A Christmas Bride (11 page)

But she wasn't an adolescent. She was a grown-up. And she was smart enough to know that his attention and her reaction were something to avoid.

He was a Lyndon; she was a Petersen. That pretty much summed up the problem.

There was also the fact that she'd come off a relationship with a well-known CEO who had shattered her trust on so many levels. She needed time to process that. Jumping into bed with a man who was equally well-known and equally entitled would be just plain stupid.

Finally, of course, was the fact that David was Shelly's husband. Shelly might be gone, but that didn't mean a thing. David was still grieving for her, still wearing the ring she'd put on his finger. He almost never stopped touching it with his thumb.

There was no place for Willow in that duet, and she wasn't interested in being part of a love triangle that included a ghost.

A few days later, Willow found herself sitting at the small butcher-block table in the kitchen at Serenity Farm. It was the third night in a row that Willow had dined with Mom so, naturally, Linda had jumped to the conclusion that Willow was trying to cleanse her body of all those toxins she'd been consuming along with her red meat.

In reality, Willow was eating at home every night so as not to run into David at the diner or the Jaybird or any other place. In fact, although she worked daily at Eagle Hill Manor, she'd taken to carefully timing her arrivals and departures in order to avoid him. After fishing with him on Sunday, she no longer trusted herself around him.

Mom plunked down a plate filled with baked squash with apples and quinoa, seated herself across the table, and said, “So I heard David Lyndon staged a protest at Daniel Morgan Elementary yesterday.”

And, right on cue, the minute Mom said David's name, Willow's body sparked in a totally adolescent manner. She needed to nip this silly thing in the bud. Right now.

She looked up from her plate of quinoa. “What kind of protest?”

“Well, from what Pippa Custis told me this morning, he called every single parent in Natalie's class to find out if that old witch Mrs. Welch had been giving their kids a hard time about penmanship.”

Warmth pooled in Willow's midsection. “Really?”

“That's what I heard. Pippa knows because her granddaughter, Ilene, is in that class. Ilene has beautiful handwriting, but I gather there are other kids who don't—mostly the lefties, and I guess Natalie is one of them. Pippa said David organized a meeting with the principal, and every one of those parents came down to demand a change.”

Good God.
David had taken her suggestion.

Right then Willow knew that something fundamental had changed in the way she thought about David. Something that had the potential not only to ruin her relationship with Shelly's husband, but also her growing attachment to Shelly's daughter.

A couple days of playing princess and American Girl with Natalie, and Willow was completely and utterly smitten. Why had she stayed away so long? She'd missed so much of Natalie's childhood. But she was here now. And she had no intention of ever straying again. She had a responsibility to Natalie, and she couldn't allow something stupid, like her libido, to mess it up.

“Eat,” Mom commanded, giving her a sharp look.

Willow picked up a forkful of the unappetizing meal and managed to choke it down. The texture was disgusting, and the whole sweet-and-sour thing didn't excite her taste buds.

“I gather the new principal is way smarter than that old bat I tussled with for years,” Mom continued. “Pippa told me that Mrs. Welch was told—not asked—to start grading spelling and handwriting separately.”

“Good for David Lyndon.”

“Well, the way I see it, the principal had to make a change. I mean, it was a Lyndon asking for it, you know?”

Yeah, she knew. Willow let go of a long sigh.

“That sigh sounded mournful. What's on your mind, baby girl?”

Time to change the subject. “Nothing much,” Willow said, “except finding a painting contractor for Eagle Hill. I've got everything else figured out. I hired Dusty's landscaping company to do the outside cleanup. And Dusty has a few friends who are plumbing and electrical contractors who were willing to squeeze our work in before the wedding. I'm sure he bribed them with access to his fishing hole, but I'm looking the other way on that. To tell you the truth, I'm ready to bribe one of the half dozen painting contractors I've interviewed who've told me they are scheduled right through Christmas. Who paints their house in December, anyway?”

“Why do you need a painter?”

“Because the paint on the front facade is all cracked and peeling, and the inside really needs a sprucing up.”

