Christmas in Vermont Page 7

  “Speaking of being engaged,” Bronwyn cut in. “I want to know everything about Fletcher’s fiancée. Is she a bottle blonde, or is it natural?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Emma said. “Megan wasn’t at dinner.”

  “What do you mean, she wasn’t there?”

  “She must have been in the room. Fletcher and Lola were eating alone.”

  “Fletcher’s hot fiancée was alone in their room during their romantic holiday?” Bronwyn said archly. “It sounds like trouble in paradise.”

  “Or they spent the afternoon in bed and she didn’t want to get dressed,” Emma retorted. “It’s none of my business. Fletcher pretended not to know me.”

  Bronwyn brandished the nail file at the camera. “That’s the best news I’ve heard. Don’t you see? If he thought of you as an old college friend, he would have told Lola all about you. Your presence stirred up old feelings, and he doesn’t want his daughter to know.”

  “Or it means I’m the last person Fletcher expected to see at The Smuggler’s Inn,” Emma retorted.

  “Just keep making yourself available,” Bronwyn said encouragingly. “Synchronicity will do the rest. Look how well it’s working! Not only are you practically forced to spend time alone with Lola, but Megan wasn’t at dinner last night. What are the chances that Fletcher’s fiancée would miss dinner on the first night Fletcher saw you? It has destiny written all over it.”

  “I told you, I have no idea why Megan wasn’t there,” Emma said reflectively. It was odd that Megan hadn’t been at dinner, and it had been nice seeing Fletcher alone with Lola. But she was imagining things. There was probably a simple reason why Megan hadn’t been at the talent show, other than fate trying to bring Emma and Fletcher together.

  “You’re right, I need to keep busy. I don’t want to run into him again,” Emma said reflectively. “I’ll go sledding or take a walk through the forest this morning. Tonight I’ll eat dinner in the village, and tomorrow I’ll take a morning excursion to a glassblowing factory.”

  “You haven’t told me anything about Fletcher. Does he have that extra roll some men get in their mid-thirties, and is he losing his hair?” Bronwyn asked.

  “He looks exactly the same.” Emma remembered how his eyes were the palest shade of blue. “His hair is a little shorter, but it suits him.”

  “You see! You get all swoony when you talk about him. Look around this room.” Bronwyn turned the computer so the camera scanned her office. “Do you know why my diplomas are on the wall, even though no one comes in here? And why I have photos of Liv and Sarah on my desk, when both girls are usually a few steps away in the playroom? The diplomas represent how hard I’ve worked to achieve my career. And the family photos remind me of the two small people I love most in the world.” She paused. “You have a great career; it’s okay to want a family too. Being a wife and mother is the greatest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “That’s why you’re my best friend,” Emma said softly. “You can be a little opinionated, and I don’t agree with your taste in rap music, but you know me better than anyone.”

  “Mothers need to be opinionated, so they can be heard over a three-year-old banging on her Sesame Street piano. And I only listen to rap music because Carlton likes it.” Bronwyn leaned into the camera. “Go enjoy Vermont. And wear that white angora sweater, it makes your hair look extra glossy.”

  “How did you know I packed the angora sweater?”

  “You knew Fletcher would be there,” Bronwyn gloated. “You would have been crazy not to pack the angora sweater.”

  * * *

  Emma descended the staircase and inhaled the scent of cinnamon buns. It would be lovely to have one of Betty’s delicious breakfasts, but there was the chance of running into Fletcher in the dining room. She’d grab a muffin and a piece of fruit from the kitchen before she went outside.

  As the kitchen doors swung open, she saw Betty hunched over the oak table. There was a notebook in front of her, and she looked like she’d been crying.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Emma said, stumbling over her words.

  “Please come in,” Betty said, closing the notebook. Emma thought again how beautiful she was. Her sweater was camel-colored cashmere, and she was wearing tan slacks. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

  A fresh cup of coffee was too good to pass up. Emma spied the plate of Danishes on the counter and was suddenly starving.

  “I’d love one. And those apple turnovers smell heavenly,” Emma said, nodding.

