FIRST KISS

by Marylin Pappano

  Chapter 6

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  It was the middle of Sunday night, and the inn was as quiet as it ever got. Bree Aiken wore her usual nightclothes, a T-shirt and cotton shorts, with a pair of thick gym socks, as she wandered around the first floor.

  The night clerk, a redhead named Peggy, had gone home at midnight. Holly had gotten back from her trip around seven that evening, looking as if she'd had a very good time.

  What would it be like, Bree wondered wistfully, to be able to just jump on a plane and go wherever it went? Born and raised in Rochester, she'd never been anywhere except for an occasional trip within the state. A few times they'd visited her mother Allison's relatives in Albany, and she'd gone to Buffalo a time or two. Once, when she was seven, her father had taken them to New York City in December to see the holiday decorations and bought them both fabulous gifts there. It had been the best Christmas she'd ever had.

  A few months later he'd died, and nothing in life had ever been the same. Everything good and bright in her mother had simply faded away. There'd been no more laughter, no more singing, no playing, no fun. Though he'd left them a sizable insurance policy, by the time Bree had started high school, the money had run out. They'd survived those four years by moving into a cheap apartment, selling the house, and living off the proceeds.

  The older Bree got, the more her mother clung to her, wanting her close all the time. Allison had barely given her enough freedom to finish school, and she'd hated the job that had taken Bree away for nine hours every day. Living with her had gone from sheer happiness, fifteen years ago, to cloying suffocation.

  She hadn't told Allison where she was going when she left Rochester—hadn't even told her that she was going. She'd sneaked out of the apartment early one morning with only what she could carry in her backpack. She'd left a note on the dining table that said, "I'm safe, don't worry about me, I'll call you," and she'd walked out without one look back. But not without worries and fears.

  She walked through the dimly lit lobby, rubbing her hand over the back of the leather sofa, straightening the shade on a lamp, gazing at the hangings on the wall. There was an old sampler, signed by a McBride and dated 1854. Next to it was a painting of some McBrides, looking stern and prosperous and quite elegant for farmers. More portraits were scattered all over the inn, an impressive display of family and history.

  She didn't have a single photograph of her father, and all she knew of her mother's family history was one-sided. After high school, Allison had left Albany for New York City, then had settled in Rochester. Her relationship with her family was shaky; so they'd never had much contact with them. Besides a few visits, Bree could recall a few cards, a few phone calls. Even when her father had died, the strain had overshadowed the sympathy.

  She paused, as had become her habit, to study the photograph of Holly and her parents. They didn't look happy, and she wondered why. They'd lived in a great town, in this great house, and had plenty of money to spare. They'd been an old and respected family in Bethlehem for generations, and everyone in town had looked up to them.

  Bree didn't know yet if she liked her boss. Honestly, Holly intimidated the hell out of her. It wasn't that she was tough to work for. On the contrary, she'd been more than patient with all of Bree's screw-ups. What got to her most about Holly was that she seemed so perfect. She had everything Bree had wanted at some time for herself—a solid background. A nice home. Money. Beauty. Confidence. A sense of belonging. A sure sense of who she was. There was nothing, it seemed, that Holly couldn't handle. She had no doubts, no fears, no insecurities.

  Sometimes Bree felt that was all she had.

  "What are you doing up?"

  Bree spun around so quickly that she bumped the table beside her, making the vase it held wobble dangerously. She grabbed it with both hands and steadied it, then gave a sigh of relief before turning to Holly, standing in the hall that led to the kitchen. "I—I couldn't sleep."

  "Me neither. Want some cocoa?"

  Bree hesitated. The idea of sharing anything with Holly made her hands shake. But the idea of having Holly's attention all to herself, especially when there were no lectures to be delivered, overcame her nervousness. "Sure."

  Sliding her hands into the pockets of her robe, Holly returned to the kitchen. Bree followed. "Can I help?"

  "Just have a seat and keep your hands where I can see them." Holly poured more milk into the saucepan on the stove, took another cup from the cupboard, then set a plate of oatmeal-raisin cookies on the table. "How was your weekend?"

