A Christmas Bride (13 page)

“Wait, Willow!” Poppy shouted as she hurried down the steps. Willow was standing by an ancient Honda, the late-morning sun glinting in her blond hair. She was beautiful, even dressed for painting in faded jeans and a sweatshirt. She took his breath away.

And that sensation was followed by a huge wave of guilt. What was happening here? He touched his wedding band as a reminder. Somehow the reminder didn't work this time.

“What?” Willow shaded her eyes.

“I thought it might be better for you to take David's car. It's bigger. And he volunteered to help.”

Willow glanced his way, taking in his paint-smeared sweatshirt, old jeans, and sneakers. “You volunteered?”

“Well, actually, Poppy drafted me, but I can help with the pizzas.” He tried to invest his voice with all the things he had wanted to say this morning but had been too dumb or caffeine-starved to get right.

She looked away and shouted up to Walter, “Hey, you guys still need a helper?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Walter said.

She turned and smiled. “Thanks, David. If you get the pizzas, I can help Walter and Dusty.” She turned and strode away without so much as a backward glance.

Poppy heaved a big sigh. “If I didn't know better, I'd say she's trying to avoid you.”

“That's exactly what she's doing.” He turned toward Poppy. “Where are these pizzas?”

“At Marios, out by the interchange. We ordered twenty of them.”

Hardly so many that they wouldn't fit in Willow's Honda. What the heck was Poppy up to?

Willow was helping Dusty and Walter prime some of the worst patches on the front facade and trying to come to terms with the fact that David had actually put on his old sweatshirt when, suddenly, out of nowhere, the iconic voice of Aretha Franklin boomed, telling the world that all she wanted was a little “Respect.”

Willow turned toward the music. Out in the parking lot, Harlan Appleby had set up the beer keg and tables for the pizzas that would arrive shortly. On one of the tables sat an antique portable stereo system—the kind that ran on cassette tapes—its volume maxed out.

“In case you young'uns don't know what this is, it's called a boom box,” Harlan yelled above Aretha's voice. “And I brought my party mix tapes.”

“This should be fun,” said Dusty, rolling his eyes.

Apparently Aretha Franklin was like some kind of pied piper for the baby-boom generation, because shortly after Harlan cranked the volume, the members of Mrs. M's bridge club came wandering out of the house, accompanied by Mom and her friends, Leslie, Alice, and Susan from the Colonial Acres adult community. In no time at all, the sixtysomethings were dancing.

“Come on, you guys, take a break,” Mom yelled. “We'll teach you how to dance the Frug.”

Just then David came rolling up the drive, and lunch was officially served. Everyone took a break. Pizza was consumed, and the older generation set about teaching the younger generation dances like the Swim, the Monkey, and the Stroll, a couple's line dance.

Harlan Appleby dragged Willow onto the blacktop as his dance partner, but somehow, when the moment came for strolling down the line of other dancers, she ended up paired with David. Harlan and David had switched places somehow.

What was David up to, anyway? Hadn't she sent enough signals to let him know that she seriously regretted the kiss she'd given him at the Jaybird and was put off by his sudden interest? Not to mention that dancing with him was not going to do anything positive about the red in her aura.

David snagged her hand, and the electricity flowed right up her arm. “We're supposed to be strolling down the line like this.” He executed a flawless grapevine step. Who knew David Lyndon could dance? Apparently dancing was a required skill for the political set. Although she could think of several presidents who had embarrassed themselves on the dance floor.

If David ever reached that pinnacle of power, he'd be safe. He possessed a male grace that had always blown Willow away. Whether he was stepping on the dance floor or casting a fishing line, the man never looked awkward.

Oh, boy, this was bad. Worse than bad. She was enjoying the moment, the touch of his hand, the look in his eye. She wanted to kiss him again. But she couldn't do that. Not here in public.

So when they got to the end of the line and he let go of her hand, she turned her back on him and walked away, up onto the portico, into the lobby, and right into the ladies' restroom, where she hid out for ten minutes.

When she came back outside, David was standing on the edge of the parking lot watching the old folks get it on to the Rolling Stones' iconic hit “Satisfaction.” Even Mrs. M was out there dancing—with Walter Braden of all people. Mrs. M looked like she had stars in her eyes.

The fun might have continued well into the afternoon if it hadn't been for Pam Lyndon, whose SUV turned into the driveway right as “Satisfaction” ended and the Beatles song “Yesterday” started up. A few couples hooked up—Bud and Viola, Faye and Harlan, and Walter and Mrs. M.

But everyone else turned to watch as Pam's white Land Rover, with its special United States Senate license plates, pulled into the parking lot.

