by Amanda Cabot
Marisa frowned. If she’d been as experienced at sewing as Lauren, she would have realized that and not have wasted her and Blake’s time.
“The owner has her heart set on having formal tablecloths. A wide exposed zipper isn’t what she’s expecting.”
Though the clerk looked sympathetic, she offered no suggestions, perhaps because there were none.
“Here’s what the tables look like,” Blake said as he showed her one of the pictures he’d taken with his cell phone.
The clerk studied it for a moment. “It’s pretty. Do you always have eight settings at the table?”
Marisa shook her head. “Not always, but we will when we use the tablecloths. Why do you ask?”
“I have an idea. It’ll be more work, but you could use a piece of trim to cover the zipper. If you do that, I suggest adding seven more like spokes on a wheel. That way the zipper wouldn’t be obvious.”
“And we’d have clearly defined place settings.” It was a wonderful idea and one that might not have occurred to the clerk if Blake hadn’t shown her the picture. Marisa smiled as she envisioned the finished product. “I like it. Do you by any chance sell trim?”
“No, but there are a couple of great places in the city.” The clerk scribbled names and addresses on a piece of paper.
When they were back in Blake’s car with their purchases safely stowed in the trunk, he shot Marisa an amused glance. “When you told me you enjoyed procurement, I didn’t realize what it involved.”
“Neither did I. I feel as if I’m on a treasure hunt, and thanks to you, we have a good chance of finding that treasure.” Marisa settled back in the seat after entering the address of the first notions store into the car’s GPS. “This is more fun than preparing tax returns.”
By noon, they’d acquired everything Marisa needed, and after visiting the drive-through lane of a fast-food restaurant, they took their lunches to a small park.
“This is hardly competition for Strawberry Chantilly,” Blake said as they spread their food on one of the tables overlooking the pond, “but the shake isn’t bad.”
“And we get live entertainment.” Marisa pointed at the pair of ducks that was squabbling over a piece of bread left by a previous visitor.
Though loud, Blake’s peal of laughter did not appear to faze the ducks. “That’s one way of describing it,” he said with another laugh. “You’re amazing, Marisa.”
“Hardly.”
“Yes, you are. You’re the only person I’ve dated who looks just as happy sitting on a metal bench eating a greasy burger as she did dining at a fancy French restaurant.”
Keeping a firm grip on her burger, lest the ducks that were waddling ever closer decide to snatch a bite, Marisa smiled at Blake. “It’s the company that makes the difference.”
“Does Kate know you’re doing this?” Lauren asked as Marisa spread the first tablecloth on the cutting table in the back of HCP.
Marisa shook her head. “I thought I’d wait until I had a finished product to show her. I told Mom, so she’s no longer worried, but as far as Kate knows, we’re still expecting the custom cloths she approved. I want to surprise her.”
Though the original plan had been to have only one set of ivory tablecloths with matching napkins that could be used on Sunday and for holidays, Marisa had ended up buying three sets. The ones she’d chosen for Thanksgiving were printed with cornucopias and other autumnal motifs in seasonal colors. Those would have a dark brown braid covering the zipper and marking each of the place settings.
Unable to resist the idea of special table coverings for Christmas as well as Thanksgiving, Marisa had been disappointed to learn that the store had only four red cloths, but when she’d found four green ones in the same fabric, she had snatched them up and had bought gold trim to give them a festive look. And, keeping in mind Kate’s wish for Sunday dinners with linen tablecloths, she’d selected plain ivory cloths with a fancy woven braid in the same shade. Those would be subtle but elegant, exactly what she thought Kate had envisioned.
“I wish I could help you with this,” Lauren said, her expression telegraphing her disappointment, “but . . .”
“You’ve got your own work, not to mention taking care of Fiona.” When she’d embarked on this project, Marisa had known she would have to do it alone. Undoubtedly, Lauren would have been able to make the modifications to the tablecloths faster than Marisa, but she had other commitments, and the town’s one seamstress had just had carpal tunnel surgery.
