Читать книгу The Love Trilogy: Room For Love / An A To Z Of Love / Summer Of Love - Sophie Pembroke, Sophie Pembroke - Страница 16

Chapter 8

The only good thing about getting rid of Mr Andrews and Mr Norton so early was that Carrie was able to have a mini breakdown in private before the Seniors returned and started decorating for dance night. And before Nate got back. Nate, she knew, would have questions.

She really didn’t want to answer them.

Carrie had thought that coming home to the Avalon would be an opportunity. Yes, she knew it would be hard and she’d have a lot to do to make a success of the inn, but she’d seen it as a chance to make her own future. To strike out on her own, go after the life she wanted for herself.

Instead, the doors of opportunity seemed to be slamming in her face everywhere she turned.

Left alone that afternoon she’d sat down with her planning file and made a list of options still open to her. With the banks, Mr Norton and Mr Andrews out, it was a very short list. With the amount of structural work needed on the Avalon, even another mortgage was out. Which left private investment. And the only people she knew with the money and potential incentive to invest were Anna and Uncle Patrick.

She’d written both names down in her file, then covered them over with a Post-it note. They had to be a last resort. Anna was still furious with her for leaving, so would probably say no out of spite anyway, or screw her over on the deal. And Uncle Patrick and Aunt Selena… They were family; the Avalon had been Patrick’s mother’s pride and joy; their own daughter wanted to get married there. They had all the incentive in the world, and God knew they’d bragged often enough about having the money. But Nancy hadn’t taken it, and Carrie didn’t want to either.

They could pay for the wedding. But to ask for more… Not yet. There had to be some other things she could try first.

Even if she had absolutely no idea what at the moment.

Sighing, Carrie stared up at the Union Jack bunting strung around the dining room and tried to decide if she liked it more or less than last week’s international flags. Still, in context, the bunting looked quite jolly. Along with the posters Stan had hung up on his return from wherever they’d all gone that morning, while Carrie had been working up in the Green Room again and thus unable to stop or question him, the dining room began to resemble a 1940s American army base. Complete, apparently, with its own Wren, ready to keep the soldiers company in return for some nylons.

“Cyb, that’s a...great costume.”

Cyb grinned at her from under her perfectly pin-curled hair. “Isn’t it? It belonged to my older sister, you know. She married an American during the war. Moved to Ohio when it was all over.”

“It certainly seems to fit with the theme,” Carrie assured her. “Are many dance nights so...Second World War centric?”

Cyb laughed. “Oh, no. Only the second Monday of every month.”

“Of course.” Because that was totally normal.

“We even have food like they’d have had on the American bases in Britain,” Cyb chattered on. “Jacob did some research for us on the internet and found all sorts of exciting recipes. And Stan runs old movies on the screen at the far end without the sound on. And we play all these wonderful thirties and forties songs to dance to. And—”

“Cyb?” Nate interrupted the monologue from the doorway. “I think Gran’s looking for you in the drawing room. She’s finalising the song list for this evening.”

Cyb bustled straight off, and Nate came in, apparently unconcerned by the sudden time warp.

“No costume?” Carrie asked, hoping to forestall the inevitable questions about Mr Norton’s visit, and Nate chuckled.

“I should be so lucky. Just wait until Gran gets done with Cyb.”

Carrie noticed the Donut Dugout sign in the corner, and suddenly felt more optimistic about the evening. If she could just distract Nate long enough for him to forget everything she’d told him about Anna...

Nate opened his mouth to ask something, but shut it again when Izzie appeared in the doorway calling for him. “We’ll talk, later,” he promised before disappearing again, with Izzie babbling something about ticket collection. Carrie sighed with relief. Only another three or four hours to go.

And tickets at least suggested people might be paying to attend the evening, which gave Carrie some comfort. But, since this was an official Avalon Inn event, did that mean she actually had to attend? She’d avoided last week’s, but she supposed she’d have to take part some time. Except it had been a long day, and she’d been looking forward to a night curled up in bed feeling sorry for herself…

Moira arrived next, carrying her iPod. “Finally, despite Stan’s best efforts, the playlist for the evening is ready.”

Carrie watched as she settled the iPod into a dock attached to the speakers on either side of the room. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have those in 1944.”

Moira shrugged. “Bet the people running the dances wished they did, though. Much easier to look after than a band.”

“True,” Carrie said, wishing more brides were willing to be so pragmatic. It would make planning weddings a lot easier. “It really is looking pretty impressive in here.”

