by Katy Regnery
“But there were only Mathison brothers at Summerhaven,” she said with a little chuckle. She gestured to a small table, covered with a white tablecloth, that Rory had set up by the windows. “Is that for us?”
“Uh…yes. But not until you tell me how I know you, or it’ll drive me nuts.”
She turned and bent her head back to look up at him, her brown eyes mischievous and merry. “I was a camper here. For four summers. A long time ago.”
Rory shook his head. “No. I would have remembered you.”
“You do remember me,” she said, weaving through the other tables in the dining room to get to theirs. “You just don’t recognize me by my married name.”
“Your…married name.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Forgive me, but aren’t you here to—”
“Get married? Yes. My ex-husband is Travis Mathison,” she clarified, standing beside the table.
Rory pulled out her chair, waited until she sat down, then pushed it in and rounded the table to take his own seat, still staring at her smiling face with growing impatience. Who was she? Who was she?
Who are you?
Although he had been forbidden to socialize with the campers, he’d had his favorites, of course. During high school, in particular, he’d especially liked this group of four girls who’d stayed in Lady Margaret, one of the ten Oxford Row cabins for girls. In fact, he thought, taking his seat and regarding her across the table, Miss—well, Ms.—Mathison was a dead ringer for…
Oh my God.
“Brittany Manion.”
She nodded, giggling softly as she reached for her white linen napkin and spread it across her lap. “Bingo.”
“But you were a brunette.”
“And you were five foot two.”
He chuckled along with her. “Fair enough.”
“You married Travis Mathison?”
“I did,” she answered, nodding at Rory.
“Welcome to Summerhaven, Miss Mathison,” said Victor, the head waiter that Rory always hired for upscale luncheons and dinners at the conference center. “Tap or sparkling?”
“Tap is fine. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat, then recited from memory, “Lunch will be a salad of in-season greens, avocado slices, and grapefruit sections, followed by grilled salmon with a hollandaise sauce.”
“How lovely.”
“May I bring you a glass of Pinot Grigio?”
“Sanctioned alcohol at Summerhaven?” she asked, shifting her gaze to Rory with a minxy grin. “Things certainly have changed.” Leaning forward, she asked, “Are you drinking?”
The correct answer was no. Rory wasn’t much of a drinker anyway, but with a big group coming in later, he needed to be on his game. He didn’t look away from Brittany as he answered, “Yes. Sure. I’d love a glass, Victor.”
“Me too, Victor,” said Brittany, grinning up at the older man. When she looked back at Rory, she was still smiling. “What?”
“I’m staring,” said Rory, “aren’t I?”
“You’re staring.”
He looked down, reaching for his napkin and placing it on his lap to distract himself. Brittany Manion. Beautiful, rich, kind, sweet Brittany Manion. How many years had it been since Rory had thought of her? Ten, at least.
If he’d been allowed to talk to the guests, to date the guests, to choose one guest to dance with at the season-end square dance every year, it would have been Brittany Manion, no question.
A decade had only heightened her beauty—she was petite, no more than the five foot two she’d just kidded him about. But her eyes were still the same warm brown that had tortured him from a distance when he thought she wasn’t looking, and the wisps of her now blonde hair escaping from her bun only emphasized her classic Grace Kelly features.
She was, hands down, the loveliest woman he’d ever seen, then as now…
…and so far out of his league now, as then, that moving beyond admiration didn’t even occur to him.
She was Brittany Manion of the Boston Manions.
And besides, she was here to get married.
CHAPTER 4
“So much has changed in ten years,” she said, trying to make polite conversation and alleviate a bit of the tension between them.
To say she’d been stunned by Rory Haven’s sudden appearance would be an understatement. It hadn’t even occurred to her that the camp once run by his parents would now be managed by him—by the dark-haired, brooding boy she’d crushed on as a teen. And what a man he’d turned into.
A little over six feet tall with pecs that popped, just a touch, behind his Summerhaven polo shirt and a jawline cut from marble, Rory was mouth-watering now.
She reached for her water glass, taking a long sip while he answered her.
“Uh, yes. I took over management from my parents six years ago.”
She nodded, hoping that he’d tell her a little more.
“Several years ago, my mother had a stroke,” he explained.
Brittany gasped, feeling bad for every unkind thought she’d had about Mrs. Haven on her drive north. “I’m so sorry, Rory.”
“She’s still alive.”
“Oh, good.”
“But she’s not the same. She’s in a wheelchair.”
Imagining fiery Mrs. Haven in a wheelchair was difficult for Brittany. She’d been such a strong and vibrant presence around camp.
“What about your father? Is he well?”
“Very,” answered Rory. “He coaches at Dartmouth, close to the hospital where my mother still receives care.”
“And you took over here,” she said.
“By default,” he said softly, his forehead creasing.
She wondered what thoughts caused that wrinkle, hoping he’d tell her, but he didn’t. “It looks like Summerhaven’s doing well in its reincarnation as a conference center.”
He lifted his gaze, meeting her eyes. “Yes. I mean, my parents had already opened up the campground for off-season conferences and events several years ago. When I came on board, I phased out the children’s summer camping program and committed all of our incoming capital and resources to retrofitting the grounds and buildings into a rustic, yet luxurious, destination for conferences, meetings, team-building weekends, and hopefully, weddings.”
