Christmas in Vermont Read online

  “I’ll think about it.” Fletcher was suddenly uncomfortable. Why was Lola having dinner with Emma, when she’d said she had a stomachache and was going to stay in bed?

  “I’m glad you called,” Stephen was saying. “I’d like you to take my offer seriously.”

  “Your offer?” Fletcher dragged himself back to the conversation.

  “To direct A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Snowberry in the summertime is the perfect place for a child. And you’d bring such wisdom to the production—it would be the best season we ever had.”

  “It’s a tremendous opportunity, but I’m getting married,” Fletcher said.

  “Think about it,” Stephen urged. “I spent enough summers in Manhattan to know that the humidity is unbearable, and all the good places to eat close for July and August. Up here we have working farms and outdoor markets selling fresh fruits and vegetables. Lola could learn to grow watermelons and milk a cow.”

  * * *

  Fletcher strolled along Main Street, but he was too distracted to appreciate the smell of hot cinnamon buns coming from the bakery or the sight of the first skaters making circles on the ice.

  What had Lola been doing with Emma? It was one thing for them to spend time together at kids’ club, but Lola had said she had a stomachache and couldn’t go to the dinner theater. Had Lola been telling the truth, or had she not wanted to go to dinner with Fletcher and Megan? Megan and Lola seemed to be getting along better. Megan had complimented Lola on her mane of red hair, and Lola had said how much she liked Megan’s new dress.

  It was Fletcher’s fault; he was letting everyone tell him what to do. He and Megan and Lola were a family, and it was time he took control.

  Lola was in the kitchen with Betty when he returned to the inn. Watching her scribbling furiously in a notebook, Fletcher was awed by the beauty and complexity of his daughter. She was so small; her legs barely touched the ground when she sat on the stool, but she had a drive combined with a clarity he couldn’t have imagined at her age.

  “You seem to have recovered from your stomachache,” Fletcher said, waving at the plate of cinnamon rolls on the counter.

  “Betty said I can’t pass up cinnamon rolls at Christmas. Plus, they’re delicious.” Lola pushed the plate to Fletcher. “Try one.”

  “I think I will.” Fletcher ate a bite of sticky bun and wondered what Megan would say about his cholesterol. Then he reminded himself he was in charge; one Danish wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Betty and I are making the program for the talent show.” Lola showed Fletcher her notes. “It’s going to be like American Idol. Stephen will be the emcee, and there will be three judges.”

  “I saw Stephen at the playhouse this morning,” Fletcher replied. “I’ve got some ideas for decorating the stage.”

  “Yes, he called me.” Betty poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Fletcher. “He’s determined to make you take him up on his offer.”

  “What offer?” Lola asked, wiping icing from her chin.

  “Stephen wants your father to direct the Shakespeare festival next summer,” Betty said, turning to Lola. “The playhouse has never had a big-name director before; it would be good for all the businesses in Snowberry.”

  “I’m hardly a big director,” Fletcher cut in. “This will be my first play on Broadway.”

  “Of course you’re famous,” Lola insisted. “Dad has been to a reception at Buckingham Palace. And he met Harry Styles; Mom was so impressed when I showed her Harry’s autograph.”

  “My friend Graham takes me along every year to Elton John’s Halloween party,” Fletcher said modestly. “I never know who these people are, but he makes sure Lola gets the best autographs.”

  “You and Lola would love summer in Snowberry,” Betty urged. “Lola can pick blueberries, and I’ll teach her to make strawberry rhubarb pie.”

  “It is tempting. I love regional theater, and I’m anxious to direct more Shakespeare,” Fletcher reflected. “But this summer won’t work. Megan and I are getting married.”

  “You could get married at The Smuggler’s Inn,” Betty suggested. “My roses will be in bloom and the summer fruits will be in season. I can’t think of a better place for a wedding.”

  “It’s a perfect plan!” Lola piped up. “I can help Betty bake the wedding cake. And Emma can make the invitations—she’s very good with words.”

  “Emma!” Fletcher exclaimed. Lola was like a runaway horse; he had to rein her in.

