by Katy Regnery
“Can it wait?”
“Yes. She left a message. Over.”
She. Hmm.
Aside from his mother and Tierney, whom Mrs. Toffle would have named, there was only one other notable “she” in Rory’s life: June Thompson, a year-rounder in nearby Holderness, across the lake from Summerhaven.
“Was it June?”
How Mrs. Toffle managed to convey such stark disapproval by clearing her throat was a mystery to Rory, but nevertheless, her feelings were as clear as if she’d voiced them. “No. Over.”
June, a free-spirited photographer fifteen years older than Rory who didn’t care for bras and peppered her speech with more curses than a truck driver, was not a favorite of Mrs. Toffle. But June was easygoing and uncomplicated, always available when Rory wanted company without ever asking for more. They were friends and lovers, with no strings attached, and that suited Rory just fine.
“Take it easy on June, Mrs. T.”
“Humph…over.”
“So, who called?”
“Ah. Yes. A Ms. Mathison. A lady. Over.”
Her insinuation wasn’t lost on Rory, but he decided not to address it. Mathison. Hmm. He could only remember Mathison brothers who’d attended Summerhaven camp. Perhaps she’s a sister or cousin.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
“Yes, she did. A venue. To get married. Over.”
Rory’s eyes widened and he stopped in his tracks, letting this information sink in. He’d been trying to break into the wedding business for three years to no avail. It turned out brides didn’t love the idea of a “rustic” location for their nuptials, no matter how much Rory assured them that Summerhaven was actually a rustic-themed luxury resort where their every whim would be met. Brides wanted posh Boston hotels or charming Upstate New York vineyards. Except…well, Miss Mathison was interested in Summerhaven. It was tremendous news.
“That’s…wow! That’s great, Mrs. Toffle! Did she say where she was calling from?”
“Hmmm. No. But wait! I have her number. Area code 617. Over.”
Rory’s fist clenched around the walkie-talkie in his hand, and he pumped it once over his head in victory. Mrs. Toffle had said 617—it was a Boston area code. The Boston area code. It meant that word of the Summerhaven Conference and Event Center had reached someone in Boston who wanted to have her wedding here.
Disappointment—in general, in the world—was all too familiar to Rory, and he had a sudden sinking feeling that Miss Mathison’s wedding would probably be very small.
“Ummm.” Rory stalled, not wanting to get his hopes up too high. “She didn’t happen to mention the head count, did she?”
“Let me see. Here are my notes. Hmm. Yes!” Mrs. Toffle paused, and Rory froze, waiting for her to answer. “A minimum of two hundred and fifty people. Over.”
Rory gulped. “W-Wait a m-minute, Mrs. T. Did you say two hundred and fifty people?”
“I did. Over.”
“Holy shit!” he bellowed. “Yes! Yes yes yes yes yes!”
Rory jumped up and down on the main path like a maniac, pumping his hand in the air as he did the math quickly in his head. If this was a destination wedding for at least one hundred of those guests planning to stay overnight—in addition to catering, activities, and decorations—he was looking at a very tidy profit. Maybe even enough money to hire someone else to take care of Summerhaven this summer while Rory Kavanagh Haven, after years of dutifully waiting, spent a few months raising funds for the business plan he’d been sitting on for six years.
“Mr. Haven?” asked Mrs. Toffle, her New England accent extra salty. “Are you finished cursing? Over.”
Chagrined, Rory stifled a chuckle. “Yes, ma’am.”
“She was hoping to visit on Friday. I told her you’d call her back today. Over.”
“Mrs. Toffle,” said Rory, “will you do me a favor? Call her back right away and make an appointment. Anytime before four o’clock. And Mrs. T? Pray this works out, huh?”
She laughed good-naturedly over the walkie-talkie, then added with a bit of sass, “You don’t need my prayers, Rory Haven. I’ve heard you with potential clients. You could charm the pants off the devil.”