“Hopefully,” she said, smiling at him. “It looks wonderful. You’re doing a great job.”
“Thanks,” he said, his gaze lingering on her face as Victor returned with their wine, placing a full glass in front of each of them.
“Your salads will be out in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Victor,” said Rory, lifting his wineglass. “Speaking of weddings…congratulations on your engagement.”
Brittany touched her glass to his before taking a sip, unsurprised that it was crisp, cold, and excellent. “Thank you.”
“And thank you for taking a look at Summerhaven as a possible venue.”
“Want to know something strange? When I married Travis Mathison, it didn’t even occur to me to get married at Summerhaven, even though we were campers here together. But as soon as Ben proposed, it was the first place that came to mind.”
“What’s Ben’s full name?”
“Parker. Dr. Ben Parker. He’s a pediatrician. In Boston.”
“And he won’t mind trekking to New Hampshire for his wedding?”
“He’s left everything up to me,” said Brittany, “so he better not.”
“Okay, then,” said Rory, watching her over the rim of his wineglass.
His smile was easy, but his eyes were intense, staring at her face like he was trying to reconcile his memories of teenage-her with adult-her. She wondered how she measured up against herself, although, to be honest, she was a bit surprised he’d recognized her at all. She doubted they’d exchanged more than a handful of words over the course of four summers.
Suddenly, he tilted his head to the side. “Can I ask you something?”
“Fire away,” s
he said, taking another sip of wine.
“You’re…twenty-seven? Like me?”
She nodded.
“I’m just curious, because—that seems young, you know? To be married, divorced, and marrying again.”
Some women may have been affronted by the baldness with which Rory Haven made this observation, but several of Brittany’s friends had called her out on the exact same thing. She offered him the response she’d given them.
“Just because it didn’t stick the first time doesn’t mean it won’t this time.”
“Why didn’t it?” he asked, toying with the stem of his glass, his eyes more interested than nosy. “Stick?”
Without giving it much thought, she opted for honesty. “I wanted kids. He didn’t.”
“And this time?”
“Ben’s a pediatrician,” she said, “and already a father. He loves kids.”
Rory grinned at her, lifting his glass as though toasting her. “Good. I’m glad you’ll have what you want this time.”
She smiled back at him, although the nagging truth was that Brittany had never asked Ben point-blank if he wanted more children. Before he’d proposed, while they were still dating, it had seemed indelicate to ask him, and maybe she was even a little scared that mentioning kids would put too much pressure on them. And after he’d proposed, she’d simply chosen to believe that he wouldn’t have asked her unless he wanted kids too.
She’d convinced herself—as she just had Rory—that a man who had children and loved children and treated children must want more. Besides, on the night they met, she was crying over wanting her own, so it was fair to assume that he knew her feelings about having children, and yet, he’d still pursued her.
He’d been a master at pursuing her, in fact.
There’d been romantic, candlelit dinners and impromptu knocks at her door after he’d finished a long shift. He’d pull her into his arms, undressing her in the foyer as he murmured that he couldn’t be apart from her for another moment. He’d spoken several times at A Better Tomorrow, his warm words of encouragement and handsome smile endorsing long months of earned sobriety among the women Brittany wanted to help. Yes, indeed. Ben Parker was the most perfect boyfriend Brittany had ever had.
Once they’d gotten engaged, she meant to bring up having kids as they walked by a playground some lazy Sunday morning or after spending a day with his girls. But putting a ring on her finger hadn’t accelerated their relationship, as she’d expected. In fact, sometimes it still felt like they were dating, not getting ready to plan a life together.
His work schedule dominated their lives in a way that had seemed dedicated at first and now seemed overbearing. But if you marry a doctor, she reasoned, the cost will sometimes be putting yourself second. It’s worth it, Brittany. It’s worth it for a man like Ben Parker.
Anyway, when he’d consented to the wedding date on Thursday night, the question of having children together had rushed to the forefront of her mind, but something—maybe her gratitude that they were finally pressing forward in some measure—had held her back from asking.
She recalled his words on the night they met, I bet your babies will look like angels someday, and exhaled the breath she was holding.
Of course he wants children. Of course he does.
She looked up at Rory Haven to find him watching her intently.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “How about you? Do you have kids? Want them?”
“Have them? No. Want them?” He grinned at her. “Yeah, of course. I’m Irish. It’s one of our specialties.”
“Breeding?” she blurted out.
“Ha! Breeding!” he chortled, his face splitting into a surprised grin. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she wished a hole in the floor would open and swallow her up. Whole. “Sure. I guess. I mean, I would’ve gone with something more delicate like ‘big families,’ but—”
“I could die.” Brittany reached up to cup her flaming cheeks, shocked by her own rudeness. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Ror—I mean, Mr. Haven…Oh, God…”
Still laughing as Victor served their salads before slipping away, Rory caught her eyes over the rim of his wineglass. “Okay. First of all, no more Mr. Haven. It’s Rory. Once two people talk about breeding over lunch, they must remain on a first-name basis for life.”