  “You and Emma are old friends,” Lola said logically. “I thought you would want to invite her.”

  “Megan and I haven’t started a guest list.” Fletcher put down his coffee cup. “I’ll think about it, Betty, but right now I need to talk to Lola.”

  “We are talking,” Lola replied. “We’re planning a wedding.”

  “I need to talk to you upstairs,” Fletcher said, and turned to Betty. “Thank you for the coffee and pastries.”

  * * *

  “Is it something important?” Lola asked when they reached her room. “Because we need to get the program finalized by this evening.”

  “I want to help Betty save the inn, but that’s not why we came to Vermont.” Fletcher leaned against the desk.

  “We’re here so Megan and I can get to know each other better.” Lola perched on the bed. “But babies don’t get to know their parents before they’re born. No matter what, they’re stuck with them.”

  “Well, yes, but this is different.”

  “You mean, Megan doesn’t have to like me?” Lola wondered.

  “What gave you that idea?” Fletcher asked. “Megan thinks you’re one of the smartest, most talented girls she’s met.”

  “If she was my real mother, that wouldn’t matter,” Lola persisted. “If you had a new baby, you’d love it because it was yours.”

  “Megan and I aren’t going to have a baby anytime soon,” Fletcher assured her.

  “But if you did, or if Mom and Chuck did, you’d love it even if it had a nose like Pinocchio.”

  “I haven’t seen many babies with noses like Pinocchio,” Fletcher chuckled. “These are odd questions—is something bothering you?”

  Lola hopped off the bed and walked to the closet. “Cammi and I were just talking about babies. She’s worried that when the new baby arrives, her mom won’t have time for her.”

  Fletcher walked over to Lola and put his arms around her.

  “I see what this is about.” He hugged her tightly. “Parenting doesn’t work that way. Parents can love all their children at the same time.”

  “That’s what Emma said.” Lola nodded. “But I didn’t believe her.”

  “Why were you talking about babies with Emma?” Fletcher asked, startled.

  “She was buying presents for her goddaughters, and we got on the subject of babies.” Lola shrugged. “But let’s talk about something else. Why did you want to come upstairs?”

  “You said you had a stomachache last night. But Stephen saw you and Emma at the choir concert,” he began.

  “I know—crazy, right? I was feeling so bad I didn’t want to get out of bed, and then poof”—Lola waved her hands—“I was all better.”

  “Miraculous.” Fletcher was perplexed. Lola was obviously concerned about something, but she could close up like a turtle retreating into its shell. When he and Cassandra broke the news last year that they were divorcing and moving to America, Fletcher had expected an outburst of tears. Instead the only thing Lola said was she would miss Annabelle’s birthday party, and there was going to be a magician.

  It was only much later, when he recounted the scene to his therapist in New York, that he understood Lola had focused all the pain of the divorce on missing a birthday party with finger sandwiches and a magician in a black top hat.

  “I’m glad you’re better, because you and Megan and I are going to spend today experiencing Vermont,” Fletcher said.

  “Can we experience it tomorrow? I have kids’ club this afternoon. And I can�
�t ice skate today, I scraped up my hands on the ice,” Lola said. “And I love pancakes with maple syrup. But Mom will get mad if I come home with cavities.”

  “I’ll tell Emma you’re not doing kids’ club today. We’re going to do something different.” Fletcher tried to remember everything he’d read in the brochures. “We’ll start with visiting a glassblowing factory.”

  “That sounds as thrilling as a school field trip,” Lola groaned. “Are you sure this can’t wait until we finish the programs? Betty hasn’t watched American Idol. She won’t pick the right judges.”

  “The programs can wait,” Fletcher said sternly. “And you’ll love the glassblowing factory. They even make glass candy canes.”

  * * *

  Fletcher stood in the hundred-year-old mill that had been converted into a glassblowing studio and tried to concentrate. The excursion had started promisingly: he had hired a horse-driven sleigh outfitted with thick blankets. They drove along country roads, and Lola was so excited by the fields dotted with cows, she barely stayed in her seat.

