Christmas in Vermont Page 5

  The possibility of them both living and working in New York made the weak tea taste delicious. But she didn’t know how Fletcher felt about her. Maybe he simply had two tickets to the Waterville Opera House and didn’t want to go by himself.

  “What do you want to do after graduation?” Fletcher’s words cut into her thoughts.

  “Move to New York,” she said simply. “I want to visit the museums and ride the subway and buy a carton of milk at midnight.”

  “Isn’t that a little vague?” he said, grinning. “Will you be a dog walker, or go to law school and become a judge?”

  “I’ll do something with my English degree.” She flushed. “Publishing, or work at a magazine. I’ve seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s a dozen times, and every episode of Sex and the City.” She stirred her tea. “You might think that’s shallow, but we can’t all have a burning passion.”

  “Wanting to live in New York isn’t shallow. Passion doesn’t have to be about your career; it can be for anything that makes you happy.” He touched her hand, his eyes serious. “Maybe I’ll be an assistant director at an off-off-Broadway play and convince you to be in the audience.”

  Emma gulped and looked straight into Fletcher’s eyes. “You won’t have to convince me. Whatever you direct will be wonderful.”

  Six Days Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  Except that Fletcher had gotten an offer from the Old Vic in London, so they ended up living five thousand miles apart. And when one of her friends had a connection at Ogilvy & Mather, Emma gratefully accepted a job. She told herself she might be writing three-word ad copy instead of editing literary fiction, but Madison Avenue had its own glamour, and it was still New York.

  So why was she sitting in the dining room of a Vermont inn chasing an eleven-year-old dream? She finished breakfast and walked down the hallway. There were framed landscapes of Vermont: barns with red roofs, hillsides alive with color. It all looked so beautiful that for a moment she was sad to leave.

  She peered into a room with a bay window and a piano. There was an ancient rug and a crystal chandelier that could use a good dusting.

  Emma sat on the piano stool and ran her hands along the keys. It was perfectly in tune, and tentatively she began to play. First she tried simple chords, and then she played a Christmas medley: “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” “Silent Night,” and her favorite: “So This Is Christmas” by John Lennon.

  “That was good—will you play it again?” a small voice asked.

  Emma looked up and saw the little girl in the striking wool coat. Except now she was wearing something completely different: a striped sweater with flared jeans and a pair of green clogs.

  “I didn’t know anyone was listening,” Emma stammered, recognizing Fletcher’s daughter.

  “There’s nothing else to do.” The girl perched dejectedly on a chair. “My father was supposed to rehearse with me for the talent show, and then we were going to see the covered bridges. But he went out hours ago and he’s not back.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.” Emma’s eyes traveled to the door, half-expecting Fletcher to appear.

  “He’s gotten so unpredictable lately,” the girl sighed. “My best friend Cammi said the same thing happened when her parents got divorced. My father is different—we’re like this.” She twisted her fingers together. “At least we were, until the good witch entered the picture. Now I have to remind him I’m alive.”

  “The good witch?” Emma asked.

  “That’s our code word for his new girlfriend.” She rolled her eyes. “Well—fiancée, technically. You should see that ring. I was hoping it was a prop for the new play. But Cammi confirmed it’s real. She should know; her mother practically lives at Tiffany’s.”

  “Your father is engaged?” Emma tried to sound calm.

  “Honestly, I would have expected better from him,” the girl said knowingly. “But Cammi said if you present a divorced man with a long pair of legs attached to a twenty-something body, they can’t help themselves. She showed me all these articles about how men can’t be alone.” She looked at Emma. “Did you know that most single men don’t know how to do laundry? And don’t even get Cammi started on cooking. After her parents got divorced, she learned to make macaroni and cheese and lasagna.”

  “Your friend sounds very accomplished,” Emma laughed. “How old are you?”

  “I’m almost ten, but age is only a number when you’re in the theater. I plan on being a big star by the time I’m fourteen.” She looked at Emma nervously. “Eighteen at the latest.”

