by L. L. Muir
She smirked. “Do you really think you can make or break a business with fifteen thousand dollars?”
“I know you can.”
She shook her head and walked around him, staying out of reach. “I’m going to turn on the generator. It’s too cold in here.” He’d left a candle in the hallway, so she was able to find the stairs. Then she felt her way to the kitchen, grabbed a candle and went to find her shoes. She could sense him trailing behind her, lingering in the doorways, watching her every move. In the dim light, it gave her the chills. But when she considered how close she’d come to spending the night on the island all alone, she was grateful.
She got the flashlight out of the emergency kit in her car trunk, then went to the generator they’d already placed behind the building. With Big Brother watching over her shoulder, she tried hard to look like she knew what she was doing, but the damned thing wouldn’t start. It’s hard to look cool when you’re trying to start a lawnmower, which was essentially the same thing, and even harder when you’re a girl. After seven tries, she gave up.
She pulled the edge of her sleeve down and opened the gas cap, then shined a light inside.
Nothing. Not a drop. They’d rented it, but the machine had to be new, it was that clean.
“Do you have gas for it?” St. John said.
“Of course I have gas for it.” She pictured it in her mind. “Only it’s sitting in the van, out in the parking lot.”
“Then we must think of a more primitive way to get warm.”
She couldn’t stop the new wave of chills shooting through her body like fireworks. When she finally felt stable enough to face him, she found him gathering wood from under the back porch.
Heaven help her, she was going to sit by the fire, alone with 007, until morning.
“Come here. Hold out your arms.”
She did what she was told and he handed her a small load.
“Have you still got the lighter?”
She nodded and followed him back inside.
When she shut the door behind her, she turned and bumped into St. John’s back. He stood perfectly still, listening to harp music.
“Is that your phone?” she said.
He turned and winced at the flashlight shining in his eyes. “No. Is it yours?”
She could feel her eyes bugging out. “No.”
“Did you know there was someone else on the island?”
She shook her head and thought it was probably better if she didn’t mention the laughter she’d heard out by the front steps. He already thought she was “a nutter.” She wasn’t about to tell him she believed in ghosts.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mal's heart sunk when she realized she was no longer alone with Bennett St. John, that she wouldn't be sitting before the fire all night with a handsome prince, trying to kiss him without her heart knowing about it.
The music, at least, was no phantom. St. John led the way, using one arm to keep her behind him as they followed the sound. Apparently, he expected the mysterious harpist to be dangerous. Mal bit the side of her lip and tried not to laugh. After all, he was trying to be gallant. But they both stopped short when they entered the ballroom and found the place well-lit.
Mal's first thought was that the causeway had been opened and London had arrived and had lit all the candles. The idea should have made her happy, but instead, it felt like a weight on her chest.
She walked around St. John's protective arm and looked for her friend, but there was only one new addition to their party —an old man with thick white hair who sat in the alcove with the harp leaned back against his shoulder. His fingers hardly moved, but produced a flawless tune. It was familiar, somehow, but at the same time, she felt like it was new. Maybe there was a bar or two that reminded her of something else.
St. John moved up behind her and wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her against him while they waited for the song to end. Of course it ended just as St. John's warmth made it through the layers of her coat.
“Good Evenin',” called the old man.
“Good Evening.” St. John took her hand and walked with her to the alcove. The harpist tipped the harp back on its base, then stood and bowed.
But the harpist wasn't a harpist at all; he was one of the men she'd hired. He was dressed in white and green livery.
“I'm Mallory, from Ivy and Stone. Are you our doorman?” She shook his offered hand.
“Aye, I am that, though I’ve been known to drive a carriage or two. The name is Ferguson.”
007 stood there like he was waiting to be introduced, so Mal introduced him.
“Yer lairdship,” the old man said, then bowed even lower than before. Mal laughed, then realized Pem's brother probably got treated that way at home.
He was so out of her league.
“Tell me, Ferguson. How did you manage to reach the island?”
Two white brows rose high on his wrinkled forehead. “I didna come by boat, that's certain.”
St. John frowned.
Ferguson seemed to realize his answer wasn't good enough. “I suppose I came same as you, but early on. I went to the gentleman's dressing quarters, put on me finery, then laid down to take a wee nap. I only woke when me teeth started chatterin'. When I realized I was here alone, I lit the candles, hoping the chase the chill from the room, and thought my fingers might warm faster if I plucked a string or two, aye?”
St. John looked at Mal and lifted a brow. She nodded, accepting the old man's story. After all, there was no way he could have gotten past the firemen, even if he dared try.
“You must be hungry,” St. John said. “You'll find the kitchen through there. Please eat whatever suits you.” He looked at Mal in a way that left her dying to know what he was thinking. Then he smiled. “Rejoin us here, Ferguson, in say, half an hour. We'll need more music, I think.”
“Aye, yer lairdship.” Then the old man was gone.
Mal shook her head. “I wish I could read your face the way you can read mine.”
He gave her a purely 007 grin. “No need, darling. I'll tell you.” He took her by the hand and twirled her around. “All of this pageantry is not going to go to waste. And if you'll don that change of clothes you were talking about earlier, we'll make the most of it. Just the two of us.”