He grinned, imagining her red cheeks at such a bold admission and realizing an excellent opportunity to tease her when it landed on his doorstep. “Why, Mrs. Toffle—”
“Save it for Ms. Mathison, Mr. Haven,” she advised sagely, then added for good measure, “Over and out.”
CHAPTER 2
Brittany Manion Mathison was feeling victorious.
After a six-month engagement, last night over dinner, her fiancé, Benjamin Parker, MD, had grudgingly consented to a Memorial Day weekend wedding. Yes, it had taken a covert mission to his office, where she’d tricked his receptionist into combing his schedule for a free weekend when he wasn’t on call, but once she’d presented Ben with the date, it was nothing short of a fait accompli: he’d been unable to argue with her.
And while it was true that a late-May wedding meant that Brittany only had seven weeks to plan, she refused to be daunted. In fact, she’d already pictured the perfect place to get married and already made an appointment to visit.
“I hope I can get everything done in time,” said Brittany as she stared at the date, circled in red ink, in her day planner.
“Keep it simple,” advised Ben, combing his hair in the mirror over her bureau. “Just choose a place and send out a save-the-date. How difficult can it be?”
“To throw together a wedding in seven weeks? Are you kidding?” she replied, looking at him incredulously from where she was still lying in bed. She scoffed softly. “And send an e-mail? No. Absolutely not. That’s not done. My mother would die.”
“Well, if anyone can throw it together, you can,” he said, glancing at her over his shoulder. “In fact, why don’t you take a break from your charities and concentrate on this for a few weeks? You’ll get everything done. Planning things quickly is your secret superpower.”
It was a cute compliment and softened her annoyance at his suggestion that she “take a break” from her “charities,” like founding and running a nonprofit was an indulgence, not real work.
While most of her peers worked at conventional jobs, Brittany, whose trust fund ensured that she didn’t require an additional income, had set up a successful foundation in the years following her college graduation, and she took its management and growth as seriously as any paying job. More, even. Her nonprofit, A Better Tomorrow, which helped recovering addicts get their lives back on track, was born of her heart, and she’d put her wallet and her soul into its success.
But Ben was probably right. If Brittany cut back her hours and put her responsibilities as board chairwoman of A Better Tomorrow in the hands of her capable staff from now until Memorial Day, she might be able to get everything done in time.
“Hmm. I’ll think about it. Maria and Joy could probably take care of things if I took a leave.” She looked up at Ben, catching his eyes in the mirror before he looked away. He hadn’t been over the moon about her fait accompli last night. “You’re excited, aren’t you? To get married?”
Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Ben would change into scrubs when he got to Mass General, where he was an emergency room pediatrician. He looked at her again like he wanted to say something, but instead he took a deep breath and sighed.
“Sure I am. There’s just—I mean, there’s no reason to go nuts planning, right? In fact, since this will be a second wedding for both of us, let’s just keep it simple, huh?”
She tried to ignore the disappointment that washed over her at his lackluster response, but then again, maybe he was right.
Ben, who was fifteen years her senior at forty-two, had married right out of med school to a fellow pediatrician. They’d had two daughters, one who was about to graduate high school while the other was finishing eighth grade. And frankly, neither had seemed very thrilled when their father had announced his engagement to Britt
any at Thanksgiving, nor very receptive to her overtures at friendship over the past few months.
“Will the girls attend?” she asked softly, hating how much she wanted them to be there, how much she wanted for them—her and Ben—to be a family.
He turned to look at her, offering a small, conciliatory smile. “Of course they will.”
She huffed softly, picking at the embroidered quilt on her lap. “I think Angela’s poisoned the well.”
Angela, Ben’s ex-wife who still worked in the pediatric department at Mass General, saw Brittany as an interloper, even though she and Ben hadn’t even met until a year after his divorce was final. Brittany could tell by the way Ben’s daughters looked at her: their mother, who was still single two years after the divorce, was not on board with her husband’s new fiancée.
“That’s not true,” said Ben, his voice warming as he jumped to Angela’s defense, as he always did. “Listen, Angie’s just…she’s a good person, baby. She was—you know, she was hurt by—by the divorce.”