Grinning, Moira said, “Just wait until everybody gets here. Then you’ll see a sight. Speaking of which, time for me to go and get ready.” And with that, she bustled off through the door.

In the end, it was just too tempting. As a compromise, Carrie changed out of her black suit and into a brown cotton pencil skirt and cream blouse, and curled up in one of the leather chairs in the drawing room that provided her with a good view of the lobby. Flicking on her laptop, she pretended to work as she watched.

The coffee table in front of her started to vibrate with the ringing of her phone, and she reached forward to grab it before it bounced off onto the floor.

Dad.

The word flashed up on the screen, and Carrie heard You can’t do this, again in her head.

She hung up, placing her phone face down on the table again. She was busy. They had an event at the inn that evening. She was, technically, working.

And she really didn’t want to have the same argument with him, all over again.

Feeling vaguely justified in her decision, Carrie turned her attention back to the entrance, just as the front door opened again.

The dance night attendees arrived in ones and twos, and a rowdy group of four elderly gentlemen in what might have been their original service uniforms except they fitted too well. Carrie vaguely remembered that demobbing involved giving them back, anyway.

Each one in turn greeted Izzie on the reception desk with smiles and high spirits, handing over their tickets, or buying them on the spot if necessary. Izzie in turn was cheerful, efficient and obviously beloved by the guests.

Carrie was amazed.

And so, when the clock ticked over to eight o’clock, Carrie closed her laptop and followed the crowds into 1944. Suddenly, she wanted to know what kept the Seniors so tied to her inn.

* * * *

Nate didn’t know where his gran had found the costume, but he suspected eBay. She’d become quite the computer whiz since Granddad had died. Regardless, she showed up with it, every forties night, and wouldn’t leave until he put it on. He’d given up the fight by this point.

“Maybe you could ask Carrie if you could do this place up a bit,” Moira suggested, perched on the very edge of the summerhouse sofa. “If you decide to stay.” She was fishing. Gran always did like to know his exact plans, and he had to admit to finding a perverse pleasure in holding out on her.

“I think she’s got bigger things to worry about at the moment. As you told me.” And despite his reluctance to fall in with Stan’s plan, Nate knew he’d have to find out how much worse the situation had become since the lawyer’s visit that morning.

Nate sighed, straightened the collar of his ‘authentic replica American army shirt, circa 1944’ and tried to make his hair stay flat. If it wasn’t tidy enough to appease Gran, he knew from past experience she would come after him with a comb and some Brylcreem. He’d really like to try and avoid a side-parting tonight.

“Besides,” he added, coming out of the bedroom, “I like it this way. It’s homey.”

“It’s a mess.” Moira narrowed her eyes at him. “As is your hair. Come here, I brought my comb.”

Nate sighed, but followed instructions and went to sit on the sofa. There was, he reflected as a slick of Brylcreem hit his scalp, something humiliating about being styled by your grandmother. Especially at the age of thirty.

By the time Moira had finished fussing and they had walked up to the inn, the party was in full swing. The Andrews sisters crooned from the speakers, Walt attempted to dance while still holding onto his Campari and soda and Stan, Nate noticed with a wince, was making his way through the dancers towards them.

Gran, coward that she was, gave a little wave to nobody and said, “Oh, Nate, I think I see...” before disappearing off without even a complete excuse.

Stan reached him and swung an arm up to somewhere approximating Nate’s shoulders. Given that Stan was a full head shorter than him, Nate figured that was quite an achievement in itself. “Nate, my boy. I’ve got it all set up for you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nate said, hoping he really didn’t. He could guess, but none of his speculations were particularly comforting. Stan opened his mouth again, and Nate jumped in with, “I don’t want to know what you mean.”

Stan gave a sage nod and dropped his arm. “Plausible deniability. I understand. Good move.” He inched even closer and lowered his voice to a grumbly whisper. “Let’s just say, you’ll know when it’s time, right?” He gave a meaningful look over at Jacob’s Donut Dugout, and Nate saw Carrie already there and, judging by her outfit, almost in the spirit of things. She was even wearing red lipstick.

She looked good in red lipstick.

Stan poked him in the ribs and disappeared in the direction of the stage. Deciding to ignore the sense of foreboding in his stomach, Nate headed for the food and hoped for the best.

“What exciting new recipes have we got today, Jacob?” Nate smiled at Carrie in what he hoped was a friendly but neutral manner, just in case Stan was still watching, and turned his attention to the trays of doughnuts before him.

