Christmas in Vermont Page 10

  “You’re not making me want to get married and have children,” Emma laughed.

  “Fifty-one weeks a year, I’m perfectly happy,” Bronwyn said, fanning herself with a magazine. “But if I ever say I’m going to have a staycation the week after Christmas while my husband is skiing and my nanny is visiting her mother, you have my permission to gag me.”

  “I saw a photo of Scott on Instagram. He’s two shades darker than when he arrived in Maui,” Emma sighed.

  “Don’t think about Scott. I want to hear about Fletcher.” Bronwyn took off her sunglasses. “Have you seen him again?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Emma groaned. “It was the most embarrassing night of my life.”

  “You want to know embarrassing?” Bronwyn rejoined. “When you send a sexy text telling your husband what you’re going to do when his sprained ankle is better and realize you sent it to the car service instead. I’m going to have to wear a disguise when the town car picks us up tomorrow.”

  “I had dinner at the Goose Duck Inn so I wouldn’t run into Fletcher in the dining room,” Emma began. “But Fletcher and Megan and Lola were sitting on the other side of the restaurant.”

  “Did you spend the whole night spying on them from behind your menu?” Bronwyn asked. “I did that once when my date stood me up at the Olive Garden. Two nights later I was having dinner there and he appeared with another girl. He wanted to use his coupon.”

  “It was worse than that,” Emma replied. “Lola came over to my table and insisted I join them.”

  “You ate dinner with Fletcher and his fiancée?” Bronwyn gasped. “I might need to drink one of those piña coladas. Is she the Marilyn Monroe bombshell type of blonde, or one of those Scandinavian blondes who looks like she inhales her food through a straw?”

  “She was stunning.” Emma recalled Megan’s perfect features. “She has this elegant nose and almond-shaped green eyes.”

  “The nose is probably bought, and even the eye color could be contacts,” Bronwyn said knowingly. “Nothing is real these days. Mrs. Peterson’s lip implants are paying for three nights at The Breakers in Palm Beach. What was she like? Did she hang all over Fletcher and gush at everything he said?”

  “She graduated from Yale, and she’s going to be starring on Broadway,” Emma corrected her. “She’s hardly a theater groupie.”

  “There must be something wrong with her,” Bronwyn offered. “An eye twitch or an allergic reaction to dairy products.”

  “I did notice some kind of friction between them,” Emma mused.

  “You see!” Bronwyn beamed. “The watch brought you to Vermont to stop Fletcher from making a terrible mistake. He’s going to fall back in love with you and you’ll live happily ever after,” she predicted. “But make sure he buys you a new diamond ring. If Megan gives the engagement ring back, you don’t want to wear the same one.”

  “I’m not even going to think about Fletcher. I have some copy to write for a new lipstick,” Emma laughed. “Don’t post too many photos of Palm Beach on Instagram. If I see any more pictures of white-sand beaches, I might be tempted to get a spray tan.”

  “They never work evenly,” Bronwyn said. “And you look beautiful with pale skin, like Snow White before the prince kisses her.”

  * * *

  Emma descended the staircase and slipped down the hallway. The parlor was empty, but she didn’t want to take a chance of running into Fletcher and Megan. She was about to open the door when she heard someone calling her name.

  “Emma!” Lola’s small face appeared. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s not time for kids’ club yet. I didn’t know you were back,” Emma said, turning around. “I thought you and your father went ice skating.”

  “We had a wonderful morning!” Lola nodded. “Dad took me to the Crêpe Café and I had a stack of pancakes this high.” She waved her hands. “Then we skated circles around the skating rink before anyone was there. The best part was that Megan stayed at the inn because she wanted her beauty sleep,” Lola said thoughtfully. “The last thing Megan needs is to get more beautiful.”

  “I don’t think anyone can be too beautiful,” Emma reflected.

  “Some people have a sparkly beauty. My mother is beautiful because when she smiles you feel happy,” Lola mused. “Megan’s beauty is scratchy, like a wool sweater that looks pretty in the store but itches when you put it on.”

