Читать книгу Her Mistletoe Magic - Kristine Rolofson, April Arrington - Страница 10

“IS IT TRUE? The Barrett wedding is canceled?”

Grace Clarke looked up from her phone. “Yes.”

“Wow.” Patsy McLean, Mirror Lake Lodge’s longtime business manager, entered Grace’s office and plopped down in one of the overstuffed burgundy chairs that fronted her glass desk. “This is not good.”

“No. It’s not.” She tossed her phone aside and eyed her friend. “I’m trying not to hyperventilate.”

“You never hyperventilate. Not even during the clown reunion. Remember that?”

Grace shuddered. “I still have nightmares.”

“The big curly-haired clown had a crush on you,” Patsy reminded her. “He wanted you to wear polka dots and learn to play the harmonica.”

“And the one with all the tattoos thought you should join the circus and live happily ever after with a man who turns balloons into animals.”

Patsy sighed. “There are times when I think I should have gone with him.” Her daughter was in the middle of a nasty divorce and had returned home six months ago, her twin toddlers in tow, while she and her cheating ex worked out the details. Patsy and her recently retired husband were still reeling from the chaos.

“It’s too late,” Grace declared. “No circus clowns for us.”

“Speak for yourself, sweetie. You’re still ridiculously young and so pretty. You could have all the clowns you want.”

“I guess that’s a compliment?”

“It is. I wish I had your figure, your skin, your age.” Patsy sighed. “Please tell me you’re going out with that real-estate agent who found the condo for you. What is his name?”

“Brad.”

“Did he ask you out?”

“Not exactly. I believe his exact words were, ‘If you ever get, like, really lonely, give me a call and maybe we can hook up.’”

“I’m sorry I asked.” Patsy eyed the various cardboard boxes lining the walls of Grace’s small office. “So, what happened with the wedding? Did the groom get cold feet? Did the bride run away with the best man?”

“I’m not sure. Right now it’s a mystery.” She leaned forward and took a sip of very cold coffee from a mug that said Fail To Plan, Plan To Fail.

“Who told you?”

“Both of them, actually. It was pretty grim. Julie did the talking. And the poor groom just looked stunned. Like he didn’t know what hit him.”

“So she’s the one who has the cold feet? Or another lover? Or her parents hate the groom. Or she found out he was cheating on her. Or all of the above.”

“I don’t know what happened. They’ve been an easy couple to work with. But I guess you can never tell what’s going on under the surface.” She looked at the shipping boxes that represented months of planning. Red glass Christmas ornaments embellished with the bride’s and groom’s names and the date of the wedding, pinecones for place-card holders, fat ivory candles, canning jars to be filled with battery-operated fairy lights—all destined for a seven o’clock wedding on Christmas Eve.

“True. But it does seem pretty dramatic, calling off a wedding so close to the ceremony.”

“I’m going to have to look up an easy way to remove glitter-glued names from a hundred ornaments. Julie said she didn’t want any of the decorations and I hate to throw them away.” The wedding would have been absolutely gorgeous. Grace had planned on taking lots of photos to use as inspiration for other brides considering the Mirror Lake Lodge for their wedding.

“There’s always eBay, I guess. Maybe another Mason and Julie will be getting married next Christmas.” Patsy peered at the boxes—one of the open ones was stuffed with pinecones. “What about the pinecones? I thought they were cute.”

“I’ll save them. I can use them for something else. But the little canning jars are my favorite.” She had planned on taping the battery packs to the underside of the jar lids. “Festive Country Elegance” was her theme for this particular wedding.

“If you still want to assemble them, we can put some on the mantels. Or maybe the restaurant will want to use them for the Christmas buffet.”

“Okay.”

“Speaking of the restaurant,” Patsy drawled. “Who’s going to tell Nico?”

Grace shot her a pointed look.

“Oh no,” Patsy said, her silver-and-red curls bouncing around her face. She threw up her hands. “That is so not part of my job description.”

Grace wished it wasn’t part of hers, but as the events coordinator for the lodge she had no choice but to discuss the cancellation with the lodge’s most famous employee. The smoldering Italian chef would not be pleased. He’d worked on the menu for over a month, combining classic and elegant dishes to the delight of the bride, the groom and the bride’s quiet mother. They had all been thrilled with his creative ideas, particularly when he incorporated his now-famous cheese bar.

Nico loved parties.

He was not going to love this news.

“He’s going to throw a fit.” Or worse, ask her to join him for a glass of wine while he flirted shamelessly.

“No, he isn’t.” Patsy frowned. “Well, maybe a little fit. Did you see the episode when he got really angry with that actor, the one who was the villain in that time-travel movie, I think.”

