Christmas in Vermont Page 6

  “You’re too old to play Kay,” he said without thinking.

  Megan flinched, and he reminded himself of the cardinal rule of theater: never mention age to an actress if you want to stay in her good graces.

  “I’m in my mid-twenties,” Megan reminded him. “That’s hardly too old to play a bride.”

  “Of course not. But Elizabeth Taylor was twenty in the original movie,” Fletcher said hastily. “The whole point of the story is that Kay’s father can’t bear to give his little girl away. You’re so womanly and self-assured.”

  “She did seem quite immature,” Megan said thoughtfully and Fletcher breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn’t wait to tell Graham how he’d avoided disaster with a few carefully chosen words.

  “But that was one interpretation, and I’ll make the character my own,” Megan debated. “I’ve dreamed of working with Alec Baldwin. He’s going to be an amazing father of the bride. Anyway, Alec is sixty; he could easily have a daughter who’s twenty-four.”

  This wasn’t the time to point out that Megan was twenty-six, and the theater lights would make her look even older.

  “That’s the angle for the remake. Kay is Alec’s second chance at fatherhood, and he’s even more reluctant to see her go than he was on the first go-around,” Fletcher said gently. “And Broadway is different than Hollywood. It doesn’t need outside promotion; people buy a ticket to see the play.”

  “Everything needs promotion. They teach you that at Yale,” Megan answered. “The play will open in September, and we’ll have our wedding at the Plaza in June. Just think about it! The wedding will make all the papers, and it will be wonderful for the show. I love you so much; I want your first play on Broadway to be a success.”

  This was the first that Fletcher had heard of the wedding being at the Plaza. Megan was the bride, and he wanted her to be happy. He didn’t care where they got married, as long as they spent their lives together.

  He really was in love. Megan made him feel confident and alive. Even here, standing in the slightly chilly bathroom of an inn in Vermont, he felt more vital than he had in months.

  “Why don’t we talk about it at dinner?” Fletcher proposed. “Lola is so excited about the talent show, and I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

  “We had such a big lunch that I’m not really hungry.” Megan reached up and kissed him. “I thought we could stay in our room. Why don’t you finish shaving, and we can go back to bed?”

  It took all Fletcher’s willpower not to follow Megan to the bedroom. But he’d promised himself when he started dating Megan that he wouldn’t become the kind of single father that put his girlfriend first. Lola meant the world to him, and he would never want to disappoint her.

  There was a knock at the door, and he went to answer it. Lola stood in the hallway, wearing a long purple skirt. Her hair was tied with a pink ribbon, and she wore high-top sneakers.

  “We were just talking about you.” Fletcher ushered her inside. “You’re so grown-up. I keep forgetting you have your own room.”

  “I have my own room at home; why shouldn’t I have one here?” Lola pointed out. “Anyway, it was the only arrangement that worked. Megan would much rather have you as her roommate.”

  “As long as you’re right next door.” Fletcher’s cheeks turned red. “Betty promised me it’s perfectly safe. I’m dying to hear this mystery song. I’ll just finish shaving.”

  “We should hurry. I don’t want Betty to give away my spot in the talent show.” Lola’s small face was pensive. “Megan isn’t dressed.”

  “Would you mind if I skipped it?” Megan turned to Lola. “Snowshoeing tired me out, and your father and I ate a late lunch.”

  Fletcher was about to protest, but Lola put on her sweetest smile.

  “I don’t mind at all; you should rest up. Snowshoeing must have been grueling.” She nodded thoughtfully. “My friend Cammi showed me an article that said it’s difficult to take up a new sport after a certain age.”

  Fletcher laughed out loud and tousled Lola’s hair. “Let’s go. I’ll show Cammi that she’s wrong. I had a great time snowshoeing, and I’ve got the appetite of a boy to prove it.”

  * * *

  Fletcher sat across from Lola in the dining room and dipped a baguette into his pumpkin soup. Betty had decorated the room with mistletoe, as well as a tall Christmas tree strung with colored lights. The piano had been pushed into the corner, and the fireplace was hung with stockings.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind that Megan isn’t here?” Fletcher asked Lola. “Why don’t I go up to the room after dinner and get her?”