  “There’s an apple tree in the garden.” Betty handed Emma a turnover. “The garden is one of my favorite things about living in Vermont. In Boston I had one tomato plant on the balcony that could never survive the summer humidity. Here, I grow apples, and rhubarb for my homemade raspberry-rhubarb pie. I would miss the garden so much if I had to move.”

  “Why would you move?” Emma inquired. “You love running the inn.”

  Betty waved at the notebooks. “Money, I’m afraid. It’s silly to fret over a house when I lost the most important thing in the world. John and I were married for thirty-three years. I was twenty when we met, and he was the first boy I properly dated.

  “I was trying to make it as an actress, working in the menswear department at Saks during the holidays. John said it was fate. He was a big believer in everything happening for a reason. Every year he gave his father a box of chocolates for Christmas, but that year he decided to buy a tie.”

  “That’s a wonderful story, but why are you worried about money?” Emma asked. “The inn is fully booked, and your clothes…” She had been about to say that Betty dressed so elegantly, but realized it was none of her business.

  “Are all cashmere and the finest wool?” Betty said, finishing her sentence. “John was a successful surgeon, and we lived quite well. It’s my fault; I tried to keep him alive too long.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma wondered.

  “John said one of the first things you learn in medical school is that you can’t save every patient, and sometimes you have to let go. But that’s impossible when it’s someone you love. We spent a month at a clinic in the Swiss Alps, and a winter in Mexico where it rained so much I had to go to the market in a rowboat. Then there were the doctors pushing medicines that weren’t covered by insurance.” Betty pointed to the notebook. “If only the medical bills had stopped when John died … but new ones arrive every day.”

  “There must be someone who could help,” Emma suggested.

  “My son is married and starting his own family, and my daughter is getting a PhD and will be paying off student loans for years.” Betty shook her head. “I did the budget when I opened the inn: how many rooms needed to be occupied, and how much it would cost to heat all the guests’ rooms. I miscalculated the hotel tax. If I fall behind, they can close the inn.”

  “Where would you go?” Emma inquired.

  “I wouldn’t want to live in Boston without John; there’s nothing for me there. The Smuggler’s Inn is my home now.” Betty finished her coffee. “When I’m here, I feel John watching over me. But you’re on vacation, you don’t want to hear any more of my problems.” She looked at Emma expectantly. “Let’s talk about you. You’re young and pretty and obviously successful,” she said, waving at Emma’s cashmere scarf. “There must be someone you want to spend Christmas week with.”

  “Not everyone can find love.” Emma ate a bite of turnover. “I have a nice apartment, and I love my job; I’m a copywriter at an advertising agency. I have drawers of cosmetic samples and an expense account that pays for cab fare when I work late.”

  “I loved being an actress, but I couldn’t have lived without love. John and I fought our feelings in the beginning: he was accepted to medical school in Boston, and I was trying to make it on the stage in New York,” Betty recalled fondly. “I remember the second Christmas we were apart; I missed John so much. I cashed the check my parents sent me and bought a train ticket
to Boston.” She smiled. “Only when I arrived, John wasn’t home. His roommate said John had left that morning and didn’t say where he was going.

  “He was at my apartment, of course, banging on the door and waking the neighbors.” She laughed. “Isn’t it funny? We often wondered what would have happened if we’d missed each other, but my next-door neighbor told John where I was. He took the first train back to Boston, and we celebrated Christmas with Kentucky Fried Chicken because that was the only place that was open. After that, I moved to Boston and we got married and had children. We bought this house, and I performed in the summers at the local playhouse.” She looked at Emma. “I said last night that being onstage is the best place to dream, but I didn’t just dream of being an actress. I also wanted to fall in love and have a family. Since John died, I miss having someone to share things with.” Betty put her coffee cup in the sink. “You’re young. Keep chasing your dreams; it’s the only way to make them come true.”

  * * *

  Emma walked past the conservatory and heard the sound of crying. Lola was sitting on the piano stool, her knees tucked under her.