I’d be hurt too, thought Brittany, if you’d cheated on me.
She immediately counterbalanced that unkind thought with a stronger, better one: That won’t happen to us. I intend to stay home with our children, not work long hours at a hospital. I won’t give you any reason to stray.
“I need you to try to understand,” said Ben gently, sitting on the edge of the bed beside her and taking her hands in his. “Angie’s always going to be a part of my life. Without her, I wouldn’t have Gracie and Sabrina. I’m grateful to her for giving me those amazing girls, and she’s—she’s a wonderful mother, Brittany. You can see that, right? I really need for all of you to get along.”
He reached up to cup her cheek and Brittany closed her eyes, nestling against his warm palm. “I’ll try harder, Ben. I promise.”
“That’s my girl.”
She opened her eyes and looked up at him—at his strong features, bright-blue eyes, and dignified salt-and-pepper hair. “You’re crazy handsome.”
“And you’re crazy beautiful.”
Her heart lurched with tenderness, a question she wanted to ask on the tip of her tongue, but she didn’t want to press her luck. He’d finally consented to a date after putting it off for six months. She needed to count her blessings and enjoy that major development. She’d wait for another moment to address the matter weighing on her heart.
“Love me?” she asked instead.
“You’re Brittany Manion,” he answered, leaning forward to kiss her forehead. “How could I not?”
“I love you too,” she said. “Tons.”
He grinned at her, grabbing his keys from the bedside table and tucking them into his pocket as he stood up. “I’m working a double today and tomorrow, and then I’m having the girls over at my place on Sunday for an overnight. See you on Monday? Maybe for dinner at Romolo’s?”
“Maybe I could come over and cook on Sunday?” she asked hopefully. “Spend some time with you and the gi—”
“Baby, don’t take this the wrong way, but I want to talk to them alone about the wedding date, okay? I think it’ll go better if it’s just me and them.”
“Oh. Right,” she said, feeling deflated. “Of course.”
She sighed. Not only did another long weekend lie before her without Ben’s company, but how was she supposed to make inroads with his daughters if he didn’t encourage them all to spend time together?
“I’m trying to do what’s best for everyone, Brittany,” he said, his voice taking on a slight edge.
“I know,” she said, offering him a brave smile.
Don’t be selfish, the voice in her head whispered. He’s working a double shift to save lives. Babies’ lives. And he’s a great dad to those girls. The sort of dad you want your own children to have. Her heart contracted at the sweetness of the thought.
“You’re a good man, Ben Parker.”
“I do my best,” he answered, leaning down to kiss her forehead again.
Do you? asked the voice in her head. Were you doing your best when you cheated on Angela? Would you ever walk out of this room after kissing me sweetly and cheat on me?
Disappointed in the disloyalty of her thoughts, she stifled them instantly, throwing a bucket of water over the nagging embers. “You are the best.”
And you’ll be the best dad ever.
“You’ll give me a big head if you keep saying things like that,” he said, winking at her as he left the bedroom. “Have a great weekend, beautiful,” he called over his shoulder, his footsteps receding softly down the hall to the front door of her apartment.
The best dad ever.
That was worth any challenges offered up by the Parker women, worth any low-grade uncertainties she had that were, most likely, a product of her own insecurities, not Ben’s long-ago, one-time indiscretion. He would be an amazing father. And for Brittany, who wanted children of her own more than anything else on earth, that fact alone made Ben the perfect match for her.
As the only child of hotel magnate Phillip Manion and his wife, Charlene, Brittany had wanted for very little in her life, materially speaking. She had lavish bedrooms in each of her parent’s houses, nannies and maids to see to her every need, playrooms that looked like mini FAO Schwartz stores, and closets-full of the most expensive, beautiful clothes in the world.
She was sent to the most exclusive boarding schools and summer camps, to Broadway premieres on her father’s private jet, to parties in Paris on a whim. She spent summers in Tuscany and Christmases in Aspen. She was the very definition of privileged, and she was very grateful for such a comfortable upbringing.