“The tall guy,” Grace said. “He thought it was funny to keep adding extra salt and pepper to the food whenever Nico turned his back.”

“I thought Nico was going to punch him.”

“He came close,” Grace recalled. The YouTube video of those fifteen minutes of television time had gone viral.

“And the time the chicken wasn’t cooked properly in that restaurant he was trying to help. He told the cook to leave and never come back. In Italian, I think.”

“‘Raw chicken kills’,” he said. Remember? And then he threw those pans out the back door and two of the waitresses were crying—and then they went to a commercial.”

“I wonder what happened to that restaurant. I should look it up.”

“He’s never thrown anything here, has he?” Grace had heard he was a perfectionist and an exacting employer, but nothing about violence. Still, he had a reputation in the tabloids for his passionate nature.

“Well, just some utensils. But not at anyone directly,” Patsy replied. “I think he just cooks with gusto.”

“Gusto,” Grace repeated, thinking of Nico’s enormous energy. She wondered if he ever slept—he always seemed to be in the lodge’s kitchen.

“He loves weddings,” Patsy reminded her. “The bigger the better, he says.”

“Well, everything has been paid for. The bride understood it was too late for refunds. Flowers, food, music, cake, everything. I hate to think of it going to waste.”

“There’s always the food bank. We’ve done that before with leftovers.”

“I’ll make some phone calls in the morning,” Grace said, wondering if anyone would want ruby-red wedding decorations with pinecone placeholders and fairy lights.

“Ask Brian or one of the interns to take these boxes to the back room. Don’t do it yourself.” Patsy looked at her watch. “I’d better get back to the desk. I said I’d help Noelle with the tour group’s arrival at one o’clock.”

“But they’re only here overnight, is that right?”

“Yes. A quick in and out—a celebratory dinner, a sleigh ride to the cabin, and then they’re on to Boston in the morning after a leisurely brunch. Nico has planned some kind of decadent French toast for them.” She mock shuddered. “The man’s food is so good just the thought of it gives me chills.”

Grace eyed the half of a protein bar she was saving for a late-afternoon snack. It sat on her desk next to her now empty coffee cup, mocking her and her perpetual diet, daring her to throw it in the trash. “Eating his food would make me gain ten pounds in one day.”

“It wouldn’t show,” Patsy responded loyally, but Grace knew better. At five feet two inches tall, she had to watch every calorie in order to fit into her clothes, like the size eight petite red sheath dress she’d worn to match the lodge’s decorations today. Tomorrow she thought an ivory sweater and matching pencil skirt with dark gold suede boots would be appropriate, especially for the staff’s Secret Santa breakfast. She planned to wear her new dark burgundy lace dress for Christmas Eve. Grace believed that blending in, looking as if she belonged to the lodge, was a necessary part of her job.

“Keep me posted on the wedding,” Patsy said, heading toward the door. “If there’s anything I can do—”

“I’ll let you know,” Grace promised. But she didn’t intend to keep her friend away from her busy family and excited grandchildren during the holidays, no matter how many events were canceled. Patsy had already volunteered to work the desk on Christmas Eve so Noelle, who had a young son, could take the day off.

It wouldn’t last forever.

Five more days until Christmas craziness was behind her.

Grace Clarke eyed the oversize calendar on her glass-topped desk and took a deep breath. She stayed organized using cell phone reminders and sticky notes, but she relied on her old-fashioned paper calendar to help her keep track of the Big Picture.

And the Big Picture had just shrunk.

Today was Monday, December 21. Yesterday Grace had overseen an intimate wedding between two eighty-year-olds and their immediate families, a Christmas party for the local chamber of commerce and a special family dinner for the resident bride and groom and their families.

The dinner was to have kicked off the wedding festivities, which would culminate in a Christmas Eve ceremony for a couple who appeared to be made for each other. The bride had been cooperative throughout the entire year they’d spent making arrangements and, despite some strange behavior during a dress fitting yesterday, she’d been a joy to work with. The groom, a physician, had been agreeable and patient.

In other words, he’d behaved the way a perfect groom should.

Until he’d been dumped.

Grace empathized.

She consulted her agenda on the iPad. She needed to make sure that the twenty-six people from the tour bus would be seated in the dining room for dinner at five thirty. Their sleigh rides had been confirmed for eight o’clock, with a return between eleven and twelve. There were the shuttle buses to Santa’s Village to oversee—the guests’ children loved that particular tradition. She’d had some luck helping the manager of the Village fill a Santa vacancy for tomorrow—one of the wedding guests turned out to be familiar with the role. The much-anticipated and very casual staff party would be held tomorrow morning, but she had nothing left to do for that event.

