Christmas in Vermont Page 9

  “That isn’t a good idea.” Fletcher stopped her. “She’s probably meeting someone.”

  “She doesn’t have anyone to meet,” Lola said authoritatively. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend and she’s never been married. I told her she should find someone soon, or it would be too late.”

  “It’s never too late to fall in love,” Fletcher said to Lola. “That’s the wonderful thing about love; it happens when you least expect it.”

  “Your father is right. I was waiting at a taxi stand in the pouring rain when I saw your father. I had no idea I was going to meet the man of my dreams.” Megan touched Fletcher’s hand and turned to Lola. “But who’s Emma?”

  “Emma is in charge of the kids’ club. Yesterday she accompanied me on the piano in the talent show, and today we went to the Sugar Shack,” Lola said. “She’s really cool. She let me eat fresh snow. I’m going to ask her to join us.”

  Lola darted across the dining room before Fletcher could stop her. Lola tugged Emma’s arm and the sinking feeling in Fletcher’s stomach became a crater.

  “I guess Betty recommends the Goose Duck Inn to everyone,” Emma laughed when they returned to the table. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Fletcher studied Emma in the candlelight and suddenly felt like the gawky college student coming across a pretty girl playing the piano. But that was ridiculous; he was a grown man eating dinner with his fiancée and daughter.

  “Megan, this is Emma,” he volunteered. “Emma and I were friends in college. She’s staying at The Smuggler’s Inn.”

  “Really!” Lola’s eyes widened. “You didn’t say you knew each other.”

  “It was a complete surprise,” Emma said hastily, and Fletcher felt grateful to her. “I haven’t seen your father in eleven years.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great if Emma joined us?” Lola prodded. “You two must have so much to catch up on.”

  “I don’t want to intrude,” Emma said, shaking her head. “Besides I already ordered.”

  “Tell the waiter to bring your food here,” Lola encouraged. “Food tastes better when you have company.”

  “Lola’s right, there’s no reason to dine alone.” Fletcher smiled wanly. Lola wasn’t going to stop until Emma agreed. “I’ll ask the waiter to set an extra place.”

  * * *

  “Lola tells me that you’re a famous director,” Emma said after they had finished the main courses and the waiter brought a plate of artisanal cheeses. “I’m not surprised.” She turned to Lola. “Your father was the most talented student in the drama department.”

  “Success in the theater all depends on your next play,” Fletcher said modestly, eating a bite of blue cheese laced with walnuts.

  Dinner had gone better than he’d expected. Lola and Emma kept up a lively discussion about the best Christmas songs, and even Megan chimed in with suggestions. He described life in the theater, and Emma told a funny story about being a copywriter.

  “Are you in theater too?” Emma said, turning to Megan.

  “I’m an actress,” Megan said, nodding. “I graduated from Yale’s drama department, and I’m going to be performing on Broadway.”

  “Megan has only been in one proper play. Now that she and my father are getting married she’s going to get lots of roles.” Lola concentrated on her ice cream. “Megan wants to play the lead in the new play.”

  “It’s a remake of Father of the Bride. Alec Baldwin is going to play my father, and I’ll be the bride.” Megan scooped up parfait and looked at Fletcher. “Fletcher and I have an uncanny connection. As soon as I suggested it, Fletcher saw I was perfect for the part.”

  * * *

  After they finished dinner, Emma said she was going to stop at the General Store and Fletcher and Lola and Megan returned to the inn.

  Fletcher sent Lola downstairs to find a board game and stood in front of the closet, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Dinner was delicious, but wasn’t that the oddest coincidence?” he began. “Running into Emma after all these years.”

  “Most of the guests seem to be from New York.” Megan unzipped her boots.

  “We were at college together,” Fletcher pressed on. “But I haven’t thought about Emma in more than a decade.”

  “That’s what Emma said.” Megan looked at Fletcher quizzically. “You don’t think I’m jealous, do you? We love each other, and I trust you completely.”