  “Your mother sounds lovely,” Emma offered.

  “She’s my best friend,” Lola agreed. “Besides my father and Cammi, of course. My mother would do anything for me.”

  “So would your father. He loves being with you.”

  “I always thought so, but Megan wants all his attention,” Lola said doubtfully. “We had so much fun at breakfast because she wasn’t there. We played tic tac toe while we ate our pancakes, and when we ice skated we sang our favorite Christmas songs.” Lola giggled. “My father has a terrible voice. He’s lucky he never tried to be an actor.”

  “The first night we met in college, he acted in a one-man show,” Emma recalled. “He only told me later that it was because he couldn’t get any other students to perform.”

  “Were you really good friends?” Lola inquired.

  “It was a small college; everyone knew each other,” Emma said, and stopped herself. She shouldn’t be talking to Lola about Fletcher. “I have to go. I’ll see you this afternoon for kids’ club. I thought we could go sledding and build a snowman.”

  “Can I come to breakfast with you?” Lola asked.

  “But you already ate,” Emma said, puzzled.

  “I’d rather be with you. Megan just got up and my dad wants to visit boring antique stores,” Lola said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, I’m a growing girl, I’m always hungry.”

  * * *

  Main Street was bustling with tourists in knitted ski sweaters and après-ski boots. Christmas songs blared over the loudspeakers, and the shop windows were filled with New Year’s Eve streamers and colored tinsel.

  Lola kept up a constant chatter about moving to America: her mother said she would love bagels with cream cheese, but they weren’t as good as warm crumpets with orange marmalade. Then she ticked off the things she missed about Christmas in London: the food hall at Harrods, with its cases of English toffees; seeing the Christmas lights from the top of the London Eye; ice skating at Trafalgar Square.

  “You have all that in New York,” Emma said as they entered a diner with a linoleum floor and red booths. There was a jukebox and a blender with a sign that offered Ovaltine milkshakes. “You can ice skate at Rockefeller Center, and Zabar’s sells every kind of Christmas treat. You can even take a cruise and see the Christmas lights on the Statue of Liberty.”

  “My mother was too busy to come into New York during the holidays, and my father spent the week before Christmas with Megan’s parents in New Jersey.” Lola shrugged. “Even Cammi wasn’t available. Her parents are trying to outdo each other with vacations. Her father dragged her to Aspen for Christmas, and now she’s stuck in the Bahamas.”

  “That doesn’t sound too terrible,” Emma said, laughing.

  “Everyone knows hotel Santa Clauses aren’t real,” Lola said. “And Cammi hates the beach. She has sensitive skin.”

  “I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than Snowberry, Vermont.” Emma picked up the menu. “There’s nothing better than making new friends.”

  “Especially when I get to eat more pancakes!” Lola said happily. “I’ll have the hot apple crumble special. It’s a crêpe filled with cooked apples and cinnamon.”

  The waiter brought two hot chocolates topped with whipped cream. Emma ordered a crêpe filled with sliced strawberries and bananas and a side of blueberry compote.

  “I know who was crying yesterday,” Lola said, biting into her crêpe. “It was Betty.”

  “Who told you that?” Emma asked in surprise.

  “No one, I figured it out. She canceled the talent show becau
se of an emergency, and this morning I heard her talking on the phone,” Lola replied. “She sounded upset.”

  “Lola, you can’t eavesdrop on people,” Emma counseled her. “You’re going to get into trouble.”

  “I didn’t listen on purpose. I was in the mudroom putting on my boots. They have long laces, and it takes forever to tie them,” she insisted.

  “Betty is having money problems, and might have to shut down the inn,” Emma acknowledged.

  “She can’t do that!” Lola exclaimed. “I want to ask my dad if we can come back in the summer. We could go fishing and ride bicycles.”

  “I wish there was a way to help her,” Emma sighed. “Her husband died, and the inn is all she has.”