Lauren glanced at her watch and frowned. “I’ve got to run. Betsy Lenhardt is staying with Fiona this afternoon, and you know what a clock watcher she is. I’ll never hear the end of it if I’m late.”
“Where’s Drew?” As far as Marisa knew, he never took a day off.
“He said he had to talk to Greg about something. I didn’t want to pry.”
“Of course not.” Marisa wouldn’t be surprised if Drew was actually talking to Mom, trying to get ideas about Christmas gifts for Lauren and Fiona. He’d mentioned something about the number of shopping days until Christmas.
As she reached for her bag, Lauren frowned. “I forgot to tell you. Maggie Roberts was in this morning. She said Hal and Tiffany are coming for Christmas. She made a point of mentioning that Hal was surprised to learn you and your dad are back in town. Apparently, he wants to see your father.”
Marisa felt her heart sink. “That can’t be good news.”
“Exactly what I thought.”
27
Dinner call.” Blake knocked on the door to Lauren’s shop. Even though the shades were drawn and the sign read “closed,” he knew that Marisa was inside, taking advantage of Lauren’s sewing equipment, and that she was expecting the delivery.
“Thanks,” she said as she opened the door. “I’m glad you came.” Though a sweet smile lit Marisa’s face, highlighting those blue eyes that haunted his dreams and his waking thoughts, Blake thought she looked preoccupied, maybe even a bit worried. That was only natural, considering all that she had to accomplish in a few days.
“Mom won’t admit it,” she continued, “but she doesn’t like driving at night, even just the short drive to Dupree.”
“Her loss is my gain.”
When Carmen had told Blake that she was sending dinner because she doubted her daughter would take time to eat otherwise, he had jumped at the chance to spend more time with Marisa. “I thought you might appreciate some company,” he said, “especially since it looks as if we’re not going to get our movie and sundae evening this week.” Blake lifted the insulated container onto the counter. “Your mom said she’d sent enough food for both of us.”
Marisa chuckled as she pulled the plates and utensils from the side pockets. “This is my mother we’re talking about. There’s probably enough for at least four hungry lumberjacks.”
“You could be right. It’s pretty heavy.” He unzipped the top and sniffed appreciatively. “It smells good.”
“Chicken fricassee. That means there’s chocolate pound cake too.” Marisa chuckled as she arranged place settings on the counter. “I may actually survive the night.”
After Marisa gave thanks for the food, she opened the containers her mother had sent, urging Blake to take large servings. “Mom may not be able to sew a straight seam, but no one has ever challenged her title as the culinary queen of Dupree.”
It took only one bite for Blake to agree. Though it would be difficult to say which of Carmen St. George’s meals was the best, this was in the top five. But Blake hadn’t come here for food. He wanted to help Marisa. He glanced through the doorway into the large workroom that formed the back of Lauren’s shop, seeing one of the Thanksgiving tablecloths spread out on a large work surface.
“I don’t know anything about sewing. Is it hard work?”
Marisa appeared surprised by the question. “It’s not physically demanding, but it requires a lot of precision.”
“Like accounting, I would imagine.”
&
nbsp; “I suppose.” Marisa sliced another of the flaky biscuits her mother had sent and covered it with the delicately flavored fricassee. “Somehow it seems more difficult to keep a piece of braid straight than to generate income and expense sheets.”
“It’ll probably get easier with practice.”
Wrinkling her nose, Marisa pretended to frown. “I’ll have plenty of that. I can’t believe I committed to making eight tablecloths before Thanksgiving.”
“Is there any way I can help?” Blake doubted she’d accept his offer. If Marisa was anything, it was fiercely independent.
To his surprise, she appeared to consider the question. “Would you mind holding the trim while I pin it?”
Elated by her willingness to include him in the project, Blake grinned. “Just show me how.”
And so, after they’d finished their supper and packed away the dishes, Blake found himself leaning over a large worktable, holding the end of a piece of dark brown braid. His grandfather would have had something derogatory to say if he’d seen Blake doing what he’d have called women’s work, but Blake didn’t care. He was having too much fun watching Marisa.