But at the same time, she mourned the fact that she’d had no siblings with whom to share her decadent, wildly lonely childhood. Especially after her parent’s divorce, she’d felt very alone in the world, shuttled from house to house and school to camp, a kind nanny or companion no substitute for someone who loved you, who truly belonged to you.
Brittany Manion, poor little rich girl, knew what it was to feel fiercely, savagely, and brutally lonesome, and at some point, she’d decided that there was only one thing that could assuage the longing in her soul and fill the hole in her heart: a child of her own. Someone related to her, who belonged to her, to whom she belonged. And then, finally—finally—Brittany wouldn’t be alone anymore.
When she’d married Travis Mathison, whom she’d known since childhood, she was sure she’d made the right choice. The youngest of six siblings, Travis was close to his family and a doting uncle to his nieces and nephews. The problem? He didn’t want children of his own. Not yet, anyway. He liked them well enough, but Travis was young and wanted to party; fatherhood wasn’t on his radar. “Not yet, Brittany,” he’d been fond of saying. “Don’t rush me. Not yet.”
After three years of marriage, they’d amicably divorced.
And last year, on New Year’s Eve, Brittany had seen a picture on Facebook of Travis, his new wife, and their almost one-year-old son.
Tears ran down her face as she’d stared at the picture, wondering what was wrong with her, why Travis had refused to have children with her but had fathered a son with someone else a couple of years later. Why didn’t anyone want to be her family? What was she doing wrong?
She’d gone out for cocktails with her friend Hallie that evening and asked Ben Parker the same question when she’d found herself sitting next to him at a bar after way too many martinis.
He’d cupped her cheeks and kissed her gently, smiling at her tenderly before whispering in her ear, “Nothing, beautiful. You’re not doing anything wrong. And I bet your babies will look like angels someday.”
And just like that, her tears had stopped, and her heart had started beating for Ben. And when she found out he was a single pediatrician, devoted to his two daughters? It felt like God’s hand on her life. Things hadn’t worked out with Travis, but now she saw the bigger picture: all roads had led her to Ben. And with Ben was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Sighing with a renewed sense of purpose, Brittany swung out of bed and padded across the plush carpet of her bedroom to the en suite bathroom. Looking at herself in the mirror, she grinned. “No more brooding. You have a wedding to start planning today.”
Pulling her nightgown over her head, she dropped it on the floor, then opened the shower door and turned on the hot water.
She had a noon appointment with Mr. Haven at the Summerhaven camp in New Hampshire, where she’d spent four happy summers as a girl. And she didn’t want to be late.
***
Two hours later, Brittany crossed over the Massachusetts border into New Hampshire, rolling down her window so the early spring sun could warm her arm as she belted out the words to “Heart of Mine” by Peter Sallett.
“There’s always something so tragic…about a hopeless romantic!” she sang, grinning out the windshield of her silver Aston Martin One-77, a completely over-the-top purchase she’d made from her trust fund two years ago. At a cool $1.7 million, it was the most expensive car she’d ever owned, but it was sheer heaven to drive, and she couldn’t help sighing with pleasure as she shifted into fifth gear.
Brittany wasn’t given to extravagant purchases of this magnitude on a regular basis, but something about the beautiful little sports car—perhaps the fact that Travis had hated the whole Aston Martin brand, calling it “pretentious, British bullshit”—made it a must-have for her in the months after her divorce. And, she reasoned, it was so well made, so infrequently used, and one of two hundred ever made, it would only appreciate as an investment. Besides, as a 12 percent shareholder of Manion International Hotels, Brittany really didn’t need to worry about her spending habits. Her trust fund would keep her solvent for the next three hundred years no matter how many Aston Martins filled her garages.
Her phone, in the center console, buzzed with an incoming call, and Brittany pressed the Bluetooth button, which faded out her song.
“Hello?”
“Miss Mathison?”