“The Duchess of Charlotte's Grove has arrived,” Melissa said as she came to stand beside Willow on the portico's top step. “Right in time to be a killjoy.”

Willow put her arm around the bride-to-be. “It's going to be fine. Look around you. See how many friends came out to help today? And we've been having a great time. Pam's the one who missed out. You'll be talking about the paint party for years, you know?”

Melissa smiled. “Yeah, I will. Thanks.”

Melissa and Willow watched as Pam unfolded herself from the driver's seat. Her black wool pants and matching cashmere cardigan were clearly not intended as painting attire. Pam wasn't alone. A tall, narrow woman with a sizable bust got out of the passenger's side. She wore a pair of skinny black pants with a man-tailored shirt over a tight-fitting tank top. A pair of three-inch black heels and a bunch of gold jewelry polished off the look.

Arwen came up beside Melissa and Willow and said, “Uh-oh.”

“What?” Willow asked.

“It's Roxanne Kopp, August Kopp's daughter. David is eventually going to marry her.”

Willow's insides dropped like they sometimes did when she'd ridden the penthouse elevator down from Restero's New York headquarters.

“He's engaged?” Willow asked.

“Nah,” Arwen said. “Pam, August, and Roxy have to figure out a way to get him to take the wedding band off first. But, believe me, they are plotting and scheming. David and Roxy belong together.”

“You think?” Melissa said.

“Yeah, sure. She's rich, smart, beautiful, and understands Washington. She'll help him become the politician he needs to be.”

“What does that mean?” Willow asked.

Arwen shrugged. “I don't think David's heart is really in this congressional run. I think he's just doing what's expected of him, the way he always does. Now, his sister, Heather? That's a whole different story. I think she'd jump at the chance to run for office if it weren't for her old man's misogynistic views. But then, she's just doing what's expected too. Loyal sister and all that. At least David has chosen her to be his campaign manager.”

Pam strolled up the walkway in a pair of Kate Spade pumps. The duchess studied Eagle Hill Manor's scraped but as yet unpainted facade with an expression of disgust. Roxy followed behind like a long-legged puppy.

David came out of the house and brushed past Willow. He intercepted them before they reached the portico.

Pam gave him a kiss. So did Roxy, and the moment that woman's plump lips touched David's mouth, something ugly and intense burned a hole right through Willow's gut. She recognized the jealousy. She was such an idiot for letting herself fall into lust with David Lyndon.

With the pleasantries done, Pam cast her gaze over the volunteers, searching until she found Natalie, who was munching on a slice of pizza and hanging out with Alice and Leslie, two of Mom's friends.

“Natalie Marie Lyndon, what have you done to your hair? Oh, my God, David, she's got paint all over her head. I don't know what we're going to do about that child. She's always making such messes.” Pam's reprimand was delivered in a loud enough voice for everyone to hear above the mellow tones of Paul McCartney's voice and acoustic guitar. She was so loud that Mrs. M and Walter stopped slow dancing, which was kind of a shame, because they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying each other.

Right then something snapped inside Willow, and a pure, clean anger spilled through her like a river spilling over a dam. She stepped down onto the path and stalked right up to Pam. “You know,” she said in a big voice intended for Natalie to hear, “there's a saying my mother always uses. It goes like this: ‘The best days end with dirty clothes.' Natalie has been having a very good day today, which is why her clothes are really, really dirty. But you know what? They aren't her good clothes, and luckily, Mrs. M stocks plenty of my mother's lavender soap to clean up when the day is done.”

Pam's blue-eyed look of indignation conveyed the impression of entitled royalty. Melissa was right; Pam Lyndon was as high and mighty as a duchess. “You”—Pam rudely pointed a finger at Willow's chest—“will have nothing to do with my granddaughter. Is that clear? You've already made enough trouble for my family.”

Oh boy, there was that word again. But this time Willow embraced it. “Oh, yes, I am a troublemaker. I make the kind of trouble that brings people together to have a good time and paint the inn at the same time. And as for Natalie, no, I have no intention of staying away from her. I'm her godmother, and while I admit that I've been absent for a while, I'm back now, and I take my responsibility seriously.” She snapped her spine, planted her hands on her hips, and prepared herself for a catfight if Pam Lyndon wanted one.

But just then Natalie came running across the lawn to Willow's side. She tugged on Willow's sweatshirt. “Miss Willow, Miss Willow,” she said.

Willow looked down at the beautiful child who was more or less covered in green paint from her nose to her toes. “Natalie, not now. I'm—”

“Are you really and truly my fairy godmother? Can you turn the pumpkin into a carriage? Can you make my wishes come true?”