“Okay, so? You don't need to hire a painter for that.”

“Well, I'm not going to paint it myself. It's a huge building, and I'm afraid of ladders,” Willow said.

“I wasn't suggesting that you paint it yourself. I was suggesting that you round up a bunch of volunteers—like Jeff and Melissa's friends. You could have a paint-in.”

Willow nearly choked on the second bite of baked squash.

“It would be fun,” Mom continued. “You know, like one of those HGTV shows where they redo someone's house in two days with the help of their friends and family.”

“Okay, maybe. I'll think about it.” Willow chugged down several swallows of water.

“So,” Mom said, “has Dusty learned anything more about this historical park idea?”

“Not much. He told me that David made a few phone calls for him and discovered that the county doesn't have the funds to buy Dusty out or convert the land to parkland. But if they ever do get the money, they could force him off his land.”

“We should organize a protest.”

“I told David and Dusty the same thing last Sunday, but David said protesting wouldn't help.”

Mom gave Willow one of her sharp, political looks. “Of course he said that. He's running for Congress, and I'll bet Commissioner Cummins is going to come out with flags flying in support of the park proposal. David probably doesn't want to hurt Dusty's feelings, you know? But he's going to have to support it too.”

“You think?”

“Of course he is. And it stands to reason he doesn't want us kicking up any kind of fuss. But, you know, a fuss would sure make it harder for the county to move forward. Nobody ever got justice by staying quiet.”

“But making noise doesn't guarantee justice either. I mean, look at me. I haven't gotten justice for all those patients who got defective hip replacements.”

Mom reached across the table and captured one of Willow's hands. “But you will get them justice. One day. And as far as this park proposal goes, baby doll, Dusty is your friend, and while a park is nice, we need to give him some support.”

Willow nodded. “Okay, Mom. Let me talk to Dusty and see what he thinks. In the meantime, I've thought about your idea of a paint-in. I think we should do it, before it gets too cold. Would you help me organize it?”

Mom grinned. “I happen to be killer with a bucket of paint.”

“I know. That's why I asked.”

The Red Fern Inn was two hundred years old and boasted a room where George Washington had supposedly once slept. As far as Poppy Marchand was concerned, the historical evidence for this claim was slim at best.

On the other hand, Poppy had many photographs of Winston Churchill hunting with William Archer McAllister, the original owner and builder of Eagle Hill Manor. There was no doubt that Churchill had slept at Poppy's inn. So had dozens of congressmen, senators, a governor or two, and numerous statesmen. The photographic evidence lined the upstairs hallways.

So it was a trifle annoying to find herself sitting in the Red Fern's dining room with Faye and Viola. When Craig had been alive, she'd been forbidden to set foot in the tiny inn owned and operated by Bryce Summerville. She still felt like a traitor every time Faye Appleby invited her to lunch here.

Poppy would rather have eaten at the Olive Garden down at the highway interchange, but Faye would never stand for that. Neither would Viola.

“So I have news,” Faye said, hoisting her wineglass. “Arwen has confirmed that Roxanne Kopp was at Jamie Lyndon's birthday party. She got the news from one of her friends who works up at the winery. Apparently she was all over David like a cheap suit.”

“Not cheap,” Viola said, “more like a designer suit. I've done some research on her, and her father is loaded. He's the Kopp in Lyndon, Lyndon, and Kopp, and runs the firm from his DC office. Here, I found a photo of her on social media.” Viola fired up her iPhone and angled it so both Faye and Poppy could see.

Poppy studied the photo and concluded that Roxanne Kopp was precisely the sort of woman one might expect a man like David to marry. Beautiful and with an impressive pedigree. Shelly would have hated this woman on sight.

“She's quite beautiful,” Poppy said.

“Well, if she has Pam Lyndon's approval, that immediately disqualifies her,” Viola said. “Pam is a terrible matchmaker. Everyone knows this. She's the one who matched Nina up with Jeff's father. And that marriage lasted less than two years.”

“You're absolutely right.” Faye nodded. “So, let's not get discouraged by this Roxy woman. Instead I think we should focus on the qualities we'd like to see in David's next wife, besides the fact that she has to like Poppy, of course.”

