.”
Harlan’s mouth twitched. “Not surprised, but don’t worry. I think you can master what’s required.” He handed David a full-size roller with a long handle, while Natalie got a pint-size trim roller. He pointed to a wall without windows. “You guys can start on that wall.”
Painting turned out to be pretty easy, although Natalie was soon covered from head to toe in green paint, but she was having a wonderful time. Melissa and the bridesmaids were working in the dining room, too, and they soon stole her away from David. She was their little mascot, and she spent the morning giggling—a sound he hadn’t heard in a long, long time.
Painting, he was discovering, was sort of like fly-fishing. He soon got into a Zen-like rhythm that would have carried him right into the afternoon if Poppy hadn’t interrupted him about two hours later.
“Oh, David, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.” She frowned, taking in his sweatshirt and jeans. “I didn’t expect to find you painting.”
“I was just making sure that you didn’t have any worries.”
“Worries? About what?”
“Poppy, didn’t you tell me last night that you were worried about the quality of the work we were going to get today?”
“Oh, yes, I completely forgot about that. I guess I was wrong to worry. Walter and Harlan have been wonderful about quality control.” Her face colored in a blush.
What the heck was going on with her? Was she going senile or something?
“Well, anyway, can you take a break? I need your help with the pizzas.”
“What about the pizzas?”
“Someone has to pick them up, and there are so many. Willow is going, and I think she needs help. Plus, your SUV is bigger.”
“How many pizzas are we buying exactly that we need an SUV?”
“Don’t be cheap, David. You know it used to annoy Shelly. We’re buying a sufficient number to feed thirty-five people.”
“I guess that’s a lot of them, huh?” He tried to smile. “Sure, I can help Willow.” Maybe that would give him a chance to apologize for the idiot things he’d said this morning.
He dropped his roller in the pan and followed Poppy out onto the portico, where Dusty McNeil and Walter Braden were up on tall ladders priming the eaves.
“Wait, Willow!” Poppy shouted as she hurried down the steps. Willow was standing by an ancient Honda, the late-morning sun glinting in her blond hair. She was beautiful, even dressed for painting in faded jeans and a sweatshirt. She took his breath away.
And that sensation was followed by a huge wave of guilt. What was happening here? He touched his wedding band as a reminder. Somehow the reminder didn’t work this time.
“What?” Willow shaded her eyes.
“I thought it might be better for you to take David’s car. It’s bigger. And he volunteered to help.”
Willow glanced his way, taking in his paint-smeared sweatshirt, old jeans, and sneakers. “You volunteered?”
“Well, actually, Poppy drafted me, but I can help with the pizzas.” He tried to invest his voice with all the things he had wanted to say this morning but had been too dumb or caffeine-starved to get right.
She looked away and shouted up to Walter, “Hey, you guys still need a helper?”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Walter said.
She turned and smiled. “Thanks, David. If you get the pizzas, I can help Walter and Dusty.” She turned and strode away without so much as a backward glance.
Poppy heaved a big sigh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s trying to avoid you.”
“That’s exactly what she’s doing.” He turned toward Poppy. “Where are these pizzas?”
“At Marios, out by the interchange. We ordered twenty of them.”
Hardly so many that they wouldn’t fit in Willow’s Honda. What the heck was Poppy up to?
* * *
Willow was helping Dusty and Walter prime some of the worst patches on the front facade and trying to come to terms with the fact that David had actually put on his old sweatshirt when, suddenly, out of nowhere, the iconic voice of Aretha Franklin boomed, telling the world that all she wanted was a little “Respect.”
Willow turned toward the music. Out in the parking lot, Harlan Appleby had set up the beer keg and tables for the pizzas that would arrive shortly. On one of the tables sat an antique portable stereo system—the kind that ran on cassette tapes—its volume maxed out.
“In case you young’uns don’t know what
this is, it’s called a boom box,” Harlan yelled above Aretha’s voice. “And I brought my party mix tapes.”
“This should be fun,” said Dusty, rolling his eyes.
Apparently Aretha Franklin was like some kind of pied piper for the baby-boom generation, because shortly after Harlan cranked the volume, the members of Mrs. M’s bridge club came wandering out of the house, accompanied by Mom and her friends, Leslie, Alice, and Susan from the Colonial Acres adult community. In no time at all, the sixtysomethings were dancing.