Behind her someone giggled. The laugh stopped abruptly, followed by a momentary silence, which was broken by a warm, silky laugh that belonged to David Lyndon himself.

Willow looked up, only to realize that she was standing right next to him. How odd to see him laughing instead of sulking and grumping. The sound of his laughter sent Willow's heart soaring.

“I'd like to see you turn a pumpkin into a carriage,” he said through his laughter as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I bet you could do it too.”

“Can you really?” Natalie jumped up and down on her paint-splattered sneakers.

“Do not encourage her,” Pam said, then stared down at her granddaughter. “You're far too old to believe in silly fairytales, Natalie. Ms. Petersen is not your fairy godmother. She can't do much of anything, really, except make trouble. You shouldn't listen to one word she says. She doesn't tell the truth.”

And just like that, Willow's bravado disappeared. How many times would people call her a liar just because she told a secret Restero didn't want told? The world was not a fair place, and she wasn't a fairy godmother. Hell, she wasn't much of an ordinary godmother either. She couldn't work magic, and given that she'd been absent most of Natalie's life, she really didn't have any right to tell Pam Lyndon how to raise her grandchild.

She'd overstepped. She'd let her anger and her growing affection for Natalie (and David) warp her judgment. Making a scene wouldn't help Natalie. In this town, people challenged Pam Lyndon at their peril.

“Excuse me,” she said, stepping around Pam. She walked calmly until she reached the edge of the woods, and then she broke into a run. She was out of breath by the time she reached the meadow adjacent to the Laurel Chapel. She fell down onto her knees, sank into the coarse brown grass, buried her head in her hands, and bawled her eyes out.

Is this what Shelly had had to contend with? Willow had heard enough from her friend to know that being David's wife hadn't always been the fairytale Shelly had once believed in.

David Lyndon was a handsome and appealing man, but he was also grumpy and Scroogy and he let his mother run roughshod over his daughter. He wasn't a prince. He hadn't slain any dragons or rescued any damsels.

This was the problem with modern princes. They could awaken a woman with their kisses, but the rest of the prince thing was utterly beyond them.

D
avid's laughter died the moment Willow squared her shoulders and marched off into the woods. Mother had managed to cut her down to size in about a nanosecond, and that pissed him off.

“Why are you here?” he asked, putting his hand on Natalie's shoulder to keep her from scampering off into the woods after her fairy godmother.

“Roxy stopped by, and I thought it would be fun for you and Natalie to join us at the Red Fern Inn for tea or cocktails.”

David doubted that Roxy had just “dropped by.” Mother had been shoving Roxy in his face for several weeks now. And if Mother had really wanted to meet for drinks somewhere, she would have called or texted. No, she had used Roxy as an excuse to check up on the status of the paint party. Mother was probably hoping Willow's party would fail, and that Jeff and Melissa would change their minds when they realized how dilapidated the inn had become.

“What on earth made you think that I could join you for cocktails today? You knew today was the paint party.”

“David, dear, I didn't expect you or Natalie to be painting. Really. If Jeff and Melissa want to get married here in this…place, well, I suppose no one can stop them. But I didn't really expect you to help them. To be honest, I expected you to go fishing this morning.”

“Mother, like it or not, this is my house, and that makes me the official host of Jeff and Melissa's wedding reception. You need to accept both of these facts.”

“David, I know this is your house, but not by choice. I mean you—”

“I chose to marry Shelly. That wasn't a mistake.” He fingered his ring.

“Well, whatever, you know what I mean. Charlotte's Grove is your home. It's the house you'll inherit one day. This place is merely a liability you're planning to sell.”

He could hardly argue that point, so he didn't. He let his mother rant on.

“I can understand why you decided to help your cousin. After all, you are both members of the same family. But I will never understand why you hired
that woman
. You know she has a terrible—”

“Don't,” he said, his voice going hard.

“Don't what?”

“Say what you were about to say. I don't want to hear about Willow Petersen's reputation.”

“Well, you should. Have you even bothered to read what they're saying about her in the
Wall Street Journal
? David, her father was that horrible punk-rock person who killed himself. And we all know what her mother is like.”

“Yep, we sure do,” Linda said from somewhere behind him. “And trust me, Lucas was a good man. A little confused, but his heart was made of gold.”

Mother sniffed. “David, really? I can't believe you're spending time with these people.”

“Why? You're the one who is always telling me I need to get out and connect with the people if I'm going to run for Congress. So, here I am, connecting with folks. I want you to look around at the people assembled here. Some of these people are Jeff and Melissa's friends. Some of them are Poppy's friends. Some of them are friends of the inn. Willow got them all here together. And that's a good thing—for Jeff and Melissa and even for me.”