When they’d started the forties nights, Jacob had been excited to learn from his culinary research that, during the war, Donut Dugouts had been set up for the visiting American soldiers. Apparently they used a special doughnut mix, which never became available in the UK once the fighting was over, so Jacob had started investigating how to make his own doughnuts from scratch.

Apparently there were considerably more doughnut recipes than anyone had expected. Jacob was still working his way through the first file of printouts.

“Apple and cinnamon doughnuts, lemon and lime doughnuts, vanilla sugar doughnuts and plain ones for Stan,” Jacob told him, pointing at each in turn.

“I can recommend the vanilla,” Carrie added through a mouthful of crumbs.

Nate chanced a look over at her, and had to smile at the way sugar stuck to her lipstick and her auburn hair floated over the shoulders of her creamy blouse. “You look nice,” he said, without really meaning to. And at least she didn’t look like someone who’d just been told she had to sell her home. That was something. “I like the lipstick.”

Carrie blushed a rosy pink, and the colour clashed with both her lipstick and her hair, which somehow just made Nate smile even more. “Izzie ambushed me. Said it was compulsory.”

“It should be.”

Carrie glanced away, taking another bite of her doughnut, just as Stan’s voice came over the speakers. He was up on the stage, Nate realised, microphone in hand, looking serious and sombre, and with the attention of the entire room.

Nate sighed, and reached for another doughnut. This, undoubtedly, was Stan’s sign. And it just wasn’t ever going to end well.

* * * *

It took Carrie a moment to stop marvelling at the sight of Nate Green in his uniform and tune in to what Stan was actually saying. After all, the way the khaki shirt emphasised the width of Nate’s shoulders was, quite frankly, much more interesting than any speech Stan could make. Possibly more interesting than any speech Winston Churchill might have been making in this weird time warp.

But then Stan said, “I know all of you here knew and loved Nancy Archer,” and Carrie started paying attention.

“She will be sorely missed, and I’m sure, for many of us, nothing will really be the same now that she’s gone.” Stan looked mournfully down on the crowd and, for a moment, Carrie felt a pang as she realised these people probably knew her grandmother better than she ever had. Even Nate looked affected, although the look on his face seemed more apprehensive than grief-stricken.

“But here tonight, we have with us Nancy’s granddaughter, Miss Carrie Archer.” Stan brightened up with these words and gestured to where Carrie stood, doughnut in hand and probably with sugar around her mouth. Out of nowhere, a spotlight came to shine on her, and she tried to wipe at her lips without anyone noticing. Nate handed her a napkin, and she gave him a grateful smile.

“Miss Archer is, I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear, the new owner of the Avalon Inn. And in honour of her arrival, our next song will be one of Nancy’s favourites.” Stan signalled to Izzie, who was hovering over the iPod in the corner, and the first strains of The Very Thought of You flooded through the room. “Nate, old boy,” Stan said, with an odd tone in his voice. “Why don’t you take your new boss for a turn around the floor?”

Carrie didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look so unexcited at the prospect of dancing with her. “You don’t have to...” she began, but Bing Crosby’s voice started out of the speakers, smooth and warm, and all Carrie could think of was nights dancing around the attic room with Nancy, and she lost the rest of the words she’d meant to say.

Nate obviously saw her discomfort and took pity on her, because he grabbed her hand and, to the applause of the crowd, led her onto the dance floor.

“I’m a rubbish dancer,” she managed as he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close.

“Doesn’t matter.” Nate fixed one of her hands on his back, still clasping the other tight, and began to move. “Just sway a bit. They’ll get bored of watching in a moment and join in.”

“I’m sorry.” Bing sang about living in a daydream and she thought, with the heat of Nate’s palms warming her skin through her blouse, that she knew exactly what he meant.

“What for?” Just as Nate had promised, other couples were joining them on the floor, finally. Stan and Cyb took a turn not far from them, and as they passed Stan winked, although Carrie wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or Nate, or why.

“You having to dance with me.” She should have added all the other things she felt sorry for—Mr Jenkins, the builder, him being stuck at the Avalon at all, thanks to her gran. But she didn’t.

Nate laughed, and several dancers nearby turned to look at them. He moved his head closer to hers, until Carrie could feel his breath against her ear. “Trust me, compared with my usual partners at these things, dancing with you is a real treat.”

He straightened up, and Carrie’s neck felt cold at the absence of his warm breath. At least, that was her excuse for the shiver running up her back when he tugged her close again.

“You didn’t look so pleased when Stan ordered you to take me out for a twirl,” she pointed out. A thought occurred to her. “Or was that because he called me your boss?”

Nate looked perplexed. “You are my boss.”

