"What cake?"
"Your wedding cake, of course."
Holly pulled away from him. "I'm not getting married. Everyone hear that? Regardless of what you've heard, I am not getting married."
Everyone looked at her. Some of them even nodded. But no one appeared to believe her.
Forget the coffee. She had enough adrenaline in her system to make caffeine unnecessary. Bypassing the pot, she went straight to the registration counter, where Janice was filling in. "I'm going to get a head start on the cleaning. Has anyone checked out yet?"
"Only Mr. Flynn."
Holly almost gaped. "He what?"
"He got a call right after I arrived this morning and left soon after, mumbling something about a factory and a fire."
"Did he—" She swallowed hard, hating the need to ask, hating the faint, hopeful plea in her voice. "Did he leave a message for me?"
Janice shook her head. "But don't worry, boss. I'm sure he'll call you just as soon as he gets a chance. After all, it's not every day that a man gets engaged. Congratula—"
Her assistant's words barely registering, Holly walked away into the dining room, where Kate was setting tables for breakfast. Without speaking, Holly picked up an armload of tablecloths and started at the other end.
The night before, he'd asked her to marry him. This morning, he'd left without so much as a goodbye. What did that mean? That the proposal had been a spur-of-the-moment mistake? Bad judgment? Worse, some sort of bad joke? Or did it mean anything at all? He'd often left for Buffalo without seeking her out to say good-bye … but not after proposing to her.
It was just as well that he was gone, she decided when Emilie walked in. Her friend's expression was so stunned that Holly knew she wasn't there to discuss Margery's behavior at the dance. Emilie picked up a tablecloth, gave it a shake, then spread it over the table where Holly stood. After they'd evened the edges, then placed the centerpiece, salt and pepper, dishes and napkins, Emilie finally spoke. "I don't know whether to offer my congratulations or ask if you've gone insane."
"My, gossip travels fast."
"Tom Flynn, coldhearted snake, proposing marriage to Holly McBride, confirmed marriage-hater? At the speed of light, honey. What happened after you two left the dance?"
Holly moved to the closest wait station, poured two cups of coffee, then joined Emilie at the table they'd just set. "He'd had too much to drink."
"I don't think so."
"He was so overcome with lust he didn't know what he was saying."
"If anyone could make him that hot, it would be you. But I hear he was as calm and cool as can be. Next excuse?"
"Temporary insanity?" That was the likeliest explanation. She'd suffered from it herself on occasion, in those moments when she opened her mouth and all the wrong words came out. Thank God she hadn't had a bout of it last night. She might have actually said yes!
"What are you going to say?"
"He wasn't serious. I don't have to say anything."
"But what if he was serious? What will you tell him?"
"I already told him no. Hell, no. Not in this lifetime." She stared broodingly into her coffee. "This is what I get for stealing his birthday wish."
"You what?"
Her face felt as warm as the fire blazing across the room. "I—I stole his wish. At Maggie's. On his birthday. We had a great cake, his favorite kind, and Maggie had candles, and she told him to blow them out and make a wish, and… Hell, you know him. What does he have to wish for? He's got everything he could possibly want. So, since I knew he wouldn't make a wish when he blew out the candles, I did. I wished for him to wish for me."
Concern had crept into Emilie's expression. "And you think that's why he proposed to you? Because you wished for it?"
"Of course not. And I didn't wish for it. I wished for an affair. Aw, hell, don't pay any attention to me. I'm sleep deprived and mortified by last night. I know I've got to face my mother when she comes back here, and I don't know how to do it without smacking her senseless, and I'm surrounded by people who insist on congratulating me on an engagement that doesn't exist to a man who left without even saying goodbye. I'm doing what any respectable woman would do. I'm taking leave of my senses. I'm going to steal a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream from the kitchen, grab a can of chocolate syrup from the pantry, and I'm going to curl up on my bed and not come out until they're both all gone."