  And the mill itself was charming. It was a wooden building perched on the bank of a river. They crossed a snow-covered bridge and entered a two-story lobby with a glass Santa Claus.

  But the tour guide had been explaining the glassblowing techniques for what seemed like hours, and even Fletcher couldn’t hide his boredom. Megan inspected her fingernails, and Lola fidgeted with the buttons on her coat.

  “So that’s how a profession that started in 1813 at a glassblowing studio on the banks of Lake Dunmore is now one of Vermont’s biggest industries,” the guide was saying. “If you follow me to the gift shop, there is a selection of glass to choose from.” He smiled broadly. “Children love the glass animals, and there are some vases that make perfect holiday gifts.”

  The guide led them into a separate building with huge windows and cases of glass objects. There were glass pumpkins and glass angels with gold wings. Lola fell in love with a glass hedgehog, and Fletcher thought the blue paperweight would look good on his desk.

  “Look! Aren’t these pretty. They would make exquisite wedding favors.” Megan picked up a perfume bottle with a heart-shaped stopper and showed them to Fletcher. “For men, we could give the cologne bottles. You receive the same favor at every wedding in New York: a Tiffany’s box housing some trinket for the women and a silk tie or pair of cuff links for the men. This would be completely different, and it would look dazzling in the ballroom of the Plaza!”

  “But you might not get married at the Plaza.” Lola inspected the perfume bottle. “You might have the wedding here in Snowberry.”

  “What did you say?” Megan looked at Lola.

  “Dad wants to direct the Shakespeare festival next summer. So Betty suggested you have the wedding at The Smuggler’s Inn,” Lola said. “It was awfully nice of her. She even offered to make the cake.”

  “Have the wedding in Snowberry?” Megan turned to Fletcher. “That’s news to me. You haven’t said anything about this.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing to say,” Fletcher returned quickly. “I saw Stephen this morning and he asked me to consider his offer. I told him it was out of the question because I was getting married. Betty suggested we hold the wedding at the inn.”

  Megan’s expression was as frigid as the ice on the windowpane. She put the perfume bottle back on the counter and glowered at Fletcher.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, more loudly than Fletcher would have liked. “I’ve always dreamed of a big church wedding with a white poufy dress and a long train. And how will we squeeze three hundred guests into The Smuggler’s Inn?”

  “There’s a church just outside of Snowberry,” he stammered. “And the reception could be in the garden.”

  “But I already made an appointment to see St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue—all the top society weddings are held there,” Megan said tightly. “That reminds me. We need to take engagement photos if we want our announcement to be in The New York Times. I ran into an old friend from Yale who’s a photographer, and he offered to take some for free.”

  Fletcher wondered if the photographer was an old boyfriend. Why else would he take free photos? But Megan had never given him reason to doubt her. She didn’t even believe in flirting; she thought it belittled women.

  “I didn’t know you picked out a church,” he said before he could stop himself.

  “And I didn’t know you moved the wedding to Vermont,” Megan countered.

  There was a crashing sound, and Fletcher turned around. The remains of a glass fish were scattered at Lola’s feet.

  “I’m sorry,” Lola said when Fletcher hurried over to her. Lola had wandered away while they were arguing, and he hadn’t even noticed. “I picked it up and it slipped out of my hands. Now you’re going to have to pay for it, and it’s my fault.”

  Fletcher remembered Cassandra always counting to ten when Lola did something wrong. If Cassandra was still angry by the time she reached nine, then Lola deserved a punishment. But this was Fletcher’s fault. He’d practically told Megan they were getting married in Vermont. And he dragged Lola to a glassblowing demonstration when she wanted to work on the program.

  “Accidents happen.” He took Lola’s hand and walked back to Megan. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have considered getting married in Vermont without discussing it with you first.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” Megan replied, but her tone was softer. “And I was going to tell you about the appointment at St. Patrick’s.”