He memorized the way she pursed her lips as she placed each pin, taking care to position it at a precise right angle to the braid. Though Blake doubted that the precision was necessary, he wouldn’t say anything to disturb her concentration. Marisa was treating this tablecloth as if it were the space shuttle, acting as if human lives depended on everything being absolutely perfect. That was, he suspected, her way of trying to control a world where so much was out of her hands.
When the eight pieces of braid were aligned to Marisa’s satisfaction, Blake helped her carry the tablecloth to the sewing machine, being careful not to dislodge any pins. She perched on the edge of the chair and leaned forward, guiding the fabric under what she told him was the presser foot.
Sewing seemed to relax her a bit, but when Marisa glanced up at him, Blake noticed that the same faintly worried expression he’d seen when he’d entered the shop was back.
“Is something wrong?”
She looked up, obviously startled by the question. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you seemed preoccupied when I came in, and now you’re looking that way again.”
Still feeding the fabric through the sewing machine, Marisa gave a short nod. “Oh, that. I heard that someone I don’t particularly like is coming back to town.”
The faint tremor in her voice told Blake this was more serious than she wanted to admit. “Who’s that?”
She looked up, her lips twisted into an ironic smile. “The boy who stood me up for our senior prom.”
“Tell me you’re joking.” Blake couldn’t imagine anyone standing up a girl on such an important night. Melody, his date for their prom, had told him that she and her mother had spent two months preparing and that they’d wished for more time. For his part, Blake hadn’t understood why it was such a big production, but he’d accepted the fact that fancy clothes, the right makeup and hairstyle, even the correct height of heels, were important to the female of the species. He’d been more worried about remembering the steps to the various dances Melody had said were her favorites.
“I’m not kidding.”
As she continued to speak, telling him what had happened that May night eight years ago, Blake felt his anger rising. He knew people could be cruel—he’d made a small fortune writing about the various kinds of cruelty one person could inflict on another—but what Hal Lundquist had done to Marisa seemed especially mean.
If the man had been in Dupree today, Blake would have paid him a visit, demanding he do something to make up for the pain he’d caused Marisa. But Hal wasn’t here, and Blake could do nothing other than sympathize with Marisa.
“I hope someone took him to task.” Even as he pronounced them, the words felt inadequate. Hal had been the mayor’s son, and from what Marisa had said, the mayor had ruled Dupree the way a medieval king ruled his country. No one would have dared to cross him or his son.
Marisa’s smile was bittersweet. “My dad tried to talk to his father, but it didn’t accomplish anything.”
Eric St. George rose another notch in Blake’s estimation. It must have taken a lot of courage to confront Hal’s father.
“At least he tried.” And that showed not simply courage but love. Blake wondered if Marisa realized how much her father loved her or whether she believed, as some children of alcoholics did, that that love had been replaced by love of the bottle.
Though Marisa nodded, the furrows between her eyes remained, leading Blake to believe that it was the present, not the past, that bothered her. “There’s no reason you have to see Hal,” he told her.
“I know, and I have no intention of looking for him. As far as I’m concerned, the past is the past.” They were brave words, spoken with conviction, but Blake did not believe them. Marisa’s expression said otherwise.
She shook her head slowly, almost as if she’d read his thoughts. “Meeting Hal is not what’s worrying me. His mother-in-law said he wants to see my father.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t like the possibilities.”
She might not like the possibilities, but the concern he saw in Marisa’s eyes encouraged Blake more than anything she had said. Whether she would admit it or not, Marisa still loved her father. The trick would be getting her to recognize that love.
“You can open your eyes now.”
It was Thanksgiving morning, and though it was hours before the dining room would be prepared for dinner, Marisa and her mother had set up one table to show Kate the new tablecloths and napkins. Though Marisa had worried about whether or not she would be able to keep the tablecloths a surprise, Kate hadn’t asked to see them. She’d been so busy with other plans that all she’d cared about was whether or not there would be linens on the tables for Thanksgiving dinner.