  “That’s inspiring, and I’m sure you’ll achieve it.” Emma stood up. “I have to go, but it was nice talking to you.”

  “Please don’t go, there’s no else to talk to,” the girl said, and suddenly was excited. “You can help me rehearse for the talent show.”

  “Me?” Emma repeated.

  “I was going to sing a Christmas song.” She moved over to the piano. “Please—my father won’t come back for ages, and I won’t have practiced at all.”

  “No, I can’t.” Emma shook her head. What would happen if Fletcher and his fiancée appeared and she was sitting at the piano with his daughter?

  “It’s snowing too hard to do anything else,” the girl argued. “If my father sees how good I am, maybe he’ll pay me some attention.”

  “I’m sure he pays you attention,” Emma said.

  “Not when the good witch is around,” the girl said. “I didn’t mind at first. I want my father to be happy, and he hadn’t smiled much since he moved to New York. But then he gave her a part in the play and now she’s practically moved into his apartment and soon they’ll be married.” The little face crumpled. “If I don’t do something drastic, he’ll forget I exist.”

  “I suppose I could practice a few songs,” Emma said, her resolve wavering. “I don’t even know your name. I’m Emma.”

  “I’m Lola.” The girl held out her hand. “My father taught me that an actress has to have a good handshake. It shows the director you have confidence in yourself. Can we start with ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’? Some people say it’s a cliché. But if it’s good enough for Mariah Carey, it’s good enough for me.”

  Lola started to sing and her voice took up the whole room. For a moment, Emma forgot about Fletcher and was swept up by the clear notes.

  “Bravo,” a female voice called.

  Emma looked up. Betty was standing at the door, carrying a laundry basket.

  “I’m sorry.” Emma stopped. “I should have asked before I played your piano.”

  “Nonsense, that’s what it’s for.” Betty beamed. “You’re both so talented. And I’m so glad you found each other.”

  “Found each other?” Emma repeated.

  “Lola is the little girl signed up for kids’ club,” Betty said and turned to Lola. “I didn’t know you were here. Your father told me you would be out all day.”

  “We were supposed to be.” Lola shrugged. “But Megan wanted to go snowshoeing with my father first, and they haven’t come back.” She looked at Emma brightly. “I’m glad because I got to rehearse with Emma. She’s going to accompany me in the talent show.”

  “No, I’m not,” Emma said, startled. “I was just helping you rehearse.”

  “Why not?” Lola asked. “If you’re going to watch the show, you may as well perform. And we can practice again later this afternoon. If it’s still snowing then, it’ll be more fun than playing Scrabble.”

  “Lola is right.” Betty set her basket on the floor. “And I’m preparing a special dinner, since we’re practically snowed in: venison and baked potatoes and plum pudding for dessert.”

  Emma looked from Lola to Betty and couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

  “All right.” She nodded. “I’m going to go up and take a bath. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “One more thing,” Lola said as Emma walked to the door.

  Emma turne
d around and thought, she really was a beautiful child, with that flaming hair.

  “Do you have something special to wear?” Lola asked. “Clothes are very important. You have to wear something the audience wants to watch.”

  * * *

  Emma sat on the bed in her room and turned on her computer.

  “Emma!” Bronwyn appeared on the screen. There was some kind of mud mask on her face and she was holding a cocktail glass.

  “What’s on your face, and are you drinking?” Emma momentarily forgot her own problems. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “We had a little incident at lunch. Sarah decided to cook. She set the table with Barbie plates and served noodles and meatballs.” Bronwyn sipped her drink. “I swear I was only gone from the kitchen for a minute. I don’t know how she mixed Trixie’s dry dog food into the Bolognese sauce.” She winced. “I only found out because I almost broke a tooth. I’m hoping the scotch will neutralize the kibble in my stomach.”

  “Why are you wearing a face mask?” Emma tried not to laugh.

  “That’s so Sarah can’t see my expression.” Bronwyn grimaced. “She did it by accident, but I have the extremely un-motherly desire to strangle her.