  “Megan won’t come,” Lola said matter-of-factly. Her small body was perched on a chair, and a napkin was placed neatly in her lap. “She doesn’t want to watch me sing.”

  “Of course she wants to support you,” Fletcher insisted. “She always says how talented you are.”

  “It’s natural for her to feel threatened by the father–daughter bond,” Lola continued. “Cammi said all her father’s girlfriends are the same. First they try to win Cammi over, and if that doesn’t work, they tell her father how great Cammi is. Then if there’s a disagreement, Cammi’s father will take the girlfriend’s side.” Lola ate a bite of glazed chicken. “It took her father going through three girlfriends for Cammi to figure it out.”

  “There’s not going to be three girlfriends, and there’s nothing to figure out!” Fletcher put down his fork. “Megan and I are getting married this summer, and we’re going to be a family.”

  “We are a family,” Lola said stoically.

  “Of course we’re a family.” Fletcher was suddenly flustered. It was time to take a different approach. “Megan wants to have the wedding at the Plaza. Do you remember reading the Eloise books? You always wanted to have afternoon tea at the Plaza, and now there will be a wedding! We’ll buy a beautiful flower girl dress, and you can help choose the cake.”

  “I’m too old to be a flower girl, and Megan doesn’t eat regular cake. It will probably be gluten-free and low in sugar.” Lola shuddered. “Maybe I could be in charge of the bubbles. My mom took me to a wedding and they blew bubbles at the bride and groom because throwing rice is bad for the environment.”

  Discussing Megan with Lola was like trying to keep a bumper car on track at an amusement park. It was better to change the subject.

  “Tell me about this song. Who’s going to accompany you?”

  Lola looked around the room, and her mouth pursed.

  “She isn’t here,” she said uncertainly. “I hope she didn’t forget.”

  “I could play,” Fletcher suggested. “My sight-reading is a little rusty, but I can get through ‘Silent Night’ or ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas.’”

  Lola’s eyes sparkled and she jumped up. “There she is! I have to go talk to her.”

  Fletcher turned, but Lola had disappeared into the lobby. Megan and Lola had so much in common; Lola just needed some time. Maybe getting married at the Plaza was a good idea. How could Lola not get excited about having a wedding in the setting of her favorite children’s book?

  The lights dimmed, and Betty stood in front of the microphone.

  “Welcome to The Smuggler’s Inn. I’m glad everyone could join us.” She gestured to the icicles on the windowpane. “I promise I didn’t order the snow to keep you inside, but it is nice to see a full house.

  “Without further ado, I would like to introduce our first contestant. She’s the youngest performer we’ve ever had, but I think you’ll agree she has big things ahead of her. Please welcome Lola Conway!”

  Lola appeared next to Betty and curtsied awkwardly at the audience. Fletcher glanced at the piano and almost dropped his wine glass.

  God, he was in trouble if he was imagining Emma was sitting right in front of him! The woman’s hair was shorter than Emma’s, and her cheeks seemed more sharply defined, but she sat up completely straight the way Emma always did at the piano. Even in the low light he could make
out large brown eyes like Emma’s under thick lashes.

  This wasn’t like the time he’d seen the woman on the subway who turned out to be six months pregnant and not Emma at all. Or the girl standing outside the Four Seasons last summer who he’d been certain was Emma. It had been mortifying when he’d followed her into the restaurant and she was with another man.

  The woman glanced in his direction, and Fletcher gulped. If it was Emma—if he hadn’t drunk too much wine, and wasn’t seeing things because he’d spent too much time in the cold—what was Emma doing at The Smuggler’s Inn? And how had she ended up accompanying Lola on the piano?

  Fletcher didn’t really believe in coincidences, and even Graham would have scoffed that the scenario was impossible. And yet looking at her, seeing the way she concentrated as if each note had to be extracted from the keys, he knew without a doubt it was Emma.