“David, really, don't take that tone—”

“Stop. I don't want to hear it.” He clamped his mouth shut before he spoke his mind too clearly. He was exhausted by his mother's antics. She had been calling him daily complaining about the wedding, trying to set him up with Roxy, talking trash about Willow, and nagging him constantly about his congressional run whenever it served her purpose.

She glared at him. He glared right back.

“You're behaving like a child,” she said.

“No, Mother, I'm behaving like a grown-up.” He nudged Natalie behind him and got right up in his mother's face. “It's time for you and Roxy to leave,” he whispered.

“David, really, you—”

“What part of ‘leave' did you not understand? Get it through your head, Mother, Jeff and Melissa are getting married at Grace Presbyterian and the reception is going to be here, at
my
house.”

“David, don't—”

“Go now, before I lose my temper.”

They stared at each other, blue eyes to brown, and finally Mother turned around, took Roxy by the arm, and guided her back to the SUV.

“Daddy?” Natalie said in a small voice as Mother peeled out of the parking lot.

He turned and squatted down to be on his daughter's level. “Don't worry about what Grandmother said. You don't have to stay clean all the time. I'm very proud of you for all the painting you've done. And we have more to do. Why don't you help Melissa organize these folks to get busy painting the outside while I go find Miss Willow and tell her I'm sorry about what Grandmother said to her?”

“Is she really my fairy godmother?”

The tight coil of anger eased a little. He even managed a smile that felt rusty and out of shape. Maybe he needed to practice smiling more. He gave Natalie a little kiss on one paint-smeared cheek. “Miss Willow is your godmother, sweetheart. She's not a fairy, and I don't think she can do magic like changing pumpkins into carriages or mice into horses.”

“Yes, but she's going to get me a beautiful green dress with a hood.”

“Yes, I guess she is.”

“So that's sort of like a fairy godmother, right?”

“Uh…”

Melissa came to his rescue. She stepped down from the portico and squatted down too. “Yes, Natalie, it's exactly like what a godmother does. And while Willow isn't exactly a fairy, she's definitely magical.”

David opened his mouth to argue, but when Natalie's face lit up, he shut it tight.

“Really?” his daughter asked, her big brown eyes wide.

“Absolutely,” Melissa said. “She's more than that; she's a miracle worker. Now, why don't you come help me paint? I'll paint the tall parts and you can paint the short parts. How does that sound?”

Melissa stood up and gave David a big smile. “Thank you,” she said. “For standing up to Pam and for hosting my wedding, and for hiring Willow too. She's been amazing, David.” Melissa glanced at the woods. “You should go find her and bring her back. What your mother said to her was mean.”

David nodded. “I'll be back in a minute. In the meantime, you're in charge.” He glanced up at the sky; clouds were beginning to roll in. “We need to finish before the rain comes.”

“I've got this,” Melissa said. “You go find Willow and bring her back. Tell her we all love her.”

We all love her
. The thought pounded in David's brain as he turned and jogged through the woods. Did he love her? No, certainly not in
that
way. But Willow had been a friend for a long time. And recently she had gotten way deep under his skin.

He knew the way to Laurel Chapel this time. In early winter, the meadow stretched away brown and dead, punctuated by dry wildflowers. The cemetery looked dark and dreary as the clouds rolled in. The chapel itself brooded like some ancient relic out on an English moor.

Willow wasn't hiding inside the chapel like Natalie had done. So it took him a moment to find her, lying facedown in the grass.

“Willow!” He said her name sharply. Like everything here, she looked dead. He fell down on his knees by her side. “Are you okay?”

She turned her head in his direction, her eyes puffy, her nose red. She'd been crying. Hard. The look on her face left him feeling hollow and angry at the same time. How could the mother he loved be so cruel?

“Willow,” he said, fighting through the anger to find an island of calm. He pulled his handkerchief from this pocket. “Here, blow your nose.”

She rolled over and stared up at a sky that had turned from bright endless blue into rolls of gray flannel. “Of course you carry a handkerchief,” she said, bypassing his offering and wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. Willow had always been good at drawing lines between them, of pushing him away. She'd been doing that all week, and he understood why. But suddenly he was exhausted by it.

“Come on, sit up. Mother's gone, and I've been deputized to bring you back. Melissa told me to say that everyone loves you.”

She barked a laugh and curled up from the ground, blades of dry grass sticking to her shirt and tangling in her honey-colored hair. He reached to brush the grass away, and a carnal heat surged through him the moment his palm slid through her hair. He inhaled sharply, reveling in the erotic rush. He deepened his touch, tangling his fingers where once the blades of grass had been. He cupped her skull and drew her toward him.

