Holiday Man

by Marilyn Brant

  She was lovely, but she wouldn’t be capable of making demands on him during his hectic workweek. She represented everything that spelled relaxation in his book: Home and hearth, an out-of-the-way locale, feminine cozy comfort nestled in a charming, rustic environment. She was smart, responsible and in full charge of her own career path.

  He could almost convince himself his attraction to her was “wholesome.” Almost…because he still loved the allure of her most curvaceous assets. And, after a mere twenty seconds of remembering her in his arms as they danced, he knew their potential physical chemistry played no small part in her appeal.

  He stared at the vase again, mesmerized by the swirl of colors whenever a stained-glass chip reflected the light. He squinted at it, and the magnificent rainbow was no longer distinct. The hues bled together like silken watercolors, as if, by a mere change in perspective, all the disparate elements of life could join together as one.

  “Well, hello again, Bram.”

  Shannon. Her voice made him open his eyes fully and drink in the vision of her standing before him.

  “Crisis averted?” he asked her.

  She smiled. “For the time being.” She pointed to the display cabinet. “See anything that intrigues you.”

  He looked right at her. “Yes.” He stared into her blue eyes until she blushed. After another moment he added, “And the vase is nice, too.”

  “Um…well, that’s one of my favorites also. My parents took a trip to New York about ten years ago, and they found it in an Old World antique shop there.”

  “It’s pretty,” he said, reaching for her hand and entwining her fingers with his. “But I think it belongs elsewhere. In a private home. Atop a fireplace, maybe. It seems too personal for a hallway, even in an inn this cozy.”

  She let him continue to hold her hand and even took a step closer to him, but her gaze was focused on the vase. Or maybe on something—a memory—further away. “I guess I’d never thought of that way, particularly since I grew up living here at Holiday Quinn. The entire inn was our house, but, I’ll admit, it was never especially private.”

  Bram brought her soft hand toward his face, looked at her for a long moment and then pressed his lips against that smooth skin.

  “So, what does a man have to do to get some privacy in this place?”

  A flash of passion ignited within her at these words. He could sense it, feel it burning just beneath the surface. What did he want to have happen here?

  A night with her? Yes.

  A part of tomorrow? Maybe, maybe not. Goodbyes were difficult…and indefinite. But he’d take his chances on their flame blazing steadily until the morning.

  “Bram.” His name rolled off her lips in a whisper. He could feel her interest. Her questions. Her deliberation. But he sensed, despite whatever internal battles she waged, she was as curiously enchanted as he.

  “Shannon!” Jake called.

  And the spell was broken.

  Jake jogged up to them. “Excuse me, Shannon, I hate to interrupt,” he said with frozen, insincere syllables, “but we have another problem.”

  Shannon sighed and pulled her hand away. Bram’s fingers felt the chill of her departure.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Hartwick,” she said with a formality that would have offended him if he hadn’t noticed the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “I’m afraid I have additional business to attend to tonight.”

  “Perhaps we’ll be able to continue our conversation another time,” he found himself saying, though he had no immediate plans to return to the inn.

  “Perhaps,” she replied. Then added, “I hope so.”

  They smiled at each other before she turned away and trailed her assistant down the hallway.

  Damn.

  Bad timing. Lost opportunities. Whatever you wanted to call it, it sucked.

  Bram returned to his room for a fitful night followed by an early departure with his friends just after breakfast the next morning. He didn’t see Shannon or her pain-in-the-ass assistant. But he had to put the weekend behind him.

  Time to get back to work.

  CHAPTER TWO

  St. Patrick’s Day

  “Slainte!” the formidable Margaret Ashland said to Shannon, lifting her glass of red wine and looking more like a giddy schoolgirl than a fifty-two-year-old Midwestern hotel-chain mogul. Although there wasn’t one drop of Irish blood in Margaret’s family tree, Shannon’s mentor celebrated the March holiday with enthusiasm. And at least half a bottle of Bordeaux’s finest.