  When had he last seen her? Not at graduation, though that had been the last time he’d considered breaking the barriers they’d put up by talking to her. No, it was the next day, when he was loading his parents’ car. He’d thought Emma had already left; to see her standing outside her dorm, her arms full of boxes, was a gift he had no business receiving.

  There hadn’t been any point in approaching her; his parents would appear at any minute. He remembered wishing he hadn’t seen her, that it would have been better if his last minutes on campus were full of mundane goodbyes. Instead, she would be engraved in his memory like the wording on his Colby diploma.

  The song ended and the room flooded with applause. Fletcher pulled his eyes away from Emma and gave Lola his full attention. His daughter, who always seemed more mature than the actresses he worked with, was a bright-eyed little girl soaking in the love of everyone around her.

  Lola floated off across the room toward Fletcher.

  “How was I?” she asked. Her cheeks were flushed and her ponytail swung behind her.

  “You were fantastic,” Fletcher said enthusiastically. “Mariah Carey never sung it better.”

  “First prize is a gift voucher at the Sugar Shack.” Lola sank down in her chair. “I can buy presents for Cammi and Emma.”

  “For Emma?” Fletcher repeated.

  “The woman who played the piano.” Lola pointed across the room. “It’s important to thank your accompanist.”

  “Emma,” Fletcher intoned, reaching for his wine glass.

  “I said she has to come and meet you.” Lola jumped up. “I’ll go get her.”

  Fletcher wondered if he could make an excuse and leave, but before he could flesh out a plan, Lola was dragging Emma to the table.

  “Dad, this is Emma,” Lola announced. “Emma, this is my father. He’s a big director and one day our names are going to be together under a marquee on Broadway.”

  Should he tell Lola that Emma was an old college friend? If he did, what questions would Lola ask? And what would Megan think when she discovered his first love was staying in the same inn in Vermont?

  Before he could say anything, Emma was holding out her hand. Her face lit up in a smile and there was laughter in her eyes.

  “It’s nice to see you,” she said. “You have a talented daughter.”

  “Thank you.” Fletcher nodded. “It was kind of you to accompany her on the piano.”

  “I’m glad it went well,” Emma said and turned to Lola. “I really have to go. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.”

  “It’s snowing, and there is nowhere to go,” Lola reminded her. “Stay for dessert. Betty made a mini chocolate cake for our table, and my father doesn’t like chocolate.”

  “I like chocolate,” Fletcher cut in. “If I eat it at night, I get a headache.”

  “It would be rude to send some back,” Lola said to Emma. “You have to stay and have a slice.”

  “Another time,” Emma assured her. “I left a pile of work upstairs, and I have to finish it.”

  “It’s Christmas,” Lola persisted. “No one works during Christmas.”

  “I’m afraid one of my clients doesn’t believe in holidays, even at Christmas.” She smiled. “It was nice to play for you. I hope you win.”

  “She’s pretty,” Lola said when Emma left.

  Lola forked chocolate cake into her mouth. Fletcher was staring into space and wishing he had a double martini. Perhaps he needed something even stronger, like a whole bottle of gin.

  “Who’s pretty?” Fletcher asked.

  “The woman on the piano,” Lola said. “She reminds me of an actress on television, but I can’t remember which one.”

  Fletcher looked at Lola. He was the father and Lola was the child, and he wasn’t going to sit around and critique the woman he had been in love with eleven years ago.

  “That narrows it down to about a million actresses.” He handed Lola a napkin. “Wipe your mouth and let’s go upstairs. Nine-year-old actresses still have bedtimes.”

  “We can’t go yet,” Lola implored. “Betty hasn’t announced the winner.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Fletcher slouched in his chair.

  The lights lowered and Betty returned to the microphone.

  “Shh, she’s going to say the winner now!” Lola put her hands to her ears. “I’m so scared. I’m going to block out the sound; you tell me what she says.”

  “Hello again. I hope you enjoyed the performances as much as I did.” Betty beamed. “Who knew there could be so much talent under the roof of The Smuggler’s Inn?” She smiled expectantly. “Without further ado, tonight’s winner of a gift certificate to the Sugar Shack is Miss Lola Conway!”