He expected her to push him away. Instead, she stretched into his touch like a cat demanding attention. He indulged her, stroking and fondling as she pressed against his hand.

A deep longing settled down in his gut, prickling along his back and down to his butt. Arousal. He'd forgotten how good it felt, and like a crazy teenager, he wasn't about to stop now. She'd initiated that little nothing of a kiss the other night at the Jaybird, and she'd been running from him ever since. If he wanted more, he would have to take it.

He slanted his mouth across hers.

Oh, man, she had killer lips. Soft, plump, mobile, sexy. He explored her mouth with his tongue and then his teeth. He wanted her mouth on his body, and she obliged, nipping his cheek, kissing down his neck, and then coming back, opening for him.

He stopped thinking, stopped worrying, stopped trying to resist. He wanted this woman in the worst way. And he would have her.

He pushed her back onto the grass. She fell willingly, and he covered her body with his own.

David Lyndon smelled like an exotic spice that came from a faraway place: piquant and unique and hot. So very hot. All of him, his mouth, his stubble, his scent made her a little crazy.

And then he kissed along her jaw and laved the spot right below her earlobe.

“Oh, yeah, right there,” she whispered, when he hit the magic spot that made her whole body flash to attention.

She could have sworn she heard a rumble of laughter, or maybe it was just the earth moving or something. He pressed his hips against her, and there was no doubt that David Lyndon was enjoying himself. And just thinking about David being hard and naked turned her on a little bit more. She wanted to strip him bare and ride him.

But wait, that would be stupid. And dumb. And complicated. And wrong.

Okay, maybe not wrong, exactly, but not right either.

Her brain was making a valiant effort to take over from the hormones that had suddenly found themselves in control. And for an instant her brain almost won the battle.

But then David touched her nipple through the fabric of her old sweatshirt and thinking became impossible and highly overrated. Except for those thoughts about getting him naked.

She found the edge of his sweatshirt and pulled it up. Oh, yeah, that was better, his skin was so hot and silky smooth. But touching him unleashed a maelstrom of want. She wanted to feel his warm body sliding across more than her hands. She wanted him to sit up so she could take the sweatshirt off. She wanted to roll him in the grass until he begged for mercy.

She'd never rolled in the grass with anyone before. And suddenly a tumble in the grass moved up to number one on her bucket list.

Oh, crap, was that a raindrop? It
was
. There was another one.

A second later the unseasonably sunny November day turned bad. Abysmally bad.

“Crap,” David said as the skies opened up. He grabbed her by the hand and tugged her from the ground. They were soaked to the skin by the time they found shelter in the one corner of the chapel where the roof remained intact.

They stood facing each other in the storm gloom. David's hair hung over his forehead in a wet tangle, and the look in his dark eyes said it all. Like her, he'd come to his senses. The cloudburst had definitely put a chill on the mood.

“Uh, um, I didn't come here intending to do that,” he said.

“Neither did I,” she said.

They stared while the rain beat down heavily on the roof above them. A cold wind rattled the trees and made Willow's skin pucker. She wrapped her arms around herself, a small part of her wanting David to pull her toward him again and envelop her in all his masculine warmth.

But it wasn't going to happen, and that was probably wise.

“I'm so sorry,” he said, looking away through the broken window at the sudden storm, then down at his sneakers. Anywhere but directly at her. “I came here to apologize for what my mother said. And the dumb things I said this morning. I didn't intend—”

“It's not your place to apologize for your mother. She needs to apologize for herself. Not that I ever expect her to do anything like that.”

He looked up then, water dripping down the side of his face. She wanted to push his hair back, dry that trickle that almost looked like tears. “Why do you say that?”

“Your mother doesn't consider me worthy of an apology. Hell, she probably believes what she said. There are plenty of people out there who believe that I purposefully set out to ruin Restero's reputation because Corbin Martinson jilted me and I wanted to get a big payback from him.”

“You were involved with Martinson?”

“Come on, David. I know you read the exposé in the
Wall Street Journal
.”

“I don't think so. I'm not a big fan of the
Journal
. And even if I were, I'd rather hear your side of the story.”

“I was in love with Corbin, okay? I worshipped the ground he walked on. He was my mentor and then my lover and I thought…Well, stupid me, I thought he loved me. But I learned pretty quick that wasn't the case when I discovered that Restero had knowingly sold defective hip replacements. Corbin was the first person I went to with that information. And he was also the first person to tell me to shut up about it.