Emilie's lips twitched with a smile. "I'd be happy to donate the kids' Valentine's candy to the cause. I bought them some of those wonderful chocolate-covered marshmallow things that you put in the freezer and the marshmallow gets hard and chewy."
"I love those." She paused. "I understand the Winchesters took Margery home with them last night."
"Mitch didn't want to lock her up, but he didn't want to bring her back here, either."
"I'm throwing her out today. I swear I am." When Emilie didn't say anything, Holly glared at her. "Go ahead and say it."
"Say what?"
"'You can't throw her out. She's your mother. Family's important.'"
"Family is important, but that doesn't mean you have to accept and forgive everything they do. Being your mother shouldn't give Margery any more latitude in her behavior than anyone else would get."
In her head, Holly knew what Emilie was saying was right. In her heart… She didn't want to be as bad a daughter as Margery was a mother. "Relationships suck," she muttered. "I don't know what you people see in them."
Emilie merely laughed. "You're not nearly as tough as you think, Holly."
That, Holly admitted silently, was part of the problem.
* * *
The morning light streaming through the windows was the first thing Margery noticed when she awakened. She lay on her back, feeling the warmth on her face, and wondered exactly where she was. It wasn't the first time she'd awakened in a strange room. On occasion, there was a strange man beside her, but more often she was alone. She hated being so damn alone.
Once she fully opened her eyes, it took her weary mind a moment to realize that the field of white she was staring at overhead was a canopy. The ruffled and tucked fabric was dotted with barely noticeable white flowers, was very pretty, very feminine, and not something she could place. Seeing the rest of the room offered no help—not the lace curtains at the windows, the fine antiques, or the cabbage-rose wallpaper.
With a groan, she slowly pushed herself into a sitting position. Her clothes were gone, and in their place she wore a voluminous flannel nightgown, gathered at the sleeves and the high neck, something an old granny would wear, but never, ever, Margery McBride. Where was she? How had she gotten there? Whose nightclothes was she wearing? And how had she shamed herself this time?
A tap sounded at the door, then it immediately opened. A tray appeared first, with a cup of coffee, a glass of juice, and a china saucer holding some sort of cake. Carrying the tray was an older woman, white haired, serene, moving assuredly. When she saw that Margery was awake, she smiled politely enough, but there was an undertone of disapproval. "I thought you might be waking up soon. It's almost lunchtime." She balanced the breakfast tray over Margery's outstretched legs, then withdrew to the end of the bed.
"Breakfast in bed." Margery's voice was hoarse, raspier than usual. "That's a luxury I haven't had in ages." She sipped the orange juice to soothe her parched throat, then sniffed the cake cautiously It was a rich, moist coffee cake, and thankfully it didn't threaten her already—upset stomach. "Do I know…"
"I'm Corinna Winchester."
The name brought back more memories than Margery wanted. Last night, the dance, the too-many drinks she'd imbibed. Making her grand stumbling appearance, shoving Agatha, humiliating her daughter. Again. The queasiness that hadn't appeared earlier rushed through her now, bringing a sheen of perspiration to her forehead, making her hands unsteady. "I—I don't remember much about last night."
"You look as if you remember enough."
"Holly—"
&n
bsp; "Probably isn't eager to see you today." Corinna folded her hands together. "You need help, Margery."
"I'm not—" Her defensiveness left as quickly as it had come. She couldn't repeat the lie that had seen her through the past thirty years. I'm not an alcoholic, she'd insisted every time her husband had suggested she seek treatment. I just like a drink now and then, she'd sworn whenever one of her friends got bold enough to mention it. I don't have a problem, she'd persuaded herself whenever she'd awakened in a strange place with no recollection of how she'd gotten there.
Pitiful lies. Pointless denials. She wasn't kidding anyone but herself, and she was too damn old to be kidded.
"Was it horrible?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yes."