  “Slainte,” Shannon replied, clinking beverages. “And thank you for inviting me over for such a delicious dinner. There’s nothing that says ‘home cooking’ quite like your world famous Roasted Red Potato and Leek Soup.”

  Margaret laughed. “It’s Ricardo’s potato soup, and you know it.” She waved her palm in the direction of The Ashland Hotel’s impeccably clean kitchen, where the talented Chef Ricardo worked his nightly magic. “He’s been delighting our guests with it all week.”

  Ricardo’s ritzy, copper-pot-crammed workshop was an extension of the hotel’s aromatic-candlelit-glowing dining room, its spacious and sensuous guestrooms and its exotic flowering-plant reception area. The Ashland Hotel, just a few miles down the road from Holiday Quinn, was an example of supreme luxury and flair. In fact, everything about Shannon’s home away from the inn bespoke of high class and expensive tastes.

  And why shouldn’t it?

  Margaret Ashland demanded nothing but the best.

  “Well, it was as fabulous as always,” Shannon said. “It rivals Grandma Quinn’s, and that’s saying something.”

  The older woman looked pleased. “Glad to hear it, missy, but you know I always have ulterior motives for plying my top employees with ultra-rich food.” She paused and looked Shannon in the eye. “I’ve got a proposition for you. You ready?”

  Shannon had a sneaking suspicion that the forthcoming proposition might involve longer hours along with a sizably increased paycheck, but she didn’t mind. She’d worked for Margaret since college, whenever her parents could spare her from Holiday Quinn and, once they were gone, during the weeks when the inn was closed. As a longtime family friend, Margaret had affectionately taken on the role of Shannon’s second mother and had made no secret that she was grooming Shannon for bigger and better things.

  Shannon nodded. “Fire away.”

  Her boss laughed. “Oh, there’s no firing involved, my dear. Just the opposite. I want you to be a manager.”

  She squinted at the older woman. Maybe Margaret had imbibed a few too many glasses of that pricey wine. “Um, I already am a manager. You promoted me three years ago, remember?”

  Margaret laughed again. “Sorry, sweetie. I know that! What I meant was, I want you to be the manager. The head manager. Of any one of the country’s twenty-three Ashland Hotels. You choose which.”

  Shannon felt a foreign sensation of excitement bubbling up inside her, along with another emotion—one she couldn’t quite identify and didn’t have time to analyze. Okay. So this was a surprise after all. And a part of her wanted to jump at it. But…but…

  “But…” she said aloud, her thoughts racing through all the hows and whys and wherefores.

  “No buts necessary. We can take care of anything that needs taking care of…including Holiday Quinn.” Margaret looked at her kindly. “You don’t have to stay in this little corner of the state simply because the inn is here, Shannon. It’ll fetch a sizable price if you sell.” She grinned. “And I’m tempted to make the first offer myself. I love that place.”

  All true words, Shannon had to admit. Margaret had visited the inn countless times when her parents were alive and had always admired it with a professional eye. And the land Holiday Quinn sat on was prime resort-quality real estate. She knew she could make a bundle in profits. But, even though she didn’t see herself retaining ownership of the place forever, she couldn’t bear to watch some overzealous housing developer tear it down in favor of a
bunch of modern-looking bungalows for wealthy yuppies.

  Not that wealthy yuppies didn’t frequent the inn now. Take Exhibit A: The too-hot-for-his-own-good Bram Hartwick. She sighed remembering the powerful man who still graced her nighttime fantasies and who she’d put on her inn’s mailing list in hopes that he’d return. Not that he’d taken the hint yet.

  But regular folks like Darlene and Keith Baker could stay at Holiday Quinn, too, as they had just last weekend when Shannon hosted the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations at the inn—a few days in advance of the official holiday. There had also been families there and older couples who’d been guests for years. She couldn’t disappoint everyone by selling. Even if…even if…

  She shut down that burgeoning thought before it could fully form in her mind. There were too many memories still housed at Holiday Quinn—of her parents and grandparents, and of years of celebrating special occasions like this particularly Irish holiday with them. Even when it fell on a Wednesday, as it had this year.