“You mean, just the three of us?”
He frowned, then sighed. “Three of us, then.”
~ ~ ~
Mal stared into the mirror in the bride's room. Her white blouse and long black pencil skirt was far from a wedding dress, but staring into her own eyes, she admitted that this might be as close as she ever got. A white blouse, not a dress. A plastic hair clip, not a hundred dollar up-do. A temporary Prince Charming, not a groom. Borrowed wedding flowers, re-purposed wedding food, and only the smell and sight of a heavenly wedding cake. And finally, a ghostly old man for a wedding band. As far as fantasies went, it fell pathetically short. But as a way to spend an evening, it was brilliant.
She stared down at her chest and spoke directly to her heart. “It's just a memorable Saturday night, nothing more. It's not even a date.”
At the top of the staircase, she paused and tried to absorb the heat rising from the candles below. Platters of food now sat among the flowers and candles on the buffet tables. The doorman/harpist was back to work, just coming to the end of a cheerful tune that floated up to the arched ceiling to mingle with the warm air.
St. John stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking perfect as always. He'd tucked an electric lime handkerchief into his breast pocket and pinned a boutonniere onto his lapel. She needed to find her phone and snap a picture of him for Pemberly.
Holding onto the bannister, to keep from making a fool of herself in heels, she headed down the steps. The doorman started playing a new tune —The Wedding March!
She stopped walking, fuming mad, sure she was being mocked. She glared at the doorman, but he was watching his hands, not her. So she glared at St. John.
He rolled
his eyes and called up to her. “It won't kill you to play along, will it?”
But that was just it —it might kill her. How was her own life ever going to live up to this? She'd have great flowers at her own wedding, but the rest of the package would look pretty dim comparatively. However, her pride rode in on a white horse and saved the day. She was not going to let St. John know what his teasing did to her. She could pretend right along with the best of them, and worry about tomorrow, well, in about ten hours.
She pasted on a smile and continued down the stairs. When she got to the bottom, St. John pulled a corsage from behind his back, one meant for Jordan's grandmother, and pinned it on her.
“At least one orchid isn't going to waste,” she said.
“On the contrary, darling,” he said without so much as a blink. “None of it is going to waste.”
She wasn't going to feel bad that he hadn't handed her one of the bouquets.
“The bouquet! Pem doesn't have a bouquet!” She turned back toward the stairs, to go call London, but he took her hand and forced her to face him. Then he placed her left hand on his shoulder and started waltzing away with her.
“There is no Pem. There is no London. There is no party going on but this one. There is only me.” He glanced over his shoulder. “And Ferguson. Now dance.”
She gave up the fight. London would have thought of a bouquet. There really was nothing to worry about.
The fire roared and snapped below the large ornate mantel and they danced through only a few cold spots on the north end of the room. The smell of the cake refused to be ignored. And Mal started to think harp music was highly underrated, especially with a gorgeous man gliding her around the room with his twinkling blue eyes and mesmerizing lips less than a foot away from her own. But as wonderful as the dancing was, and as badly as she wanted to keep staring into the man’s soul, waiting for some miracle to happen that might unlock his secret thoughts, her feet were screaming. She’d been standing and running around all day long. Carrying things far too heavy for a reasonable person, and climbing on chairs and tables, hanging stuff from the ceiling, trying to keep her balance. Yeah, her feet were screaming. And if she didn’t get off them, the dancing partner, who could give Daniel Craig a run for his money, would be able to hear them too.
“I can't,” she said at the end of their second waltz. “Please. I can't do this anymore.” She tried to pull out of his arms, but he held tight to her hands. The nearest chair seemed a football field away.
“Fine,” he said. “But I want you to believe me when I say I am not pretending.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about? I just can't dance anymore. My feet are crying uncle. I have to sit down.” He let her go and she all but hobbled to the nearest table, dragged out a beautifully dressed chair, and plopped onto it. Her heels were off in five seconds flat.
The doorman began to play Winter Wonderland. St. John stood where she'd left him. She wiggled her toes and winced while she watched the man tug at his cuffs. His mouth opened a few times, but no words came out.
“Mr. St. John —”
He groaned. “Bennett, I beg you.”
“Okay. Bennett. You want to tell me what you were talking about?”
The doorman started singing loudly. “In the meadow, we can build a snowman. And pretend that he is Parson Brown —” He suddenly grabbed the strings and stopped the music. “I have a lovely idea, I do,” he said. “I'll be yer snowman, yer lairdship! I'll be yer Parson Brown. What do you say?” He tipped the harp up, then hurried out from behind it faster than expected for his age, not waiting for anyone to answer him. “I'll need...” He hurried over to the buffet and came back with a large white napkin. “This will do, I think.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and started writing on the napkin.
Mal looked at Bennett. Bennett looked back, just as confused.
“To me, if ye please,” said Ferguson. “By the fire, I think, though not too close. 'Tis a grand roast ye've got on.”