  Bree had spent the last two days working and still marveling over the fact that she was living at McBride Inn. Granted, her room was an old storeroom, and her bathroom was the employee bathroom, with its cramped shower stall, but it was still the inn. It was a huge step up from the apartment she had shared with her mother. But, of course, her boss didn't want to know any of that. When she'd asked about the weekend, she'd meant work. "Fine." Then she blurted out, "I didn't damage a thing."

  "I'm glad to hear that," Holly said dryly.

  "How—how was your weekend?"

  "Surprising."

  "Is that good?"

  "I think so. Also rather confusing." She carried the mugs to the table, then sat down. "Bree's a nice name. Is it short for something?"

  "Sabrina." She smiled self-consciously. "My mother loved the movie—you know, the one with Audrey Hepburn. It—it reminded her of falling in love with my father. She used to watch it all the time until…" Her nervous smile faltered. "Until he died."

  "I'm sorry," Holly said, sounding as if she meant it.

  "Me, too. I miss him."

  "Where is your mother?"

  "In Rochester." Bree swallowed hard. "What about your parents?"

  "My father's dead, too. My mother's in the city. May God keep her there for years to come."

  "What's she like?"

  Holly was silent for so long that Bree thought she'd decided the question was too personal and wasn't going to answer. But, after a time, she spoke. "She's … difficult to describe. We were never particularly close. She moved away the day after my father's funeral, and I wasn't sorry to see her go."

  "What about your father? Were you close to him?"

  "For the most part. He traveled a lot on business, so I didn't see as much of him as I would have liked. He told great stories, and he loved to fish. In the fall, he'd go hunting with his friends, and I always pleaded with him not to shoot any Bambis or Thumpers, and he never did—or, if he did, he gave them to his buddies rather than bring them home. In the winter, one evening every week, he'd take me to the ice rink over at City Park, just the two of us, and we'd skate and have cocoa and hot-dogs."

  She picked up her mug and gazed at the cocoa as if remembering. Then, with a shake of her head, the wistful look disappeared. "I take it you're not close to your mother."

  "Why do you say that?" Bree asked cautiously. She loved her mother, even if Allison did suffocate her, but she figured the less said about her, the better. She didn't want anyone getting the idea that her mother was worrying about her. She didn't want anyone calling her mother. That wouldn't be good at all.

  "Considering your financial state when you arrived here…"

  Instead of explaining that her mother had had no money to help her, she ducked her head, shrugged, and murmured, "I'd rather not talk about it."

  "Relationships are tough, aren't they? And confusing."

  Bree nodded. She was often ambivalent about the people in her life. She loved her mother dearly, but was glad to be away from her. She liked her co-workers at the inn, but would probably never get close to them. She wanted to like Holly, but was afraid of her, and more than a little envious.

  "I'll see you in the morning. Good night."

  Bree murmured a response, then reached for a cookie. In the morning, things would be better. She wouldn't have any accidents while working. She wouldn't get so nervous whenever Holly came around. She would get a better grip on
her feelings, especially the envy.

  In the morning she could do anything, everything. But tonight she needed sleep.

  * * *

  The ballroom at the Elks Lodge was one of the grandest places in all of Bethlehem. Located on the second floor of the hundred-year-old building, its ceiling was twenty-five feet high, and huge arched windows filled all four sides. The wood floor was polished to a high sheen, and the mural painted on the ceiling glowed above the light of a dozen chandeliers.

  It seemed a vast space as Holly walked from the grand entrance to the opposite side, but come Saturday night, it would be filled with all the people it could accommodate. She hadn't yet decided whether she would be one of them.

  As she reached the table where Emilie, Melissa, and another woman were working, Emilie not so subtly moved the spools of wired ribbon closer, where she could guard them. Holly gave her a sarcastic smile and said, "I saw that, Emilie. You don't have to worry. I'm not here to help you make your bows. Not even Martha Stewart could help these hands form a bow that looks like a bow."

  "I know. I remember the last time you tried."