  “Enough about me—I want to hear about you and Fletcher. Let me guess: You ran into each other last night at dinner, and he asked you to join him. You roasted chestnuts until midnight and talked about everything you missed. Then you stumbled up to his room and made love all night. Now you’re going to join him in the outdoor Jacuzzi, where you’ll sip schnapps and make heart-shaped rings with your breath.”

  “That’s definitely the movie version,” Emma said, nodding. “The real-life version is, I went ice skating yesterday and saw Fletcher with some leggy blonde and a beautiful little girl. I was too embarrassed to go downstairs to dinner and was determined to leave this morning. Only it’s snowing, so I decided to play the piano.” She took a breath. “Then Fletcher’s daughter heard me playing and convinced me to accompany her in tonight’s talent show.”

  “Could you repeat that, please?” Bronwyn said. “Liv is crying for her pacifier and I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “Liv doesn’t use a pacifier, and you heard me perfectly!” Emma’s voice cracked. “You missed a few things in your investigating. Fletcher is divorced, but he’s also engaged. And he has a nine-year-old daughter named Lola who acts like she’s twenty and is determined to be the next big thing.”

  “Is his fiancée nice?” Bronwyn asked.

  “I don’t know! Fletcher hasn’t seen me, and I don’t know what to do when he does,” Emma moaned. “Lola calls her the good witch. Apparently since she came into the picture, Lola feels ignored.”

  “What did you say?” Bronwyn was suddenly alert.

  “Lola is afraid the new fiancée is stealing her father away,” Emma explained. “That’s why I couldn’t say no. She’s desperate to perform in the talent show so Fletcher will notice her.”

  “Don’t you see? It’s synchronicity all over again.” Bronwyn peeled the mud off her cheek. “You were planning on coming back to New York, but then you got snowed in. Of all the people who heard you playing the piano, it was Fletcher’s daughter. You’re going to perform in the talent show together, and it will all work out perfectly.”

  “You forgot about the blond fiancée with a diamond ring that’s as big as a bird’s egg,” Emma reminded her.

  “It’s probably a rebound relationship. I see it all the time at the practice. Newly divorced men come in for Botox, and a few months later they’re making dual appointments for themselves and their new girlfriends.” She leaned toward the screen. “You and Fletcher have a history together. That’s why you’re both in Vermont.”

  “I’m in Vermont because you made it sound like Fletcher was single and broken-hearted,” Emma said.

  “If it was a healthy relationship, his daughter wouldn’t call her the good witch,” Bronwyn insisted. “Let synchronicity do its work. All you have to do is sit at the piano and play ‘Jingle Bells.’”

  “I didn’t really have a choice. Lola is worried that since the fiancée entered the picture, Fletcher has forgotten all about her.” Emma sighed. “Not to mention the fact that she’s the only child signed up for kids’ club.”

  “Lola is the little girl who’s doing kids’ club!” Bronwyn couldn’t have been more excited. “You saved the best news for last. If that isn’t destiny at work, I don’t know what is. You’re going to spend the whole week with Lola; you’ll get to know her intimately. You see? You’re going to rekindle your great love and save Lola from a mean stepmother.”

  “Life isn’t a fairy tale, even if it is Christmas,” Emma said, but she remembered Lola’s trembling mouth and couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  “Life is whatever you believe it will be.” Bronwyn pulled the mud mask off her other cheek. “I have to go and cleanse. Enjoy yourself, and wear something sexy tonight—you don’t want to look like Lola’s piano teacher.”

  Emma hung up and rifled through her suitcase. She wasn’t going to wear the low-cut red sweater because Bronwyn had told her to look sexy, or because Lola wanted her to impress the audience. She was going to wear it because she’d bought it with last year’s Christmas bonus, and it hadn’t done anything all year except sit in the back of the closet.

  It did look good with the black slit skirt she had packed at the last minute. She held them both up to the mirror and groaned. What was she thinking? She could sit at the piano in a lace negligee and she wouldn’t be any match for a twenty-something blonde with impossibly long legs.