  “Let’s get out of here—the sleigh is waiting,” he whispered to both of them. “I’m hungry, and I don’t need to learn anything more about natural color striations in glass pumpkins.”

  * * *

  Fletcher dipped sourdough bread into a bowl of corn chowder and felt much better. He’d picked the restaurant for lunch, and Megan and Lola agreed it was perfect; it had a slanted ceiling and round tables with checkered tablecloths. The flickering candles gave the room a warm glow, and the smell of butter and spices from the open kitchen was delicious.

  The menu had all their favorite foods: a winter salad with cranberries and kale for Megan, lamb chops with creamed spinach for Lola, and saddle of venison in a walnut sauce for Fletcher. The first thing he did was order a bottle of red wine and a Shirley Temple for Lola. By the time he and Megan had each had a glass of wine and Lola finished the glazed cherry, everyone was in a good mood.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Fletcher said, pouring another glass of wine.

  “I hope it’s not a tour of a chocolate factory.” Lola slurped her drink. “I’d rather just eat a peanut butter cup. I don’t need to see how it’s made.”

  “Betty did suggest a tour of the Ben and Jerry’s Factory but that can wait until another day,” Fletcher agreed. “This is more exciting. It’s about the honeymoon.”

  “We already agreed on the honeymoon,” Megan reminded him. “We’re going to spend ten days in Greece.”

  Deciding on their honeymoon had been easy. They both loved the Greek islands, and Fletcher had planned a side trip to Athens to see the Parthenon.

  “This is in addition to the honeymoon,” Fletcher corrected her. “Since the wedding is in July and rehearsals for Father of the Bride don’t start until September, we can take a bit more time.” He paused, the wine and good food making him enjoy the suspense. “We can meet Lola in England. The English countryside is gorgeous in the summer, and we can catch a performance at the Old Globe Theater. We’ve never been to London together,” he said to Megan. “It’s the perfect opportunity to show you around.”

  “But Lola is only nine. Do you think it’s safe for her to fly across the Atlantic by herself?” Megan said.

  “She’ll be ten by then, but I have it all figured out,” Fletcher responded. “Graham is coming for the wedding, and he planned on staying an extra week. He and Lola can fly over together—he’s her godfather.”

  “Yes, please!�
� Lola piped up. Her mouth was red from the cherry syrup, and her smile was almost as big as her face. “Graham is the best godfather. He takes me to lunch at the Savoy and introduces me to actors. Once we met an actress with really short hair and it turned out to be Emma Watson.” Lola swooned. “I almost didn’t recognize her because of the haircut, but she told me all about growing up at Hogwarts.”

  “That does sound tempting. I haven’t been to London in years,” Megan mused. “We could attend Wimbledon—the paparazzi love photographing the spectators, and it would be good to get international exposure. And we could set up some meetings—it would be fun to do a play in the West End.”

  The whole reason Fletcher had moved to America was to stay close to Lola; he couldn’t direct a play in London. And the British press would be too busy snapping photos of celebrities like David Beckham to notice Fletcher and his new bride. But Megan and Lola were excited about the same thing, and he didn’t want to ruin their enthusiasm.

  “Let’s order something to celebrate.” He picked up the menu. “Warm gingerbread pudding or spice cake with eggnog ice cream?”

  “Warm gingerbread pudding!” Lola and Megan said in unison.

  Everyone laughed, and Fletcher signaled the waiter. Lola and Megan chatted excitedly about London, and Fletcher leaned back in his chair. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment: Christmas lights twinkling in the window, logs crackling in the fireplace, Lola and Megan’s heads pressed close together. They were going to create a wonderful family, and he didn’t have a thing to worry about.

  * * *

  “Can we go tubing?” Lola asked when the sleigh stopped in front of The Smuggler’s Inn. The hill behind them was filled with children on sleds. The sound of laughter mixed with the whooshing of rubber tubes scudding down the slope.

  “I thought you wanted to help Betty with the programs,” Fletcher reminded her.

  “I do, but it looks like fun.” Lola pointed to two teenagers spinning down the hill on tubes. “Please, let’s do it together.”