  Lola dipped her spoon into her hot chocolate. “We can hold a fundraiser; it’s done all the time in the theater. Last Christmas when my dad directed The Nutcracker, the lead actress’s house burned down in a fire. There was a special performance, and the ticket sales went to buy her family a Christmas tree and turkey with all the trimmings.”

  “That’s a lovely idea, but I’m leaving in four days and so are you. We can hardly put on a play before New Year’s.”

  “We could hold a talent show on New Year’s Eve and invite everyone in Snowberry to enter,” Lola said eagerly. “We’ll put up posters around the village. The entry fee will be fifty dollars, and all the proceeds will go to Betty.”

  “I doubt that would be enough money to make a difference,” Emma said, her resolve wavering.

  “There’s lots of wealthy tourists,” Lola pondered. “If they know it’s for a good cause, maybe they’ll donate more. Once the theater held a fundraiser for a stagehand who broke his leg in a motorcycle accident, and somebody donated a car.” She ate a spoonful of whipped cream. “We found out later that his mother put up the money because she wanted him to stop riding a motorcycle. You never know, we could raise enough to save the inn.”

  “How would we publicize it?” Emma wondered. It really was a good idea. Betty had spent every summer and Christmas in Snowberry for years; people would want to help her.

  “Let’s go back to the inn and make posters,” Lola suggested. “I’m pretty good at drawing, and you can think up what to say. Then we can put them all around the village. Everyone will know about it by night time.”

  “We should ask Betty first.” Emma was suddenly excited. “She might not want to accept charity.”

  “Christmas is about doing things for others,” Lola reminded her. “Betty will be doing a good deed by allowing people to help her. And maybe it was fate that made me hear her on the phone.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma’s ears pricked up.

  “My mom believes in destiny—you know, that there’s some big mystical plan that guides you through life,” she said earnestly. “Maybe it was fate that made me take so long to tie my shoelaces and overhear Betty’s conversation. Now we’re going to have a fundraiser and help her save the inn.”

  Emma thought about Bronwyn’s belief that destiny had caused Emma to find Fletcher’s watch and go to Snowberry.

  “We haven’t saved Betty’s inn yet.” She ruffled Lola’s hair. “But that’s pretty clever. Sometimes I forget you’re nine years old.”

  Lola looked up from her hot chocolate, and there was a spot of whipped cream on her nose. “I told you. In the theater, age is just a number.”

  * * *

  “A New Year’s Eve talent show!” Betty said when Emma told her their plan. Emma and Lola sat at the kitchen table while Betty arranged a tray of shortbread. “That’s a wonderful gesture, but I don’t know if we could raise enough to make a difference.”

  “Lola said some people would donate more, and she’s right,” Emma replied, and Lola nodded eagerly. “The Smuggler’s Inn is part of Snowberry. Everyone would want to help.”

  “We do get a lot of wealthy visitors from New York and Boston,” Betty said thoughtfully. “We could ask some of the shopkeepers to be the judges: Molly at the flower shop, and Gunther who owns the ski store. But we couldn’t hold it here. The fire code limits the number of people allowed in the dining room.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” Emma said, feeling deflated. The talent show wouldn’t work if there wasn’t a big enough venue.

  “We could hold it at the playhouse,” Betty said, brightening. “It’s usually only used for the summer festival, but there’s a stage and a piano and plenty of seats.”

  “It sounds perfect.” Emma beamed. “Lola and I will make the posters, and you can call the shopkeepers and arrange the playhouse.”

  “I’ll get my pens.” Lola jumped off her chair. “And when my dad comes back, he can help us.”

  “Your dad?” Emma gulped. For a moment she had forgotten about Fletcher and Megan. How was she going to avoid Fletcher if they were working together on the talent show?

  “I’m only nine years old,” Lola said, and there was something mischievous in her eyes. “I can’t do everything myself.”

  * * *

  “Those are good drawings.” Emma picked up a sheet of poster board.

  Emma and Lola were sitting on the floor in Lola’s room. There was a box of colored markers and a selection of posters with Lola’s pictures. One had a snowman standing in front of The Smuggler’s Inn with Emma’s caption: “Help Frosty keep his home.”