  Holly perched on the edge of the table, then extended one hand to the third woman. "I doubt you remember me, but I'm—"

  "Holly McBride, the innkeeper," the woman said, laying a tangle of ribbons aside to shake hands. "Of course I remember you. And I'm Noelle." After a moment, she added with a blush, "Noelle Rawlins. I keep forgetting…"

  "How's your husband?" Gabe Rawlins, everyone agreed, was one lucky man. He'd been passing through Bethlehem on New Year's Eve, stopped for a break, and walked into the middle of an argument gone sour. Only the paramedics' quick response had saved his life, though no doubt the surgeons at Bethlehem Memorial who'd repaired the damage from the gunshot wound would appreciate some of the credit. It was a good thing for Gabe that all the dire predictions of Y2K computer crashes had never come to pass. If the 911 system had gone down, as doomsayers had expected, Noelle would have buried Gabe in the new millennium, not married him.

  "He's fine," Noelle replied, her smile brilliant with gratitude. "The doctors released him to go back to work, and not a day too soon. He says working for Mr. McKinney is a lot less stressful than stripping paint, sanding woodwork, and banging wallpaper for me."

  "Sounds like a man," Emilie said. "Nathan will entertain the kids for hours, he'll take care of dinner, do the laundry, and even change Michael's dirty diapers, but I ask him to do something simple like plane the bottom of the closet door so it doesn't drag on the carpet, and suddenly there's someplace else he has to be."

  "Alex, too," Melissa agreed. "He never misses the chance to tell me that he went to law school so he could pay people to do those little handyman chores for him."

  As the conversation about husbands went on, Holly felt just the tiniest bit left out. It was the weirdest thing. All her friends were married, and they all talked about their husbands whenever said husbands were absent, and it had never bothered her before. She'd just listened and never wished for half a second that she had anything to contribute.

  The last thing in the world she wanted was a husband. What use did she have for one? She was self-supporting, she already had a handyman on the inn staff, and lovers were easy enough to find. What else could a husband possibly provide that she couldn't get without one? Love? A long-term commitment? Companionship, someone to belong to, someone to grow old with? She could get all those with the right man without having to slip a noose over her head and tighten the knot.

  She just hadn't found the right man yet.

  The husband talk was interrupted by Maggie and Shelley's arrival, because their husbands, as well as Emilie's, were with them. Miss Agatha and Miss Corinna arrived right on their heels. While Miss Corinna supervised the men in setting up the tables and chairs stored in the back corner closet, Miss Agatha and Holly began folding a huge stack of white linen napkins.

  "If you don't want to miss the dance, Miss Agatha," Holly said, "I could probably get a couple of my younger employees to watch the kids."

  The white-haired lady laughed. "Oh, I've been to a hundred of these dances, Holly, and frankly, they don't hold the same appeal they did when I was twenty. I'd just as soon spend the evening with the children."

  "When you were twenty, you were probably the belle of the ball, with all the young men in the county lined up for a chance to dance with you."

  "Not all of them. Just one in particular." Miss Agatha's smile was sweet and fifty-some years distant. "His name was Samuel. Samuel Thomas."

  "Any relation to Alex Thomas?"

  "He was a cousin to Alex's father and his uncle Herbert. He had black hair, brown eyes, and a smile that made you feel as if the sun had just come out in the middle of the night."

  "You were in love with him," Holly said softly.

  "Oh, yes. From the time I was seventeen. We were going to be married as soon as I graduated from high school, but the war was going on, and Sam joined the army. He was shipping out to Europe that February I was twenty, and he was able to spend a few days here on the way. The Sweethearts Dance wasn't so fancy in those days, what with the war and rationing going on, but we did our best. He looked so handsome in his uniform, and I was so proud of him, and so much in love with him."

  Miss Agatha's smile slowly faded, and the light in her eyes dimmed as her hands stilled their work. Then she blinked a time or two, straightened her shoulders, and with rapid, sure movements began folding napkins again. "It was the last time I saw him. He was killed later that year. At Omaha Beach."