  “Lola?” Emma entered the room. “Are you all right?”

  Lola straightened up. “I was practicing for tonight’s talent show.”

  “I’ve heard ‘White Christmas’ a dozen times, but it never made me cry,” Emma said, glancing at the songbook.

  “Who said I was crying?” A few tears escaped Lola’s small fists and fell on her collar.

  “I sell cosmetics for a living, and unless you’ve started wearing mascara at the age of nine, I can’t explain the smudges on your cheeks.” Emma pointed to the wet blotches. “You’re the second person I’ve found crying this morning.”

  “The second person?” Lola said curiously.

  Emma sat on the stool beside her. “Sometimes it helps to talk to someone. Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?”

  Lola fiddled with her hair as if she was trying to decide between flavors of ice cream.

  “I won first place in the talent show, and the prize was a tour of the Sugar Shack,” Lola began. “Betty told me all about it: they show you the taps on the trees and tell you how they extract the sap in the spring. You get to see the vats where they make the maple syrup and there’s a gift shop that sells maple candy and jams.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a reason to cry,” Emma said.

  “My father said we could go this morning. But he and Megan went on a sleigh ride, and I don’t know when they’re coming back.”

  “It’s not even lunchtime; they’ll return soon,” Emma assured her.

  “I heard my father and Megan arguing,” Lola sighed. “When he came out of the room he had that dejected expression, like I get when I study for a spelling test and still get words wrong. He’s probably trying to make up with Megan, and they won’t be back for hours.”

  “You heard them arguing?” Emma said before she could stop herself. Fletcher and Megan were none of her business.

  “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was about to knock on their door,” Lola insisted. “Cammi’s mother is always listening outside her bedroom. She says it’s her responsibility to make sure Cammi is happy.”

  “That might apply to mothers, but it doesn’t to nine-year-old girls,” Emma said gently. “And you probably misheard them. I’m sure your father and Megan were just having a conversation.”

  “Megan was saying something about her part in the new play, and my father said they already talked about it and it wasn’t a good idea,” Lola reflected. “Then it got muffled and before I could knock, Megan opened the door.”

  “It couldn’t have been a serious argument if they were already coming downstairs,” Emma suggested.

  “Megan had on her jacket and the boots my father gave her for Christmas. My father was wearing a shirt and loafers. Megan wouldn’t have been bundled up if she was going to eat in the dining room, and my father would have worn his coat if he was going outside,” Lola finished triumphantly. “They didn’t match, so something was wrong.”

  “You would have made a great Nancy Drew, but I’m sure it was nothing.” Emma smiled. “They’ll probably be back soon.”

  “The sleigh only had two seats, so my father suggested I go with Megan. She said that sounded like a great idea, but she’s not that good an actress. I could tell she was lying.” Lola looked at Emma and her eyes brightened. “You can go with me to the Sugar Shack this afternoon during kids’ club!”

  “I suppose we could do that.” Emma nodded. “If Betty doesn’t mind that we leave the property.”

  “Why should she mind? It’s my gift certificate, and the sun is finally out. I love it when you step on the snow and it crunches. We don’t want to stay cooped up here all day.”

  Lola was right; spending the afternoon at the Sugar Shack was a good idea. Lola was like a flower blooming in front of her eyes. Her wavy red hair was tied with a yellow ribbon, and she wore a velvet dress and clogs.

  “All right.” Emma nodded. “I’ll tell Betty our plans.”

  “I’ll get my coat.” Lola jumped off the stool. “You should put on something warmer. It might be sunny, but the thermometer on the porch says it’s twenty degrees.”

  * * *

  A sleigh picked them up and drove along Route 100 to the Sugar Shack. The scenery was completely different than yesterday, when the landscape had resembled a buttery cake mix. Red barns dotted the fields, icicles shimmered on pine trees, and Emma saw herds of cows and sheep.

  The Sugar Shack was a brick building nestled at the end of a dirt road. The tour guide introduced them to a goat that liked to nuzzle visitors and a horse that ate Cheerios for breakfast. Lola didn’t believe him until the guide took Lola into the horse’s stall and showed her the box of breakfast cereal.