“Come on, you guys, take a break,” Mom yelled. “We’ll teach you how to dance the Frug.”
Just then David came rolling up the drive, and lunch was officially served. Everyone took a break. Pizza was consumed, and the older generation set about teaching the younger generation dances like the Swim, the Monkey, and the Stroll, a couple’s line dance.
Harlan Appleby dragged Willow onto the blacktop as his dance partner, but somehow, when the moment came for strolling down the line of other dancers, she ended up paired with David. Harlan and David had switched places somehow.
What was David up to, anyway? Hadn’t she sent enough signals to let him know that she seriously regretted the kiss she’d given him at the Jaybird and was put off by his sudden interest? Not to mention that dancing with him was not going to do anything positive about the red in her aura.
David snagged her hand, and the electricity flowed right up her arm. “We’re supposed to be strolling down the line like this.” He executed a flawless grapevine step. Who knew David Lyndon could dance? Apparently dancing was a required skill for the political set. Although she could think of several presidents who had embarrassed themselves on the dance floor.
If David ever reached that pinnacle of power, he’d be safe. He possessed a male grace that had always blown Willow away. Whether he was stepping on the dance floor or casting a fishing line, the man never looked awkward.
Oh, boy, this was bad. Worse than bad. She was enjoying the moment, the touch of his hand, the look in his eye. She wanted to kiss him again. But she couldn’t do that. Not here in public.
So when they got to the end of the line and he let go of her hand, she turned her back on him and walked away, up onto the portico, into the lobby, and right into the ladies’ restroom, where she hid out for ten minutes.
When she came back outside, David was standing on the edge of the parking lot watching the old folks get it on to the Rolling Stones’ iconic hit “Satisfaction.” Even Mrs. M was out there dancing—with Walter Braden of all people. Mrs. M looked like she had stars in her eyes.
The fun might have continued well into the afternoon if it hadn’t been for Pam Lyndon, whose SUV turned into the driveway right as “Satisfaction” ended and the Beatles song “Yesterday” started up. A few couples hooked up—Bud and Viola, Faye and Harlan, and Walter and Mrs. M.
But everyone else turned to watch as Pam’s white Land Rover, with its special United States Senate license plates, pulled into the parking lot.
“The Duchess of Charlotte’s Grove has arrived,” Melissa said as she came to stand beside Willow on the portico’s top step. “Right in time to be a killjoy.”
Willow put her arm around the bride-to-be. “It’s going to be fine. Look around you. See how many friends came out to help today? And we’ve been having a great time. Pam’s the one who missed out. You’ll be talking about the paint party for years, you know?”
Melissa smiled. “Yeah, I will. Thanks.”
Melissa and Willow watched as Pam unfolded herself from the driver’s seat. Her black wool pants and matching cashmere cardigan were clearly not intended as painting attire. Pam wasn’t alone. A tall, narrow woman with a sizable bust got out of the passenger’s side. She wore a pair of skinny black pants with a man-tailored shirt over a tight-fitting tank top. A pair of three-inch black heels and a bunch of gold jewelry polished off the look.
Arwen came up beside Melissa and Willow and said, “Uh-oh.”
“What?” Willow asked.
“It’s Roxanne Kopp, August Kopp’s daughter. David is eventually going to marry her.”
Willow’s insides dropped like they sometimes did when she’d ridden the penthouse elevator down from Restero’s New York headquarters.
“He’s engaged?” Willow asked.
“Nah,” Arwen said. “Pam, August, and Roxy have to figure out a way to get him to take the wedding band off first. But, believe me, they are plotting and scheming. David and Roxy belong together.”
“You think?” Melissa said.
“Yeah, sure. She’s rich, smart, beautiful, and understands Washington. She’ll help him become the politician he needs to be.”
“What does that mean?” Willow asked.
Arwen shrugged. “I don’t think David’s heart is really in this congressional run. I think he’s just doing what’s expected of him, the way he always does. Now, his sister, Heather? That’s a whole different story. I think she’d jump at the chance to run for office if it weren’t for her old man’s misogynistic views. But then, she’s just doing what’s expected too. Loyal sister and all that. At least David has chosen her to be his campaign manager.”
Pam strolled up the walkway in a pair of Kate Spade pumps. The duchess studied Eagle Hill Manor’s scraped but as yet unpainted facade with an expression of disgust. Roxy followed behind like a long-legged puppy.