As far as she knew, the lodge was full, though Grace was pretty sure the groom and his family would be leaving the hotel and heading home. She made a note to check with Patsy on that. The maid of honor had arrived today, so either she hadn’t known about the cancellation of the wedding or she was here to support the bride. Or maybe she loved to ski. After all, the bride and her mother had decided to stay for a few days and turn the visit into a vacation.

A vacation without lace, flowers, rings or promises of enduring love.

Grace couldn’t understand it, but what Julie Barrett did or did not do was her own business. It was up to Grace to pick up the pieces.

She stalled for another two hours, making phone calls and going over the week’s events. Finally she emerged from her office, which was conveniently tucked along a hallway next to the front desk in the main building. The double-door entrance facing the lake was decorated with the customary greenery and white lights. Each wreath was adorned with a red velvet bow and a set of tiny dangling sleigh bells. Patsy had Perry Como crooning through the stereo system.

“I will get even,” she murmured as she passed the front desk where Patsy and Noelle huddled over the computer monitor. “I just downloaded ‘Boogie Woogie Santa Claus’ from Amazon.”

“Bring it on,” Patsy said. “You can’t possibly compete. I have forty-seven easy-listening Christmas albums on my iPod, including Elvis.”

“Kill me now.”

Noelle looked up and smiled. “I heard that Nico loves Andrea Bocelli.”

“Gosh, really?” Grace feigned surprise, which made both women grin, and she headed up the polished wooden stairs to the restaurant. She loved the lodge, with its elegant white exterior and porches, stone fireplaces and pine walls. She loved the views of the lake, piles of snow framing ice perfect for skating, and the Oriental rugs on the polished wooden floors.

She did not love Christmas, not this year. This year it was merely a holiday to be endured. Her father was on a cruise with his latest fiancée and Grace’s only other relative, Aunt Ellen, was in Arizona with her daughter’s family and a new grandchild. It wasn’t the holiday she’d envisioned eighteen months ago when she’d been planning her own Christmas wedding, but she would make the best of it. On January 4, when the lodge’s many Christmas trees were stripped of their sparkly decorations and Patsy’s CDs were returned to the drawer labeled Boring Holiday Music, Grace would breathe a sigh of relief and look forward to a lovely, hectic ski season.

Grace stepped into the restaurant and waved to one of the waiters.

“He’s in the back,” the young man called out.

“Thanks, Tom.” She made her way past the elegant linen-covered tables and white chairs, the empty tables set with the lodge’s trademark white linen napkins and December’s emerald tablecloths. She approved of the holiday flower arrangements, shades of cream and white dotted with silvery jingle bells, all very elegant and tasteful, as sophisticated as the chef himself.

The restaurant was a spacious room, much longer than it was wide, with windows along the wall that faced the lake. The far end could be enclosed for private events, something Grace had done many times in the past four years. Tonight’s tour group had opted to sit in the main area of the dining room, and she saw that a table for twenty-six stretched along the windows across from the stone fireplace. Eight or so tables held the last of the lunch crowd and, as usual, the long room was immaculate.

Mirror Lake Lodge was known for its many stone fireplaces. Not every venue in the Lake Placid area could boast so many beautiful public rooms, which made her job booking events easier. All she had to do was show potential brides the Wildwood Room, a private dining room and wedding venue separated from the main restaurant with a view of the lake and, of course, its own massive fireplace. Then there was the Mirror Lakeview Ballroom, just a few steps up from the Wildwood Room through a set of French doors. Floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted a huge room designed in the Victorian summer-home style, with wooden walls painted white and dark wood floors. It boasted two rustic stone fireplaces, one on each end of the rectangular room. Since its construction ten years ago, the Mirror Lakeview Ballroom had been the setting for many weddings, reunions, fashion shows, civic functions and “celebrations of life.”

Julie Barrett’s wedding ceremony was to have taken place in front of the fireplace in the Wildwood Room, with her reception for eighty-five people up half a flight of stairs in the ballroom. She’d wanted room for dancing, and had been thrilled that the two large Christmas trees would be decorated and lit. She’d even requested Grace’s specialty, the hot-chocolate bar, to add to the cozy winter atmosphere. So, what had happened?

It was none of her business, she reminded herself as she weaved through the tables toward the kitchen. But still, what made love start and stop? She found it all a little sad.

A young waiter carrying two silver platters of homemade cookies burst out of the kitchen and headed her way.

“Teatime,” Brian announced, stopping to lower one of the gaily decorated platters in front of Grace. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” Tea and cookies were provided in the lobby each afternoon, much to Patsy’s delight. Their guests loved the tradition, of course, which added to the lodge’s popularity. “Is he in?”