Brittany’s head drooped forward as she stared down at her lap with mortification.
“And second of all, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Britt.” He paused, taking a bite of salad. “It’s all good. It was funny. Shake it off.”
Britt.
Huh. Britt.
It had been a long, long time since anyone but Hallie had called her “Britt,” and it made her pause because the girl once called Britt was so different from the woman who was Brittany.
Britt had been carefree and fun. She spent six weeks of bliss at Summerhaven and loved every second. She had three best friends who had her back, who kept her secrets and believed in her. She was confident and witty—and sure, a little silly and sassy—but full of giggles and hugs. But most important of all, Britt wasn’t lonely. She was loved. She knew that she was loved by three friends she adored like sisters.
Spearing a piece of grapefruit on her fork, Brittany rested it on the plate for a second as the old nickname continued to ping in her head, welcome—so very, very welcome—after so many years.
Looking up at Rory, who was eating his salad but still grinning in good-natured amusement, Brittany felt the scorching heat in her cheeks cool a little.
“You know what? I was called that when I summered here. Britt, not Brittany. When I was here, I was Britt.”
“I know,” he said, his deep-green eyes meeting hers, the rumble of his soft voice making something forgotten come alive inside of her. He nodded, his bright smile an unexpected balm to the uncertainness in her heart. “I remember.”
***
After lunch, Rory took Brittany on a tour of the updated property, showing her the new gardens, gazebo, banquet hall, and chapel, chatting with her about her “dream wedding” and making mental notes about where she’d like to have the rehearsal dinner, ceremony, and reception.
She was cheerful and sure-footed beside him, exclaiming over things she remembered and offering compliments on his renovations. And though he doubted that Brittany Manion was much involved with the hotel chain her great-grandfather had started in the early 1900s, he still felt chuffed that a Manion was complimenting his work and vision.
When they got to Lady Margaret cottage in Oxford Row, Brittany squealed, running to the front door and holding out her hand for the key. “Can I go in?”
Charmed by her enthusiasm, he handed over the master key, letting her unlock the door and following her inside.
What had once been a small, semirustic cabin—with a crumbling fireplace, no electricity, two bunk beds, four small bureaus, four armoires, and a shared cold-water bathroom—had been beautifully upgraded.
The old fireplace had been rebuilt with fresh brick and mortar, and a soft, thick, sheepskin rug covered the shellacked pine floor. There were two queen-sized sleigh beds, also in pine, one on each side of the bathroom door, and covered in Frette sheets and expensive down duvets. And if she peeked into the bathroom, she’d find a modern waterfall shower and white marble vanity and countertops. The cottage was as luxurious as a double room in any five-star hotel, and Rory was proud as hell of the refurbishments.
But Brittany stood frozen in the doorway, as still as a statue.
“Britt?” he whispered.
She inhaled deeply, as though she’d been holding her breath. “It’s all gone.”
“Wh-What’s gone?”
“Lady Margaret.” She took another step into the cottage and gestured limply to the bed on the left. “The bunks. The…the little dressers. It’s all gone.”
“Oh,” said Rory, swallowing his disappointment at her reaction. “Well, we couldn’t very well ask corporate executives
to sleep in bunk beds. We had to…you know, change things up.”
But, dammit. It hadn’t occurred to him that compromising her nostalgia might change her mind about having her wedding at Summerhaven. Shoot. He didn’t want that to happen. He really needed her business.
“The beds are comfortable. Really comfortable, and guests are loving the waterfa—”
Still a little zoned out, she started speaking over him. “I think…I think when you love a place, you freeze it in your mind. You expect it to stay the same forever. And it would have, if I hadn’t come back.”
She was right. In her mind, this would have remained a musty-smelling, fireplace-crumbling cabin for four little girls with beat-up furniture from the 1940s and a cold-water spigot in the bathroom. Forever. Seeing it renovated had taken that away from her.
But Rory looked over her shoulder at the improvements. Despite her obvious disappointment, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for them. He’d put his heart into the changes at Summerhaven.
That said, however, he hadn’t traded her nostalgia for her business. He could feel it slipping through his fingers.
“Well…I guess we should be getting back,” he said, trying to keep the bitterness he felt out of his tone.
“It’s very pretty,” she said softly, letting her fingers touch down lightly on a duvet. “You did a nice job.”
Then she turned and walked out of the cabin.
Rory followed her, his stomach in knots as he locked the door and turned to face her. “…But you don’t want to have your wedding here.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He sighed, though it sounded unintentionally loud in his ears. More like a huff. “You didn’t have to. It’s not the place you remember.”
Her brows furrowed. “I said it was pretty. I said you did a nice job.”
“Nice. The kiss of death,” said Rory under his breath.
“That’s not—hey, wait. I’m not criticizing you, Rory. Give me a chance to grieve what I just lost, okay?”
Clenching his jaw together, he drew in a deep breath and exhaled again. They’d connected over lunch and she’d seemed genuinely impressed with the changes to the camp. Now? He was fairly certain his chance to break into top-shelf weddings via heiress Brittany Manion was gone, and his frustration roiled inside of him.