“Good idea,” Viola said, looking Poppy in the eye. “What kind of woman do you think we should be looking for?”

“I have no clue,” Poppy said.

“Oh, come on, you must have some idea. I know this is hard, but it's important for you and for Natalie. And for David, of course.” Faye reached across the table and gave Poppy's hand a squeeze. “We all miss Shelly.”

Poppy nodded. “And as near as I can tell, that's the main problem. Pam may be trying to push this Roxanne woman at David, but I'm not entirely sure he's ready to have anyone pushed at him. He still wears his wedding ring, and he's become a hermit. He doesn't go to church. He doesn't go out. He just works and goes fishing whenever he can, and sometimes he drinks alone in his room. I'm quite worried about him. I don't think he's sleeping well.”

“Not the epitome of husband material, is he?” Faye said.

“No, I'm afraid not. Ladies, I think this is going to be much harder than we think. And I'm still worried about the morality of what we're planning. I don't really believe in manipulating people.”

“We're not manipulating anyone. We're matchmaking. There's a big difference,” Viola said with a grin.

“Hmmm, same thing in my book,” Poppy replied as she pushed her lettuce around her plate. The salad dressing had too much vinegar. The food at the Red Fern had never matched the quality of the food Antonin had prepared at Eagle Hill.

“Well, since we aren't sure what kind of woman David might be interested in, maybe we should think about women with strong maternal qualities. After all, this is as much about Natalie as it is David,” Viola said, pulling a small notebook from her purse and handing it to Poppy. “Now, I've made a list of women who have a reputation for being kind and generous and connected to the community. You tell me which of these women we should focus our attentions on.”

Poppy scanned the list of names. “Don't you think Joanne Ackerman is a little old for him? She must be forty if she's a day.”

“I know,” Viola said on a sigh. “But she's a stalwart member of the St. Luke's Ladies Auxiliary, and she has such impeccable taste. I think she'd make an excellent congressman's wife and a wonderful mother. Plus she would decorate David's new house to the nines. I've always wanted to hire her to redo my living room.”

Poppy shook her head. “No. Scratch her off the list. And Alicia Mulloy is way too young for him. She couldn't be more than twenty-five.”

“So?” her friends asked in unison.

She supposed they had a point. Men like David were always marrying much younger second wives, and Alicia was active in the Girl Scouts.

Poppy stared at the list. Courtney Wallace's name was there, which made sense since she was a nurse practitioner at Dr. Page's office and a really sweet woman of David's age. Faye's niece, Arwen, was on the list, too, but that was probably because Viola didn't want to hurt Faye's feelings.

The list was comprehensive, but still, one name was absent.

“I don't like this list,” Poppy said, handing it back to Viola. She laid her fork across her salad plate.

“Poppy,” Faye said, “we thought you had come around to thinking this was a good idea, but if you don't—”

“No, it's not that. It's just that I have a candidate, but it's a complicated situation.”

“Who?” they asked in unison.

“Willow Petersen.” Poppy said the name and watched as both of her friends displayed the expected disapproving facial reactions.

“Now, ladies, before you object, let me explain my reasons.”

“I'm dying to hear them,” Faye said.

“Well, for starters she was Shelly's best friend, and I can't help but feel that Shelly would approve of her. After all, Shelly named Willow as Natalie's godmother. Even more important, over the last few days, Willow and Natalie have spent a lot of time together. Last Friday I walked into the library, and the two of them were down on the floor playing dolls together. Natalie was giggling.

“Have you any idea how long it's been since that child giggled about something?” Poppy's voice wavered, and she had to blot her eyes with her napkin.

“We didn't know,” Faye said.

“I know. That's why I just told you. Look, ladies, I watched Willow grow up. She was always underfoot, hanging around with Shelly. To be honest, I mothered her some because I always felt she needed it. It can't have been easy being Linda Petersen's daughter. And now, here she is, lavishing attention on Natalie. I agree that she stayed away too long, but it seems to me she's making up for that.”