“Of course.” The boy grinned. “He’s training two more interns.”

“Uh-oh.” She inhaled. “Those smell so good.”

“Hey, you know baking cookies is the highlight of Maria’s day,” he called, hurrying out of the room.

Maria had been the lodge’s pastry chef for thirty-one years. Her cookie recipes were highly guarded secrets, though Patsy swore she’d replicated the almond cookies once. Maria was a sweet, quiet woman in her fifties who rarely spoke, but she had a gift for baking, if not for conversation. She made a different kind of cookie for each day of the week and Mondays were oatmeal raisin.

“Grace! You are looking for me?” Dominic “Nico” Vitelli stepped out of the kitchen and smiled. “Finally!”

His smile lit up his eyes. That genuine smile of his had attracted viewers of all ages to his television show last year. The tall rangy body clad in a white chef’s jacket and jeans, along with dark curling hair and surprising blue eyes, looked good on camera. Grace, who had little interest in cooking, had watched the show several times, but only when she was channel surfing on a rare Saturday afternoon off. And during those times she had been mesmerized by the man’s sex appeal. He made cooking look seductive and sensual. She often wondered why his show had been cancelled, why he’d returned home after that failure—and it must have been devastating—instead of continuing his exciting Hollywood lifestyle. But here he was. Smiling at her.

“Finally?” She couldn’t imagine why he’d be looking forward to seeing her. She kept their meetings brief and to the point. All business, all the time. She didn’t want to be flirted with, had no desire to play games with the former television star. She longed to meet a quiet accountant who dreamed of living a quiet, ordinary life devoted to his wife and family.

Unfortunately, the accountants she met at the lodge were all married, snapped up by women who knew a good thing when they saw it. Unlike Grace, who fell for charming men with commitment issues.

“Of course.” He waved her closer. “Come into the kitchen. I want you to try the special tonight, ravioli with pesto cream. And I have a bottle of Chianti breathing on the counter.”

“I have something important—”

“Good. We’ll discuss it. Come,” he said, holding the door open for her.

She had no choice but to step into the kitchen, Nico following behind her. Grace scurried around the corner and into the gleaming kitchen. Nico’s World, someone had nicknamed it shortly after the chef had been hired to return the restaurant to its former glory. The kitchen was usually noisy and loud, filled with bustling servers, cooks and dishwashers, but this afternoon only a handful of prep cooks lined the stainless-steel work counters. In another hour the restaurant would be chaotic again. Right now the smell of freshly baked cookies competed with the aroma of garlic and bread just out of the oven.

Grace greeted the staff and trotted across the stone floor in her ruby-red heels. Suddenly her right foot slipped from underneath her. Her ankle twisted and she was falling backward into the arms of the handsome chef.

“Whoa,” he said from somewhere above her head. “What the hell—”

“Sorry,” she managed to say, until he attempted to set her back on her feet and her ankle buckled again.

“Hold on.” He gripped her waist so she was lifted off her feet. “Chair!”

Three white-coated interns rushed to find a chair and within seconds an intern set one down in front of Nico and Grace. Nico placed her carefully on its brown leather seat.

“Thank you,” Grace said, surprised at how much her ankle had started to hurt. “I don’t know what happened.”

“I do. I think you slipped on these.” He bent over to pick up a tiny cluster of metal jingle bells and held them in the air to show his staff. “Ideas, anyone?”

“The cookie platters, Chef,” one of the young women said. “They must have fallen off the cookie platters.”

“Ah.” He frowned at the bells and shoved them in his jacket pocket before turning back to Grace. He knelt down to peer at her foot. “Those are ridiculous shoes.”

“I’m glad the heel didn’t break. I love them.”

“I loved them, too,” he muttered, lifting her foot to his thigh. “Until a few minutes ago.”

“Just give me a minute to catch my breath and then I’ll limp out of here.” It was so embarrassing. One minute she’d been ready to discuss business and then she’d landed against a surprisingly wide chest and into a pair of extremely muscular arms.

Must be all that chopping and whipping and stirring, she decided. Cooking was not for wimps.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Chef?” An intern pushed an empty chair closer. Nico positioned it in front of Grace and sat down, then carefully removed her shoe. Grace held her breath until he was finished. “Joan, check to make sure there are no more hazards on the floor. Check the dining room, too. Where’s Brian?”

“Here, Chef.” The young man looked at Grace and gulped. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Clarke. They must have fallen when—”

But his boss interrupted. “Yes, yes, it was an accident, Brian. Now, get some ice. And a towel.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“It’s all right, really.” She smiled when Brian returned. “I’ve tripped over all sorts of things in this job. Fallen, too. Don’t worry. This is nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Nico said, forming an ice pack with the towel. He placed it near the top of her foot. “It’s swelling. You may need X-rays.”