Carrie shrugged, and promptly lost the rhythm. “I wasn’t sure how happy you were about that. Given, well, everything.”

“Doesn’t bother me, to be honest.” Nate swung them out of the way of a passing couple. “I like having more time to work on my garden. Don’t worry, I’m not planning some sort of coup on the inn.”

“I never thought you were,” Carrie said. She just knew he thought she couldn’t do this on her own. “Then what was bothering you?”

Nate rolled his eyes. “Bloody Stan and his machinations.” Carrie blinked up at him, confused, and he obligingly elaborated. “Cyb heard the offers from the lawyer this morning to buy the inn. Stan wants me to romance you into telling me whether or not you’re planning on selling. I told him I’d just ask you outright, ‘How did it go this morning?’ but apparently Stan wants to play this his way, whether we like it or not.”

“I’m not selling,” Carrie said, choosing to ignore the part about a virtual stranger trying to manipulate her love life. “Not unless I’m forced to.”

“That’s what I told him,” Nate said with a nod.

“Oh?”

Nate smiled down at her, and she felt something in her chest go just a bit gooey. “I told them all you love this place too much to sell.”

“Well, you’re right.” Carrie wondered why that was so disturbing. He’d only known her for a week, but he spoke as if he knew all her secrets.

“So, how did it go this morning?”

Too late, Carrie remembered she’d been trying to avoid getting into this position with Nate tonight. He asked too much, too close. She didn’t want to admit she was almost out of options.

“It could have gone worse,” she said tentatively, and Nate just looked down at her with raised eyebrows. “Well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“That you are.” Nate rubbed a small circle at the small of her back, and Carrie felt blood rushing to her cheeks.

“Anyway, it was just a short visit. They told me about the offers. I said no.” She was babbling, Carrie knew, and likely to give away everything she hadn’t wanted to tell him. But it was just so hard to concentrate on anything except his skin against hers.

“So, they didn’t have any other magic solutions to the cash-flow problem, then?”

“Not exactly,” Carrie admitted. “But I do have a potential booking!”

“For a wedding?” Nate sounded disbelieving. “Here?”

“My cousin, Ruth. She’s always wanted to get married here. And her father would be willing to pay plenty for a decent venue…”

“Enough to fix this place up?”

“To make a start, at least.”

“Would they invest, do you think? Longer term?”

Carrie winced. “I don’t know.”

“Have you asked them?” Carrie shook her head against his chest. “Will you?”

“Not unless I have to.” Carrie sighed. “Look, I know you don’t understand this, but I don’t want a handout. I want to do this myself.”

Nate stopped the circles on her back. “Oh, I understand. I just don’t agree. You need help here, Carrie. Not because you’re not capable, but because nobody could do this alone.”

Silence fell between them as Bing kept singing. They were barely moving now, let alone dancing.

“So, when’s this bride of yours coming up to see the place?” Nate asked.

“Soon, I hope. I was thinking two weeks’ time? She wants a Christmas wedding for some godforsaken reason, so we don’t have long. She’ll probably bring her parents, as well as her fiancé.” As long as Ruth and Graeme hadn’t actually broken up over the choosing of the ring, of course. Oh, God, she was going to have to phone and check. “Uncle Patrick and Aunt Selena are the ones we’ll have to convince. Aunt Selena has…aspirations.”

“So you’ve got to make this place appealing to them with no money?”

“I have some savings,” Carrie said, because I have a credit card sounded so much worse. “We’ll just have to concentrate on the easy, cosmetic stuff for now, and promise bigger changes to the rest before the wedding.” After they’d paid a deposit.

The song drew to a close. They stilled, arms around each other, for a long, silent moment, only broken when Nate said, “Stan will be relieved, anyway.” He moved away, and Carrie felt a shiver of cold. “That you’re not selling, I mean.”

“Then you’d better go tell him. And all the others.” Carrie took a step nearer the Donut Dugout. At least Jacob and his sugary morsels of goodness didn’t try to understand her.

“Carrie,” Nate called, and her body turned to him despite her best intentions. “They’re just concerned, you know. They love this place. Now they know you’re staying, they’ll do everything they can to help you.”

She nodded to show she’d heard and turned away. After all, how much help were they really going to be? So far, all they’d done was book up her hotel on days when she could use it for more profitable endeavours, and turn back time to 1944. Neither of which was going to make a successful wedding venue.

And she couldn’t help but notice that Nate hadn’t said he’d help. He hadn’t even said he was going to stay.

Not that she cared, of course.

Time, Carrie decided, for another doughnut.