  “I love you too, and there’s nothing to be jealous of,” Fletcher agreed hurriedly. “I just thought it might seem like a strange coincidence.”

  “Things like that happen all the time.” Megan shrugged off her jacket. “When I was studying abroad, I was sitting in a café in Florence and across the street was a guy from my French literature class at Yale. He joined me for an espresso and we caught up for hours.”

  “That must have been a surprise.” Fletcher pictured Megan and some Yale jock with a blond crew cut sharing biscotti.

  “I suppose Emma is pretty, in a faded way. But she’s not the kind of woman one would be jealous of.” Megan blotted her lipstick. “I’m glad Lola has Emma to hang out with. That gives us more time.”

  “More time?” Fletcher asked hopefully, wondering if Megan would suggest making love. Caressing Megan’s milky skin was just what he needed to ease the nervous tension in his shoulders.

  “Just more time to spend together. I’d love to take a long walk in the forest, or just curl up with you by the fire.” Megan stroked his chest. “And we can rehearse my new role in the play.”

  “About that.” Fletcher’s skin felt clammy. “I can’t make the decision alone. I have to consult with the producer, and…”

  Megan dropped her hand and knotted a robe around her waist. “We discussed it this morning. You’re the director; you can cast whomever you like. I’m going to take a hot bath. Oh, and think about going home early for Jordan’s party. Vermont is gorgeous, but we don’t want to miss the biggest New Year’s Eve party in Manhattan.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Fletcher responded. “A play is like a giant jigsaw puzzle. If you start rearranging the pieces, the whole thing can fall apart.”

  “I trust you to figure it out,” she said, and kissed him. “You’re one of the most brilliant people I know.”

  * * *

  Fletcher nursed a scotch and paced around the downstairs parlor. It was almost midnight, and the inn was quiet. Lola had finally gone to bed after beating Fletcher at four games of backgammon, and when he returned to his room, Megan was asleep. He tried to call Graham, but his phone went straight to voicemail. He debated calling his therapist, Margaret. But it was Christmas week and his old college flame showing up at The Smuggler’s Inn hardly constituted an emergency.

  Megan had shrugged the whole episode off as easily as her cashmere sweater. But sometimes Megan was impossible to read; that was part of the attraction. She had seemed more upset about the possibility of not playing Kay. What would the producers say when he suggested replacing a Tony-winning actress with his fiancée in the lead role?

  He sipped his scotch, and his thoughts kept returning to Emma. It had been the strangest thing to sit across from her at dinner. And yet at the same time it had felt completely normal; she had that wonderful way of asking a question and being so interested in his answer. He found himself reeling off the names of the plays he had directed and telling her about London.

  Even Lola seemed happier at dinner. She finished everything on her plate and thanked him for taking them to the Goose Duck Inn. On the way back to the inn, she held his hand and talked animatedly about seeing moose in the forest tomorrow.

  Then why did he have this precarious feeling? Like when he was on the airplane at Heathrow Airport and the pilot said they were delayed by ice on the runway. Fletcher knew the plane wouldn’t depart until it was safe, but he couldn’t help clutching the seat and picturing crashing into the Atlantic.

  Graham would say it was pre-wedding jitters, and he should drink another scotc
h and relax. Fletcher filled his glass again and remembered his wedding to Cassandra, and how thoughts of Emma had almost derailed the ceremony at the last minute.

  December, 2008

  London, England

  It was the week before Christmas in London and Fletcher was sitting at the desk in his flat. He paused in the middle of writing his rehearsal dinner speech and marveled again at the four words that kept wafting through his brain like the smell of greasepaint at the Old Vic: he was getting married.

  It seemed as unbelievable as the fact that Cassandra had agreed to go out on a date with him in the first place. After all, their first encounter at the party involved him spilling his drink on her. But they ran into each other at a performance a week later. He’d bought her a glass of champagne and asked whether she wanted to join him for a post-theater supper.