“Ow.” She made a move to pull her foot back, but Nico held her calf to keep her still. She smoothed her dress and made sure no one could see her matching red panties. She was sure Nico was the type to appreciate such things. And she wasn’t going to give him any more reasons to flirt with her.

“Definitely X-rays,” he said.

“It’s just a little sprain,” Grace countered. “I’ll take the ice and go back to my office—”

“Don’t we have doctors staying here for Thursday’s wedding?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ll see if Noelle or Patsy can track one down, give us an opinion. Brian? Go ask at the desk. Otherwise, we’ll head to town.”

“Patsy can take me. You’re busy with ravioli and sauce and dinner and the twenty-six sightseers.”

“Patsy can’t carry you. And my staff is perfectly capable of making ravioli.” He arched a brow in their direction and a chorus of “Yes, Chef!” followed.

Grace didn’t want to like him. She didn’t want her toes to tingle every time his fingers shifted the ice pack. She didn’t want to believe he was actually pleased to be taking care of her.

There were rumors he’d dated three actresses at the same time. His picture had been on the cover of In Touch magazine, along with his glamorous raven-haired producer and the caption hinting at a surprise pregnancy. He’d cooked for George Clooney and been featured in Oprah’s magazine along with his recipe for eggplant Parmesan.

“You must salt the eggplant and let it rest,” he’d been quoted as saying, as if that information unlocked the secrets of the universe, eternal life and the cure for cancer.

“Why do you let eggplant rest?” she said suddenly.

He beckoned one of the interns over. “More ice, please.”

“Yes, Chef.” The college student hurried to do Nico’s bidding.

“Okay,” he said, looking at her with those dark blue eyes of his. “Why do you let eggplant rest?”

It took her a moment to realize he thought she was making a joke. “No,” she said. “You told Oprah to let the eggplant rest.”

There was that sexy smile again. She couldn’t stop herself from blushing, but she hoped he would assume the heat of the kitchen was to blame. The pain in her foot blossomed, burning toward her ankle and up her leg.

“It must be salted to sweat—to release liquid—so it won’t be soggy.”

“That’s interesting.” She was babbling about eggplant. Could this be any more embarrassing?

“Would you like some? Dinner service doesn’t start until five, but I will put aside—”

“Thank you, that’s very nice of you, but—”

“You don’t like Italian food.”

“I love Italian food. Who doesn’t?” She shivered as he ran his index finger along her ankle. His touch was so gentle she didn’t feel any pain. Or maybe her skin was frozen from the ice. She was just being silly. Grace gulped. Time to get back to business. “I came to tell you that the Barrett wedding has been canceled.”

He frowned. “I heard. Why have you waited hours to tell me about it?”

“You knew?”

Nico smiled. “There are no secrets around here. One of the house cleaners heard the mother talking about it. Would you like a cup of tea, Grace? A glass of water?”

“No, thank you. About the wedding, Julie and Mason have apologized for the inconvenience. And they know the refund policy.”

“I’ll let some of the staff know they will have that night off, after all, but they were looking forward to making the extra money. And I will have beef Wellington specials on the menu for the next ten days.”

“I know. We’ve all worked so hard getting ready.” She wondered why he was taking the news in stride. Maybe in Hollywood, canceled weddings happened all the time. “Well, I’d better get back to work. If you would help me stand up—”

“Is there someone I can call to help you?”

“No, I’ll manage.”

“Give it another minute,” Nico advised. “Has anyone ever told you that you should always wear red?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. She wanted to roll her eyes, but caught herself. “You are such a flirt.”

“Grace!” He pretended to look insulted. “It was merely an observation. You’ve made it clear you aren’t interested in going out with me, so I won’t ask you again. Think of me as an impartial observer. And a paramedic.”

“Right.” She hid a smile.

He was heart-stoppingly attractive, disarmingly kind. And charming, too, with that eyebrow lift that sent his staff scurrying to do his bidding. But she was going to resist, just as she had since he’d joined the staff. It was a matter of self-preservation. There were lots of reasons to avoid this man. It was a “father thing,” Patsy had informed her after Tom bailed. Patsy had just read a biography of Jacqueline Kennedy and was up to date on “father things.” Daughters with playboy fathers tended to repeat the past in an effort to change it, Patsy had declared.

Grace hadn’t argued. She’d read plenty of articles on topics like How to Tell a Keeper From a Loser, and she’d come to the conclusion that a little more self-awareness couldn’t hurt.