  Six

  Six Days Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  FLETCHER LATHERED SHAVING CREAM ON his cheeks and thought it had been a surprisingly good day. It had started off shakily. Megan had been disappointed that The Smuggler’s Inn didn’t have a fitness center and insisted that they get some exercise. Fletcher had stared out at the rooftops shrouded in snow, longing to spend the day reading scripts by the fireplace.

  But at his last physical, the doctor hadn’t liked his blood pressure and prescribed a daily workout routine. So Fletcher had gamely accepted the snowshoes Betty offered, and followed Megan outside. The village that yesterday had been full of the sights and sounds of Christmas was one of those abstract paintings that, no matter how you looked at it, was just different shades of white.

  Now it was five o’clock in the afternoon and he was glad he’d joined her. Trekking through the snow had been so peaceful. The pine trees were hung with icicles and there were squirrel tracks in the fresh powder. The pressures of New York and the play fell away.

  He and Megan had only planned on snowshoeing in the morning, but then Megan discovered a farm-to-table restaurant that offered a five-course tasting menu. The chef happened to be standing at the door and informed them that everything served in the dining room—the graham-cracker-crusted duck frites and lamb sliders made with fig jam—was prepared from local ingredients. Fletcher had read about Vermont cheese, but he hadn’t imagined it was different than the selections at his local gourmet food store. But the blue cheese was nutty and sweet, and the sheep cheese melted in his mouth, and the tangy cheddar served with warm bread was better than anything he’d ever tasted. The waiter served them pale ale flecked with gold, and he grudgingly agreed Graham was right; he was a lucky man.

  He tried to call Betty and ask if Lola could do kids’ club this afternoon, but there was no cell reception. But it was only lunch; they wouldn’t be gone very long. There had been a moment of panic when they finally got up from the table and Fletcher realized it was already mid-afternoon. He’d promised Lola he would help her rehearse before tonight’s talent show, and now it was going to be too late. But Lola was in a particularly good mood when they returned to the inn. He offered to listen to her song, but she smiled that mysterious smile that made her look older than nine and told him he’d hear it at the talent show.

  “You sm
ell good.” Megan appeared in the bathroom. “I just woke up, but seeing you makes me want to go back to bed.”

  Even in a flannel robe and with her hair pinned back, Megan was beautiful.

  “So do you.” Fletcher was tempted to wipe off the shaving cream and kiss her. “But shouldn’t you be dressed? Dinner and the talent show start in half an hour.”

  “I was taking a nap and thinking about the first time you saw me act in a play.” Megan stood beside him in front of the mirror. “Do you remember? I think I fell in love with you the moment I spotted you in the theater. You were so calm, and I was a nervous wreck.”

  “Of course I remember.” Fletcher nodded, wondering as he often did how much his life had changed in six months. “It was at that little theater in SoHo. The acting was worse than anything I’d seen in college, and the writing was so leaden, I had to pinch myself to stay awake.” He smiled. “But you came onstage for three minutes at the end, and it was like arriving at the top of Mount Olympus.”

  “Afterward we had a beer at the bar next door,” Megan said, taking up the story. “I was so anxious, and you said I was too talented for the production. The director would be lucky to be the guy handing out programs in the plays I was going to perform in. You had so much faith in me, and it made me feel like I could do anything.”

  “I was right,” Fletcher said, beaming. “You’re going to be fantastic as the older sister in Father of the Bride.”

  “I’ve been rereading the script.” She wiped shaving cream from Fletcher’s cheek. “I think I should play Kay.”

  Fletcher stiffened, and the feeling of warm benevolence evaporated like fresh snow on the windowpane. “That’s the starring role—and we’ve already got an actress attached. Haley Thomas was nominated for a Tony for her last performance.”

  “Think about the publicity,” Megan urged. “Megan Chance plays the lead role in the Broadway remake of Father of the Bride directed by her fiancé, London-based Fletcher Conway. The fashion designers will go crazy wanting to design my real wedding dress, and we can do all sorts of tie-ins. I can shop for my going-away outfit at the same department stores we feature onstage; we can even mention some real New York wedding planners.”