  The tour of the vats was fascinating. Emma learned that Vermont had fifteen hundred sugar houses and produced half a million pounds of maple syrup a year. They sampled amber maple syrup that was the color of spun gold, and dark maple syrup that reminded her of a rich claret.

  Then they sat at a table in the cafe and shared the Sugar Shack’s signature dessert of boiled maple syrup on fresh snow.

  “I’ve never eaten snow before.” Lola dipped her spoon into the syrupy concoction. “It’s better than ice cream.”

  “Vermont is terrible for a diet,” Emma sighed. “Betty makes the best bacon I’ve ever tasted, and her turnovers are delicious.”

  “My favorite thing about America is hamburgers and hot dogs. In England we have sausage rolls, but no one eats them with ketchup, and that’s the best part. Megan fills the fridge with green smoothies and vegetables that smell bad after two days.” Lola wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know how my father puts up with it. Cammi says it’s because Megan is a blonde. Something about the chemicals in a blonde’s hair attracts men and makes them do things they wouldn’t normally do.”

  “I doubt that,” Emma laughed. “Maybe your father is trying to eat healthy.”

  “We used to fight over who ate the last bite of macaroni and cheese, and now he says it’s bad for his cholesterol.” Lola rolled her eyes. “I’m never going to be a blonde. I have the same hair color as my mother, and she has the best hair in the world.”

  Emma was dying to ask about Fletcher’s ex-wife. Why did she move to Connecticut? Had she remarried? But it was none of her business, and it didn’t matter anyway. Fletcher was engaged.

  “You have nice hair, too,” Lola said. “I told my father you were pretty.”

  “You did what?” Emma’s eyes widened.

  “At the talent show last night.” Lola ate a spoonful of gold-colored snow. “My father and I used to talk about things like that: who were the prettiest actresses, and which ones I wanted to be like when I grow up. Now he’s always with Megan, and we don’t talk about anything at all.”

  “Megan can’t be around all the time,” Emma insisted.

  “She’s like our neighbor’s cat that spends all day pree
ning in front of the window,” Lola sighed. “Sometimes I think I should just pack my overnight bag and run away.”

  “You can’t do that,” Emma said. “Your father would be heartbroken.”

  “He doesn’t notice me anymore,” Lola said dramatically. “Every other Sunday we used to go out for pancakes. Now he and Megan spend all day talking about the wedding.” Lola looked at Emma curiously. “Why aren’t you married?”

  “Me?” Emma repeated and her cheeks flushed.

  “You don’t want to get left on the shelf,” Lola instructed her. “When I grow up, I’m going to marry a famous actor and we’re going to have a penthouse apartment with an indoor swimming pool.”

  “You don’t have to get married to live in a penthouse,” Emma said. “If you’re a successful actress, you can afford it by yourself.”

  “It’s much better to be married.” Lola licked her spoon. “Swimming is no fun alone.”

  * * *

  Emma sat at the piano in the conservatory and ran her hands over the keys. After they’d left the Sugar Shack, the sleigh brought them back to The Smuggler’s Inn and Lola went up to her room.

  The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled, and the afternoon sun made patterns on the rug. The whole inn was quiet. Betty was out and the other guests were trekking through the forest or drinking hot chocolate on Main Street and watching the ice skaters.

  Today two people had told her that love was the most important thing in the world. How could Lola know that at the age of nine, and how could Betty still believe in love when her heart was broken? Emma wondered if she was capable of having a lasting love, or if all her romances would end at Christmas, when other couples were exchanging presents and going on romantic vacations.

  She remembered the first time Fletcher had told her he loved her. It was just before Christmas break of their senior year. She had thought she’d never hear him say those three words.

  December, 2007

  Waterville, Maine

  It was the week before Christmas vacation at Colby, and Emma was strangely out of sorts. Other students were spending the last days on campus having snowball fights and singing Christmas carols. Emma stared out her dorm window at the quad and couldn’t shake the empty feeling.