  “My dad says I get my drawing talent from my mom—she’s a costume designer.” Lola sat back on her heels. “Well, she was one in London. Then she married Chuck and moved to Connecticut. Now she drives me to school like the other mothers, and spends the day baking and rearranging the furniture.”

  “I’m sure she does more than that,” Emma suggested.

  “One time I came home and the sofa from the living room was in the family room. She says it’s because she’s never had a big house. And she doesn’t want a job. When she was a costume designer, I hardly ever had playdates.” Lola paused. “I didn’t mind. I loved going to the theater on school nights. I hung out backstage and someone always offered to help with my homework.”

  “Your parents were lucky they could take you to work,” Emma agreed. “My best friend Bronwyn is a dermatologist, and her girls have a nanny. Bronwyn doesn’t get home until dinnertime, and she misses them so much.”

  Lola jumped up and walked to the bedside table. She opened a drawer and took out a photo.

  “This is my mom and dad and me on the set of Oliver Twist.” Lola handed it to Emma. “Dad was the director and Mom designed the costumes and I played an orphan.”

  In the photo Lola was wearing a pinafore and her cheeks were smudged with makeup. Fletcher’s head was close to hers, and on the other side was a woman with Lola’s flaming hair. Her eyes were green and she was wearing a satin blouse and dangling earrings.

  “What a lovely photo,” Emma commented.

  “Since her parents’ divorce, Cammi has two of everything. She has two American Girl dolls and two of the same pair of UGGs. She even has two guinea pigs; Harry Potter lives at her mom’s, and Hermione stays at her dad’s. I think that’s the worst part. My bedroom used to be my favorite place because it had everything: my doll collection and my songbooks and my clothes. Now everything is spread out between two houses, and neither of them feel like home.”

  “You haven’t been in America long,” Emma said, and touched her arm. “Soon both places will be familiar.”

  “There’s no place like Broadway if you want to be an actress, so I should love New York.” Lola’s mouth wobbled. “But I miss London. My dad and my mom and I were a team, and it will never be the same.”

  * * *

  Emma stood at her window and looked out on the snow-covered landscape. They had finished the posters and Emma had returned to her room. It was early afternoon and the scene outside was like a postcard. Children dragged sleds down the sidewalk, and the white fields were dotted with wooden barns and clapboard houses.

  She remembered the photo that Lola had showed her, and felt
a sense of longing. What would it be like to be part of a family? To know that someone cared about you more than anything in the world. And to love someone so much that you would do anything to make him happy.

  Emma leaned against the windowsill and remembered when she and Fletcher had been so in love. They’d been a team; there was nothing they wouldn’t do for each other.

  April, 2008

  Waterville, Maine

  Emma opened the window of her dorm room and inhaled the scent of fresh-cut grass. It was the first day of classes after spring break, and the whole campus was alive with color. The gardens had bloomed while she was away, and the trees were finally green.

  After almost four years at Colby, Emma knew that there could be another snowstorm; the real warm weather—when you could bicycle around campus without bringing a sweater—was weeks away. But it was lovely to allow the breeze into her room and think about the outing she and Fletcher had planned for tomorrow: seeing a play at the Waterville Opera House, and then having a picnic in the park. They hadn’t seen each other in a week, and she couldn’t wait to be together.

  There was a meowing sound, and Emma glanced at the box on the floor. She had gotten herself into a bind, and if she didn’t fix it, there might not be an outing tomorrow. Worse, she might get in trouble with her resident assistant and get kicked out of her dorm.

  When she arrived at her dorm this morning, a kitten had been crouched next to the entrance. She waited for someone to claim it, but no one came. Finally she found a box in the storeroom and took the kitten up to her room.

  There was a knock at the door, and she stuffed the box in the closet.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said when Fletcher appeared in the doorway.

  “That’s not a very effusive greeting when we’ve been apart for a week.” Fletcher entered the room. “I missed you. You were flying around the country, while I was stuck serving ice cream cones to tourists in Kennebunkport who wondered why there were snow showers during their spring vacation.”