  Fletcher had learned so much about Cassandra in the last five months: she was from a wealthy family, and her desire to be a costume designer was fueled partly by her love of theater and partly to escape from a future of garden parties and christenings. She never ran out of energy. While Fletcher could spend the whole day eating fish and chips and reading scripts, she insisted they go boating and take long walks in Kensington Gardens.

  Would there have been a wedding tomorrow at Cassandra’s parents’ club in Belgravia if she hadn’t announced she was pregnant? They probably would have waited until he was an established director and could afford more than a ground-floor flat, where the crib would be lodged next to their bed.

  It was Fletcher who insisted they get married. Cassandra would have been quite happy to keep their relationship as it was. Her parents had agreed to support her, and she could bring up the baby with the help of her old nanny. But he loved Cassandra; she made his life as vivid as the clothes she designed, and he couldn’t imagine life without her.

  There was a knock at the door and he answered it.

  “There you are.” Cassandra entered the flat. She looked almost subdued in a pleated navy skirt and stockings. Her only allowance to her usual style was a pair of dangling glass earrings. “The rehearsal starts in an hour, and you’re not dressed.”

  “I was trying to write my speech.” He kissed her. “I have even more admiration for playwrights. I’ve been sitting here all afternoon, and only have one paragraph.”

  “The groom always says the same thing.” Cassandra dusted biscuit crumbs onto a napkin. “He’s grateful to the bride’s mother and father for raising the woman of his dreams, and promises to take good care of her.”

  “I wish you had showed up hours ago.” He smiled, scribbling on the piece of paper. “A few more sentences like that and I’ll be done.”

  “I’ve been dealing with wedding cake emergencies. I love that we’re having the wedding close to Christmas, but the bakery is so busy making Christmas puddings they messed up our cake.” Cassandra moved toward the bedroom. “I’ll get your suit while you finish your speech.”

  “The suit jacket is hanging in the closet,” he called after her.

  “What about cuff links?” Cassandra said from the bedroom.

  “There’s a box of cuff links in the third drawer.” He tried to remember if his one pair of cuff links had actually made it to London.

  Cassandra returned to the living room carrying a flat box.

  “There aren’t any cuff links, but I found this,” she said, holding up a watch with a leather band. “What a beautiful watch. You should wear it to the wedding.”

  Fletcher looked up and his cheeks paled. He hadn’t thought about the gift from Emma since he moved into the flat. What were the chances that Cassandra would discover the watch a day before the wedding?

  “It’s engraved.” She turned it over and read out loud, “To Fletcher, you have my heart. Emma.”

  Fletcher flushed and looked down at the floor. “Old college girlfriend.”

  “Where is Emma now?” Cassandra asked curiously.

  “I have no idea, it ended before we graduated,” Fletcher assured her. “You know what college students are like. Lots of grand gestures fueled by reading the Romantic poets. It doesn’t translate into real life.”

  “We read Shelley and Keats in school and I thought they were boring,” Cassandra said thoughtfully. “Doesn’t it seem odd that you kept a present from an old girlfriend when you’re about to get married?”

  “I just told you,” Fletcher said, but he could feel the color rising to his cheeks. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “You might think that, but I studied Freud at university.” Cassandra held the watch pensively. “Freud would say you deliberately held onto the watch to avoid making future commitments.”

  “Freud would be wrong.” Fletcher’s voice rose. “As you can see, I’m writing the rehearsal dinner speech for my wedding.”

  “I’ve said you don’t have to marry me, I’m perfectly capable of raising the baby alone.” Cassandra’s mouth wobbled. “If you’d rather be with this Emma, I’d like to know that now.”

  Christmas music drifted up from the downstairs flat and for a moment Fletcher remembered the Christmas he and Emma had spent together at the bed and breakfast in Maine. They’d stayed up watching Christmas movies. It had been one of the best nights of his life.

  Then he shook himself and counted his blessings: a loving fiancée, a baby on the way, and his position at the Old Vic. Emma was in the past, and he and Cassandra were going to have a wonderful life.