Even with Blake’s help, the sewing had taken longer than Marisa had expected, and she’d finished the final tablecloth only last night. But now the linens were ready, and if Marisa said so herself, they formed a striking background for the resort’s white dishes.
Once everything was arranged, Marisa had knocked on the door to the owner’s suite and told Kate she wanted to show her something. Her face paler than normal, Kate took a sip of what smelled like peppermint tea and followed Marisa down the stairs. When they reached the dining room door, Marisa insisted that Kate keep her eyes closed as she led her to the table, then urged her to open her eyes.
Kate did. The shock and disappointment were momentary, but Marisa saw them. Before she could explain, Kate nodded.
“It’s beautiful and perfect for Thanksgiving,” she said slowly, obviously choosing her words carefully, “but I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you it’s not what I expected. I thought we all agreed on plain white or ivory that we could use on Sundays.”
Why had she thought that surprising Kate was a good idea?
“I’m sorry,” Marisa said. “I should have told you what I was doing. The original supplier couldn’t deliver, so I had to go with Plan B. This is part of it. We’ve got red and green for Christmas, plus a nice ivory for Sundays and other occasions. All three sets cost a bit less than the original supplier was going to charge for one.”
Kate’s hesitance disappeared, and she flung her arms around Marisa, giving her a big hug. “You’re a wonder!” she declared. “Hiring you was the best thing Greg and I did.”
Marisa felt herself flushing with pleasure. She’d worked long hours for Haslett, but she had never felt as fulfilled and appreciated as she did right now. It hadn’t been a mistake, coming back to Dupree.
When Kate had oohed and aahed over the tablecloth and napkins, Marisa returned to the kitchen, intending to tell her mother that Kate was pleased. “Mom . . .” Her voice faded and the rest of her words deserted her as she walked through the doorway. Mom was standing next to the sink, her arms wrapped around Eric, her lips pressed to h
is.
“Sorry,” she said and started to turn.
Though Marisa had obviously interrupted a tender moment, Mom didn’t seem to care. Keeping her arms around her husband, she turned toward Marisa. “There’s no need to leave.”
Her voice was different, softer and sweeter than Marisa had ever heard it. Her face was different too, glowing with happiness. The man at her side was equally at ease, his smile as radiant as a bridegroom’s. Years may have etched lines in their faces, but their eyes had lost the faintly haunted look that Marisa had thought was normal for them, leaving them looking almost carefree.
“I just wanted to tell you that Kate’s happy with the tablecloths,” she said as she spun on her heel and left.
She was only a few steps down the hallway when Eric caught up with her. “I’m sorry if we embarrassed you.” Though he started to put his hand on her arm to stop her, he pulled back at the last second. “I know it’s hard for some kids to realize that their parents aren’t strangers to romance.”
That wasn’t the issue. Marisa had come to terms with the fact that her parents had once been in love. It was the way that love had ended that concerned her. “I’m worried about Mom. I’ve never seen her so happy.”
Eric looked surprised. “Why would that worry you?”
“Because it might not last. What will she do if you leave again?”
His eyes clouded for a second, and he lowered them to keep Marisa from reading his thoughts. When he met her gaze again, Eric’s expression was solemn. “I’m not leaving, Marisa. You’ve got to trust me when I say that I won’t do anything to hurt either your mother or you.”
Trust him. If only she could.
28
In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m wooing you.”
Marisa caught herself just as her foot started to tangle in a tree root. If there were a more unusual setting for a declaration of courtship, she didn’t know what it would be. No moonlight and roses, not even a romantic table for two. Instead, she and Blake were hiking in a small forest. The scent of cedar mingled with the dusty smell of dried leaves underfoot, while the less pleasant aroma of a skunk lingered in the air. They were walking side by side, and they’d been chatting until he startled her with his unexpected words. There was nothing passionate about Blake’s declaration. It was a simple statement of fact.