  Lola took her hands out of her ears and jumped up and down. She ran up to the podium and Betty handed her the envelope.

  “I won! I won!” Lola practically flew back to the table. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were full of color.

  “I never doubted you would,” Fletcher responded. “You’re the most talented performer here.”

  “I’m so glad we came to Snowberry,” Lola said and hugged him. “This is the best Christmas ever.”

  The Christmas tree twinkled in the corner and the room bubbled with laughter. It was Christmas week, and he was celebrating with his daughter and fiancée. He should have been the happiest man in the world. Then why did he have an ominous feeling, like when he staged a new play and knew before the final act that it was going to be a flop? Only this wasn’t a play; it was his life, and he couldn’t mess it up.

  Seven

  Five Days Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  BETTY WAS RIGHT. THE NEXT morning the sky was blue and the sun gleamed down on the fresh snow. Emma stood at the window and had never seen so much white. The mountains were white, and the church steeples were wrapped in snow like fluffy marshmallows. Even the cars parked below were white rectangles waiting to be dug out.

  Last night had been so embarrassing: worse than when she gave a presentation to a client and realized too late that the slides for the PowerPoint were photos of Bronwyn’s dog and not her mock-ups for cosmetic ads. Emma couldn’t even remember how they’d been mixed up in her briefcase. It took her twenty minutes to assure the account executives she wasn’t going to use a cocker spaniel to sell mascara.

  Even if Betty agreed to take over the kids’ club, it was too late to go back to New York. Fletcher knew she was here. And he hadn’t even acknowledged her to Lola. Emma hadn’t admitted they knew each other either. It had been too overwhelming to look up from the piano and see Fletcher sitting at the table. There were lines around his mouth and his hair was shorter, but he looked exactly the same.

  Her laptop chimed and she flipped it open.

  “I checked the weather report in Vermont, and it’s going to be a beautiful day.” Bronwyn appeared on the screen. She was sitting in the room off of the laundry nook that she used as her home office. The walls held her diplomas, and the desk was cluttered with picture frames. “I made a list of things you should do. Start with a breakfast of blueberry waffles and Ca
nadian bacon at The Maple Company on Main Street. Then you and Lola can watch the sled dog races on the frozen lake. There are six teams, and each sled is pulled by sixteen dogs. The brochure promises it will be one of the most exciting events of your holiday. After that, I recommend a visit to the Vermont Teddy Bear factory on Route 100. Lola would love it.” Bronwyn looked up from her notes.

  “I suppose I could ask Betty. I don’t know if excursions are in the kids’ club budget,” Emma commented.

  “If you do go, you can do me a favor. Trixie chewed the ear off Liv’s teddy bear, and I was wondering if you could buy a new one. Since every meal in Vermont seems to include either hard cheeses or maple syrup, you’ll need some exercise. You could start a snowball fight or try ice fishing. It’s a wonderful way to explore Vermont’s covered bridges in the wintertime.”

  “You don’t have to convince me to stay—I promised to run the kids’ club, and I won’t let Betty down,” Emma stopped her. “It’s too late anyway. Fletcher knows I’m here.”

  “What happened?” Bronwyn picked up a nail file. “I want a play-by-play commentary.”

  “I accompanied Lola on the piano at the talent show, and Fletcher was in the audience,” Emma said. “Lola dragged me to the table afterward and introduced me.”

  “She introduced you?” Bronwyn repeated.

  “It was more awkward than that time five years ago when my boyfriend Matt insisted on singing karaoke at your Christmas party. Do you remember? His previous girlfriend told him he had a wonderful voice, and he couldn’t sing a note.”

  “His family owned a jewelry store, and she wanted a diamond ring on her finger,” Bronwyn recalled. “Maybe you shouldn’t have broken up with him. He was handsome, and he kept asking me if you liked emeralds or rubies.”

  “I was too young to get engaged, and we didn’t have that much in common.” Emma sighed.