  He took Cassandra in his arms and stroked her hair. “Do you really think I’m going to let you get out of marrying me that easily?” he said, and kissed her. “I love you. You’ve made me the happiest man in London, and I can’t wait to meet you at the altar.”

  “I love you too.” Cassandra kissed him back. “I really have to go.” Her smile—the brilliant smile that lit up his day—returned. “I have to stop by the bakery and check on the lemon filling.” She handed him the watch. “It’s a pity you don’t have Emma’s address; you could send it back.”

  Cassandra left and Fletcher turned the watch over in his hand. Cassandra was right; he should get rid of the watch. If he couldn’t return it to Emma, he’d sell it. He walked into the bedroom and put it back in the drawer. His wingtip shoes sat next to the bed, near a yellow tie and matching handkerchief.

  Tomorrow he was getting married and he couldn’t be happier. They were going to honeymoon in Ibiza and move into Cassandra’s sunny flat and soon he’d be a father.

  Life was good and he was a lucky guy. Now all he had to do was finish the speech for the rehearsal dinner.

  Five Days Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  Fletcher paced around the parlor of The Smuggler’s Inn and remembered his wedding day to Cassandra; it had rained all day, and everyone had laughed and said it was England, what did he expect?

  But he was happy, and he would have kept on being happy if Cassandra hadn’t fallen in love with someone else. His therapist would tell him that thinking about his marriage was as pointless as rereading last year’s New Year’s resolutions in December. The only thing he could do was be the best husband to Megan and father to Lola.

  He still had an uneasy feeling, as if there was some Christmas spell at work that he had no control over. Ten years ago at Christmas, Emma’s watch had almost stopped his wedding to Cassandra. Was it fate that had brought Emma to Snowberry now, and what did it mean for his engagement to Megan?

  The clock struck midnight and he put the scotch glass on the side table. Graham would have laughed and reminded Fletcher that he didn’t believe in destiny. Tomorrow he’d take Lola ice skating and then visit the antique stores with Megan. It would be nice to buy something together for the apartment.

  The lights twinkled on the Christmas tree and he bounded up the stairs. Christmas really was the most magical time of year. He had a beautiful nine-year-old daughter, and he was engaged to be married. Everything was going to be perfect.

  Nine

  Four D
ays Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  EMMA SAT AT THE DESK in the guestroom at The Smuggler’s Inn and tapped at her computer keyboard. She had gone downstairs to the dining room before anyone was up and fixed a cup of coffee and a plate of muffins. Then she’d crept back to her room and decided to catch up on her emails.

  It would have been nicer to eat breakfast in the dining room surrounded by other guests, and the scent of Betty’s hot cereal with maple syrup. But then she might run into Fletcher and Megan and Lola having breakfast, and that was too upsetting to think about.

  A photo of Scott standing next to a surfboard appeared on her Instagram feed and she studied it carefully. No matter how embarrassing last night had been, she still was glad she hadn’t gone to Hawaii. You couldn’t stay with someone you didn’t love; it was as impossible as having a snowball fight in the sarong Bronwyn had bought her for Christmas.

  The FaceTime light blinked and Bronwyn’s face appeared on the screen. She was dressed in a lime-green sundress, and was wearing large sunglasses.

  “Why are you wearing a sundress when a snowstorm is headed to New York?” Emma asked.

  “Do you like it? I bought it from Saks’s cruise collection,” Bronwyn answered. “It’s perfect for our little getaway to Palm Beach. Five nights at The Breakers; we leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “I thought you were on call at the clinic and can’t go on vacation?” Emma reminded her.

  “I promised Etta Parsons four weeks of free babysitting if she trades with me. I can’t take it anymore. Carlton sprained his ankle and can’t join us until Saturday, and Sarah and Liv decided to start a punk rock band. Sarah did Liv’s makeup; my three-year-old is wearing a face full of Dior powder and blush. We leave tomorrow morning. Until then, I turned the heat on high. I’m chilling piña coladas in the freezer and I’ve got ‘Kokomo’ by the Beach Boys playing on repeat on Spotify.”