  No.

  She couldn’t just give it up yet. No matter what Margaret said. No matter how much Shannon’s spirit soared at the idea of having a grand adventure far away from home.

  “Think about it, honey,” the wonderful woman sitting beside her said gently. “Keep the idea open.” Margaret shot her a speculative glance. “I know it’s hard to give up the past, but you’ve got a promising future ahead of you. Don’t sell yourself short, okay?”

  “Okay,” Shannon whispered. “And thank you. I’ll mull this over for awhile.” And she’d try, if only out of respect for Margaret’s wishes.

  “You do that.” Margaret refilled both of their wineglasses and pointed to the dessert menu. “How about some Shamrock Cake? It boasts five layers in different shades of green, and it’s topped with a candy four-leaf clover.” She leaned closer. “Ricardo has secretly dubbed it ‘The Shannon’ in your honor.”

  Shannon laughed, loving that she had a family friend—heck, practically a family member—looking out for her when the twinges of loneliness crept into her soul and made it ache with longing. “How could I possibly resist?” she said.

  Margaret Ashland’s philosophic words flowed out in a gush of whimsical wisdom, enhanced, no doubt, by the warm glow of candlelight and strong vino. “It’s my belief, my little Irish rose, that some temptations should never be resisted. This is merely one of them.”

  ***

  Across the Wisconsin-Minnesota state line, Bram checked the voicemail on his cell phone for the sixty-seventh-quadrillionth time that day and stared at his frosted mug of unnaturally green beer, which O’Flannery’s Pub served only on this annual occasion.

  He deleted a few stupid messages, amused himself by shredding an unwanted business card and regarded his two big brothers with detached curiosity.

  His brother Alex, the middle child, was muttering to himself while composing what must have been a twenty-page manifesto on athletic shoes into his travel laptop. Alex, founder and CEO of his own company, HighTop Treads, had been at this task for a half hour already. He paused occasionally, but only to stroke the black plastic above the computer screen. Bram was pretty sure Alex slept with that thing.

  Meanwhile, their eldest brother Grant had no fewer than two BlackBerrys on the table in front of them and another that he had clutched to his ear, in addition to a paper-filled briefcase, which he’d opened. Bram watched Grant page through a stack of nasty-looking invoices from his multimillion-dollar company—Eastern Treasures, Inc., of which he was president, of course—taking an occasional photo of a document and e-mailing it instantly to the unfortunate employee he had on the line in St. Petersburg. His brother took turns swearing…in Russian…at the man, at the papers and at the BlackBerrys, between slurps of his disgusting green beer.

  And this was what they called A Night of Family Bonding.

  Bram rolled his eyes. He and his brothers were exactly one-sixteenth Irish, but they used to milk that drop for all it was worth on St. Patrick’s Days of “olde.” They used to talk a “wee bit,” too. To each other, that was, not just to their electronic equipment. When the hell had that changed?

  He sighed and glanced a few more times between his two closest relatives. Deciding Grant was a lost cause, he focused his attention on Alex.

  “Gonna be done with that script anytime soon, Shakespeare?” he said, aiming for eye contact and a jovial tone of voice.

  Alex grunted something at him.

  Bram took this as encouragement enough and tried again. “Hey, how’s it going with Carrie Ann? You two gonna do the Bahamas again this spring?”

  Alex lifted his fingers off the keyboard and stared at him. “What?”

  Bram laughed. “Your girlfriend? Vacation? Anything romantic happening there? Hey, I know a great little getaway in Door County, Wisconsin, if you two are interested.”

  He thought of his visit to Holiday Quinn the previous month and the beautiful woman he’d met that weekend. Shannon. Mmm. He still had regrets about not following her down the hall that night or trying to win a private invitation up to her room.