Mal sighed and got to her feet. It wasn't too painful without the shoes. And the old guy looked so excited she didn't want to pee on his parade.
Bennett urged her to lean on his forearm as they went and she wasn't in any shape to refuse.
“Oh, now. Just a moment.” Ferguson ran off again and returned with the bride's reception bouquet. He held it out to her and when she didn't reach for it, he took her hand and wrapped her fingers around the stems. The satin ballet ties were cool and smooth under her hand. Without thinking, she turned the bouquet until her thumb found the little pearl that marked the back of the bouquet. However a bride held it, if she kept her thumb on the pearl, the prettiest side of the bouquet would always be facing away from her.
She looked up to find the old man facing her and Bennett. When he held the napkin before him like a book, she finally caught on. Bennett had her hand tucked around his forearm again and she tried to pull it free.
“Just for fun, right? So none of it goes to waste.”
She looked at him, hoping he could read the words you're crazy written all over her face.
He just laughed, then dipped his head to Ferguson. “We're ready, Parson Brown.”
“Dearly Beloved,” he began, but the rest of it was gibberish.
Bennett leaned over and whispered, “Gaelic.”
Mal rolled her eyes and waited, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for the moment she could hurry back to her chair. Or the floor. The floor looked good.
Both men were staring at her.
“What?”
“This is the part where ye declare aye or nay, lass.” Ferguson winked.
“Really?” She looked at Bennett, then looked him up and down, assessing.
Bennett grinned.
She shrugged. “Well, I guess I'd be an idiot not to, right?” She nodded at Parson Brown. “Aye.”
“Weeel, that's it then, isn't it? By the power vested in me by...The Man in the Moon...I now pronounce ye, laird and wife. But before ye kiss the bride, ye'll have to put yer signatures to yer weddin' license here.” He handed Bennett the large cream napkin and pointed to a spot on it. Then he handed over the pen. Bennett held it against one hand and signed, then Mal did the same, her eyes rolling around the entire time.
The old man giggled. “Now. Ye must kiss the bride.”
Bennett pulled her close. “Did you hear that? I must kiss the bride. Not may, but must.”
“Better do what he says, then.” She closed her eyes. And in another world, in another time, she might have been kissing her own husband. At that moment, it felt that important. And his lips felt that perfect. Nothing but his lips and his taste existed beyond her eyelids, other than the flash of firelight. The world was orange and warm and perfect and she was happy to stay in it and keep pretending until someone made her stop.
His lips lifted, then came back, lifted, then moved to her jaw, her neck. Chills filled every cell of her body and she sighed loudly.
Bennett straightened, then looked to his left. Then his right. Then at her. “Where did he go?”
Mal tried to focus on anything beyond her pretend husband. “We probably embarrassed him.”
Bennett grinned at her, kissed her once more, then gave her a squeeze. “Well, we'd better stop before we embarrass him off the island.”
She took a deep breath and went looking for a chair. He held the tips of her fingers with his own until she was safely seated. It made her feel like a teenager, being walked to class. She knew she was blushing, but she hoped the low lighting kept it from being obvious.
“I'm going to find our parson and tell him it's safe to come back,” he said.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak or she might say what she really thought, that maybe the parson should find his napping couch and leave them alone for the rest of the night. But she wouldn't mean it. She would only play along so far, because, while her heart was magically linked to her lips, it was linked to other parts of her too, and
he wasn't going to get anywhere near those.
The problem was, no one was ever going to get near those parts as long as she was a florist. Weekends and holidays were working days, and what man would want a woman who wasn’t around to share those days with him?
And now, thanks to 007, Mal realized she was no longer willing to trade a real life for the sake of making strangers happy. She wanted to be a normal girl who didn’t have to suspect every man who tried to kiss her. She wanted a reason to have a wardrobe, a job that required more than sweat pants and dirty aprons because she would be interacting with more than just the pizza delivery guy late at night while making hundreds of corsages for three coinciding proms.
She wanted nights like this, with adults being serious and silly, and seriously silly.
She wanted to close Ivy and Stone!
“You missed a call,” Bennett said.
She startled in direct proportion to how guilty she felt for what she’d just been thinking.
He handed over her phone and her radio as he walked by, headed for the shadowed hallway.
She called London back. “How’s it going?”
“It’s great. The line is crazy. I thought the turnout would be smaller in this weather. The snow never hit the valley, apparently.”
“Did you need something?”
“Yeah. Um. I just thought I’d give you a heads up. That after this event is over and done with…we need to decide if we really want to keep the shop open. Give it some thought, would you?
Mal shouldn’t have been surprised. London was always on the same page with her, if not a page ahead.
“Yeah. I’ll give it some thought.”
“And while you’re stuck out there on the island with Mr. Beautiful, you’d better do something you can brag about in the morning. Okay?”
“Well, it’s not like we’re alone. We’ve got the doorman with us. Apparently, he was upstairs asleep on a couch for a while. Didn’t even know there was a problem.”
“What? That can’t be right. I’ve got three drivers and one doorman standing right in front of me. All wearing footman livery. And we only ordered four costumes…”