"I'm so sorry—"
"It's not me you should be apologizing to. It's not me you insulted in front of her friends. You know, Margery, your daughter is a smart, capable, admirable young woman. Most people in this town care a great deal about her. It's a shame the same can't be said about her mother."
There was nothing she could offer in her own defense. She'd loved, hated, and resented the hell out of Holly since the day she was born. Part of it was the alcohol that made her mean and shrewish. Part of it was her own unhappiness. Part of it was… Hell, she didn't claim to understand herself. Sometimes she'd tried, but it was always easier, and a lot less painful, to open another bottle of whiskey.
"It's been years since Lewis died," Corinna said. "Sometimes I think you were alone even when he was here. But you don't have to die alone. You've got a daughter to make any mother proud. It's not too late to be her mother."
"Sure it is," Margery said miserably. "It's been too late since she was twelve years old." The details were fuzzy, as with so many events in her life, but she remembered enough. Lewis out of town again, the credit card receipt she'd found in his pocket for a piece of jewelry he hadn't given her, the middle-of-the-night phone calls to his motel room to find he wasn't there, and the whiskey. Too much whiskey.
The next thing she remembered clearly was waking up the following morning on the dining-room floor, with a pillow under her head and a blanket tucked over her. She'd found bits of dried cake frosting in her hair, on her blouse, her face, and the remains of a party gone bad, and Holly, sitting at the table where she'd spent the night, looking decades older than her years.
Margery had had a hell of a hangover, but she'd tried to apologize. Holly had walked away from her, and things had never been the same again.
"It's never too late," Corinna said with the assurance of someone who'd never ruined a relationship or even treated someone unfairly in her life. Then she conceded, "Well, it may be too late for the usual mother-daughter relationship, but perhaps you can still be friends."
Friends with her daughter. Margery considered the possibility with more than a little longing, but she refused to be hopeful. Nothing had turned out right in her life, and, no matter what Corinna said, she didn't expect that to change.
The day she'd married Lewis had been the happiest of her life. She'd thought their lives were perfect and would stay that way forever. How long had it taken for things to fall apart? Two years, when they'd moved to Bethlehem? The following year, when Holly was born? Or the year after that, when Lewis began spending more and more time on the road, or so he'd claimed?
She had suspected almost immediately that work was only an excuse to cover his infidelities, and before long she'd had proof. She'd hated him for cheating on her, but loved him too much to leave. And Holly had gotten caught in that love and hate. If not for her, Margery had thought, she could have taken better care of herself, traveled with Lewis, kept him from straying.
In the end, they'd all been miserable. She'd failed her husband, her daughter, and herself, and she'd spent the rest of her life paying for it.
She didn't deserve to be friends with her daughter.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
It was late Sunday night when Tom finally settled in his motel room in Laurel, Alabama. It wasn't much more than a wide spot in the road in the northeast corner of the state and had been home to McKinney Industries' newest acquisition. Until four o'clock that morning. Witnesses had reported hearing three explosions, which had been followed by a tremendous fire. Not much of the factory had been left standing.
Stretching out on the bed, he called Ross in Bethlehem. "The plant's a total loss," he said without preamble. "One worker was killed, and a half-dozen others suffered minor injuries, as well as three firemen. The cause of the explosions hasn't been determined yet. The investigators say it will take some time."
"I picked a hell of a time to buy a new factory, didn't I?" Ross said dryly.
"Look at it this way. You just got a ten-million-dollar loss for this year's taxes."
"I'd rather have the factory and its profits. Of course we'll take care of the injured workers and their families."
Of course. "What about the uninjured workers? They'll want to know whether they're out of a job temporarily or for good."
"I don't know. Let's think about that and discuss it when you get back to Buffalo tomorrow."
"I was thinking of coming back to Bethlehem."
"Okay. Not a problem."
"I've … been thinking about living there, at least part of the time."
There was utter silence at the other end for a moment, then: "This decision wouldn't have anything to do with last night's bombshell, would it?"