  He’d gotten a postcard from the inn a couple of weeks ago, though, listing the upcoming “holiday” dates. He’d already missed this past weekend’s St. Patrick’s Day celebration, but maybe Easter…

  His brother grimaced and downed about a third of his green beer. “Carrie Ann moved out after Christmas, Bro. Thought I told you.”

  Bram’s eyes widened. Alex damn well hadn’t told him. He had a million questions: What had gone wrong? Whose decision had it been to break things off after two years? And what kind of a family was this—keeping secrets for months on end?

  He opened his mouth to ask his cagey brother a few things, but Alex had already resumed his typing.

  Okay. End of conversation.

  He stared again at Grant, who was currently spouting off to the man on the phone about shipping and how the poor guy would need to—translated loosely from the Russian—“settle things with the company’s Moscow distributor if it took him all freakin’ day and night.”

  Grant never thought twice about making those kinds of demands on his employees. He’d do all that work himself, and more, if necessary. He had done it. For years, in fact, which was why his first, second and third wives all divorced him, claiming Grant’s workaholism had progressed to an incurable illness.

  Angie had dared to say the same about him, Bram remembered, which was a bunch of bull.

  His cell phone vibrated in his palm.

  He clenched his jaw and tried to ignore it. Well, maybe there was a sliver of truth to her words. He worked hard, sure, but he was nothing like his brothers.

  Nothing.

  He could sit here in this bar and relax, see? Being the CEO of a successful business didn’t mean he didn’t know how to turn off the daily onslaught of company chaos when he wanted to. It didn’t mean he didn’t have what it takes to make a long-term relationship work. It just meant he and Angie weren’t well suited to being together, that was all.

  Right?

  The phone continued its relentless vibrating.

  Damn. Maybe it really was something important this time.

  He glared first at his brothers, who persisted in their benign neglect, and then at the stupid phone. Finally, he sighed and punched the green button.

  “Hartwick,” he said into the receiver.

  An hour and three phone calls later, Bram stalked out of O’Flannery’s with the start of a migraine and a vow to never waste another night this way again.

  He wasn’t going to be like his brothers, no matter what lifestyle patterns had been set. No matter what performance expectations had been demanded by their competitive parents, whom they almost never saw because their mom and dad were even busier than they were. Bram was his own man, dammit, and he’d make his own choices.

  Yeah, right.

  His cell phone vibrated against his hip. He muttered a curse and checked the number. Work again. His secretary Miranda this time.


  He clicked the button to answer, half listening as she recited the latest snafu at their Italian production center. The lightest snow had begun falling, and couples clad in green skipped past him on the sidewalk. Talking. Laughing. Connecting. In the soft glow of the streetlights, they made a picturesque scene. Like something from a romantic-comedy film set. Both worlds were equally foreign to him.

  He sighed. “I’ll handle it, Miranda. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “All right, Mr. Hartwick. There’s also a memo that was just faxed in from—”

  “I’ll read it tomorrow,” he told her. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Go home.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Hartwick,” she said, her voice indicating both surprise and delight. “But are you sure you don’t want to hear about—”

  “I’m sure.” He needed to start doing more delegating in the office. He thought of something he did want to hear about, though. “One last thing. Any major trips already set during Easter?”

  He could hear the flipping of calendars and the click of computer keys as she checked all possible sources of meetings, appointments, etc. He didn’t see anything listed on his iPhone for Easter weekend, but his schedule changed daily.

  “I see a trip to London blocked in for the week prior, sir, but Easter weekend looks open at present. Do you want me to book something for you?”

  “No, no. Thanks, Miranda. I’ll take care of it. Just keep it clear for me.”

  If a journey of a thousand miles began with a single step, this one was his. He’d visit Holiday Quinn in April, see Little Miss Shannon again and make damn sure something happen between them this time.

  And why the hell not? It was just one weekend. And, after all his hopping from one continent to the next, he figured the Easter Bunny had to be on his side.

  ***

  Shannon slipped out of The Ashland Hotel and meandered down the quiet street. A few fat snowflakes fell and she caught them in her mittens.

  So calm tonight. So peaceful. And so lonely.