  Holly locked her gaze on the napkin in her hands. All her life she'd assumed that Miss Agatha had never married because she'd never had the opportunity. She hadn't guessed the old lady was still mourning the love she'd lost so many years ago.

  "And you never met anyone who could take his place," she murmured.

  "Oh, honey, you don't replace people like that. Sam's a part of me and always will be. But, no, I never loved anyone else. But you know…" Her gaze took on that distant look again, and her sweet smile returned. "It's never too late. As long as there's breath in my could, you never know what might happen."

  Was she thinking about Bud Grayson? Did she know he was sweet on her, as Emilie had put it? Did she have feelings for him, too? Keeping her voice level and natural, Holly remarked, "You might have help with the kids Saturday night. Kelsey said her father-in-law is coming with her and J.D. and he mentioned that he might help out with the child care when he got tired of dancing." She sneaked a look at Miss Agatha and was rewarded with the beginnings of a blush.

  "Oh … well… Isn't that sweet of him? He's a dear man, and J.D. and—and—"

  "Kelsey."

  "Yes, of course, Kelsey. They're lucky to have him."

  "He's a handsome man. Seems any woman of a certain age would be happy to have him," Holly said slyly. "If I were older, I'd certainly grab him up before someone else did."

  The blush in Miss Agatha's pale cheeks deepened, and she changed the subject rather pointedly. "And what about you, Holly? Which young man have you chosen to favor with your company Saturday night?"

  It was on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that she didn't think she was coming, but she caught herself. "I haven't decided yet."

  "Still waiting for an invitation from Mr. Right?" Instantly, Holly thought of Tom. A few days ago she would have said the odds of his ever asking her anywhere were somewhere between zero and none. But after last weekend… Maybe she should have mentioned the dance to him. Maybe he would have asked her to go, and she would have had the best Sweethearts Dance ever. But she hadn't thought to mention it, and there was no way she could do so now without being pathetically obvious.

  "Now, Miss Agatha, you know me better than that. I'm not wasting my time waiting around for Mr. Right. I'll happily settle for Mr. Right Now."

  Miss Agatha gave a shake of her head. "One of these days, Holly, you're going to fall in love with one man so hard and so fast that it'll take your breath
away. You'll be amazed at what you've been missing."

  "Not me," she disagreed brightly. "I'm never giving up my good times." But even to herself, her denial sounded less than convincing.

  They worked in the ballroom for several more hours. By the time Holly left to return to the inn, the tables and chairs were set up all around the perimeter of the room, the tablecloths were spread, and dozens of huge bows ranging in color from palest pink to deep crimson were swagged over the windows. Melissa would bring the centerpieces from her nursery early Saturday morning, and the food would start arriving that afternoon. It would all be lovely and romantic, and Holly was just almost certain that she would rather miss it than go alone or with just one more of her Mr. Right Nows.

  At the inn, she parked around back and was halfway between the kitchen and the lobby when the voices reached her. One belonged to Janice, who'd filled in while she and Emilie were at the lodge. The other… Aware of a sudden ache in her stomach, Holly walked a little faster, and breathed a little faster, too. Surely that strident, demanding voice couldn't possibly belong to…

  Coming around the corner, she came to a sudden stop. Her first thought was too profane to speak aloud. So was her second. She waited until the woman opposite Janice paused in her tirade to take a breath, then quietly said, "Hello, Mother."

  She felt it the instant Margery McBride's gaze reached her—felt the chill, the dislike, the resentment. "It's about time you got back. I've been waiting here for hours."

  Typical Margery. No hello, how are you, it's been ten freaking years since I've seen you. Start with a complaint and a criticism and go downhill from there. "Impossible, Mother. I've only been gone three hours."

  "You really must do something about the caliber of employees you hire. This—this person"—she stabbed the air with one deadly red-tipped finger in Janice's direction—"refused to give me a key to a room or to let me into your quarters. She's made me sit out here for hours, waiting for you to return. I want her fired."

  "Not in this lifetime. What are you doing here?"

  "Why, I got your message."