Bethlehem being such a small town, Tom had little doubt that his proposal to Holly had become common knowledge before the morning church services had let out. Though it had seemed a good idea to speak up in front of her employees last night, he regretted it now. Holly's friends and neighbors weren't likely to be in favor of her doing anything at all with him.
"Maybe it came as a surprise," he said grudgingly. In twenty-four years he'd never explained himself to anyone, and he didn't want to start now. At the same time, he felt Ross had a right to some explanation.
"A surprise? Mrs. McBride's scene at the dance was a surprise. Aliens carrying her off in their spaceship would have been a surprise. But you wanting to get married—and to Holly, no less—that's much more than a surprise."
"And what's wrong with me wanting to marry Holly?" Tom asked crossly. He wasn't ideal husband material. He knew that. But he could learn. He'd always been very good at the things he chose to learn.
"There's nothing wrong with it. It's just… Well, hell, you and Holly. It took me by surprise, that's all. I guess I never figured you for anything so permanent."
"You could have figured wrong," Tom said dryly. "After all, you bought this factory only a week before it blew up."
"True. I'm obviously not infallible. Look, you want to marry Holly, great. I wish you all the luck in the world." Ross's voice took on a strangled quality, as if he was trying hard not to give in to laughter. "Trust me, you're going to need it."
Ten minutes later, as he dialed the number for the inn, Tom admitted that his boss was probably right. Holly's greeting was as friendly as could be … until he spoke. Then there was a decided chill on the line. "Sorry about leaving so early, but I had to get to Alabama and I didn't think you would appreciate my waking you up just to tell you goodbye."
"You thought wrong. Telling you goodbye would have been the most pleasant part of this entire weekend."
He imagined it would have been one of the more original kiss-offs he'd ever gotten, too. He gingerly asked, "Have you considered my offer?"
"Oh, yes. I've considered whether to strangle you, or bar you from ever again setting foot on my property. I've considered hiring someone to remove you from my misery. I've even considered going somewhere for a nice, long vacation until this is all forgotten and I can walk through my own home without being badgered by nosy people. In fact, I've considered nothing but your asinine proposal!"
The sharp edge to her last words made him wince. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't have said anything in
front of your employees, but—"
"Maybe?" she shrieked. "Maybe? You've subjected me to twenty-four hours of fawning, effusive congratulations on something that's never going to happen, and you think maybe you shouldn't have said anything? Where in the hell did you even get such an idea, anyway?"
"I want to get married. I've done everything else. I've accomplished everything I set out to accomplish. Now it's time to have a life. To find a wife."
"Wonderful. Great. But there must be hundreds of women in Buffalo whose only goal in life is to marry a rich man. Why not pick one of them?"
"Because I picked you."
"Why?"
"Because you don't want to marry a rich man."
"News flash, Tom. I don't want to marry any man. For God's sake, you don't even know me!"
He knew enough. He knew she would never bore him, be unfaithful to him, or make unreasonable demands on him. He knew he enjoyed being with her. Liked talking to her. Wanted her too damn much.
He bent one arm over his eyes. His shirt smelled of smoke, and he felt grimy from head to toe. He needed a shower, aspirin, and sleep.
Almost as much as he needed her to say yes.
"You're right," he agreed. "There's a lot I don't know about you."
She remained cautiously silent.
"So we'll take some time to get acquainted. I'll spend some time in Bethlehem. You can visit me in Buffalo. We'll go out on dates. Talk. Do the sort of things people in a new relationship do." Although frankly, he didn't know what people in relationships did. Usually he didn't bother to learn much about a woman, because she wouldn't be around long enough to matter.
"Really?" Suddenly Holly no longer sounded angry or frustrated, but rather intrigued. "All the things people in a relationship do?"
"Except have sex."
"That's a joke, right?"
"No."
"You expect me to have a relationship with you, to date, to pretend to be normal people going though a normal … courtship, for lack of a better word, and yet sex won't be a part of it?"
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