David came out of the house and brushed past Willow. He intercepted them before they reached the portico.
Pam gave him a kiss. So did Roxy, and the moment that woman’s plump lips touched David’s mouth, something ugly and intense burned a hole right through Willow’s gut. She recognized the jealousy. She was such an idiot for letting herself fall into lust with David Lyndon.
With the pleasantries done, Pam cast her gaze over the volunteers, searching until she found Natalie, who was munching on a slice of pizza and hanging out with Alice and Leslie, two of Mom’s friends.
“Natalie Marie Lyndon, what have you done to your hair? Oh, my God, David, she’s got paint all over her head. I don’t know what we’re going to do about that child. She’s always making such messes.” Pam’s reprimand was delivered in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear above the mellow tones of Paul McCartney’s voice and acoustic guitar. She was so loud that Mrs. M and Walter stopped slow dancing, which was kind of a shame, because they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying each other.
Right then something snapped inside Willow, and a pure, clean anger spilled through her like a river spilling over a dam. She stepped down onto the path and stalked right up to Pam. “You know,” she said in a big voice intended for Natalie to hear, “there’s a saying my mother always uses. It goes like this: ‘The best days end with dirty clothes.’ Natalie has been having a very good day today, which is why her clothes are really, really dirty. But you know what? They aren’t her good clothes, and luckily, Mrs. M stocks plenty of my mother’s lavender soap to clean up when the day is done.”
Pam’s blue-eyed look of indignation conveyed the impression of entitled royalty. Melissa was right; Pam Lyndon was as high and mighty as a duchess. “You”—Pam rudely pointed a finger at Willow’s chest—“will have nothing to do with my granddaughter. Is that clear? You’ve already made enough trouble for my family.”
Oh boy, there was that word again. But this time Willow embraced it. “Oh, yes, I am a troublemaker. I make the kind of trouble that brings people together to have a good time and paint the inn at the same time. And as for Natalie, no, I have no intention of staying away from her. I’m her godmother, and while I admit that I’ve been absent for a while, I’m back now, and I take my responsibility seriously.” She snapped her spine, planted her hands on her hips, and prepared herself for a catfight if Pam Lyndon wanted one.
But just then Natalie came running across the lawn to Willow’s side. She tugged on Willow’s sweatshirt. “Miss Willow, Miss Willow,” she said.
Willow looked down at the beautiful child who was more or les
s covered in green paint from her nose to her toes. “Natalie, not now. I’m—”
“Are you really and truly my fairy godmother? Can you turn the pumpkin into a carriage? Can you make my wishes come true?”
Behind her someone giggled. The laugh stopped abruptly, followed by a momentary silence, which was broken by a warm, silky laugh that belonged to David Lyndon himself.
Willow looked up, only to realize that she was standing right next to him. How odd to see him laughing instead of sulking and grumping. The sound of his laughter sent Willow’s heart soaring.
“I’d like to see you turn a pumpkin into a carriage,” he said through his laughter as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I bet you could do it too.”
“Can you really?” Natalie jumped up and down on her paint-splattered sneakers.
“Do not encourage her,” Pam said, then stared down at her granddaughter. “You’re far too old to believe in silly fairytales, Natalie. Ms. Petersen is not your fairy godmother. She can’t do much of anything, really, except make trouble. You shouldn’t listen to one word she says. She doesn’t tell the truth.”
And just like that, Willow’s bravado disappeared. How many times would people call her a liar just because she told a secret Restero didn’t want told? The world was not a fair place, and she wasn’t a fairy godmother. Hell, she wasn’t much of an ordinary godmother either. She couldn’t work magic, and given that she’d been absent most of Natalie’s life, she really didn’t have any right to tell Pam Lyndon how to raise her grandchild.
She’d overstepped. She’d let her anger and her growing affection for Natalie (and David) warp her judgment. Making a scene wouldn’t help Natalie. In this town, people challenged Pam Lyndon at their peril.
“Excuse me,” she said, stepping around Pam. She walked calmly until she reached the edge of the woods, and then she broke into a run. She was out of breath by the time she reached the meadow adjacent to the Laurel Chapel. She fell down onto her knees, sank into the coarse brown grass, buried her head in her hands, and bawled her eyes out.
