A Wedding on Primrose Street (Life In Icicle Falls Book 7) (29 page)

“All right,” her father was saying, “let’s all find our seats.”

And so they did. Regretful about shooting off her mouth, Dot tried to smile at the good-natured toasts and jests from her father and her uncles, hugged her grandma and her future mother-in-law when the party broke up and tried to think what she should say to Duncan.

She didn’t get a chance to say anything. The men dragged him off, insisting on celebrating further on the groom’s last night of freedom. He looked over his shoulder at her and his expression was pleading.
Please tell me I’m not marrying the creature from the black love lagoon.

There was only one monster in the room and that was Ronnie. Dot shouldn’t have even invited her to the wedding. As everyone filed out of the restaurant, she grabbed her stepsister by the arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Ronnie tried to pull away.

Now Dot’s sister had joined them. “What’s she been up to?” Joyce asked.

“Up to? Why do you always think I’m up to something?” Ronnie protested.

Dot glared at her. “She told Duncan about Corey.”

“You little louse!”

“Somebody needed to tell him,” Ronnie said. “He has a right to know what he’s getting into.”

“Well, and when you bring your next victim around, we’ll be sure to tell him how many men you’ve slept with,” Joyce said sweetly.

“I have not...”

“Met a man you didn’t like,” Dot snarled. “Oh, get out of here before we strip you and strangle you with your bra.”

“You would!” Ronnie shot back and hurried out of the room.

“Do you think she has psychological problems?” Joyce mused as Ronnie ran for the door.

Dot sighed. “I guess it was bound to come out. When you’ve got a past, it always does.”

“The only thing in your past you need to be ashamed of was your bad taste in picking Corey in the first place. He was rotten to the core. And the only thing you should regret is not calling me to come over and help you beat the tar out of him that night.”

Dot managed a smile. But it didn’t last long. “I wonder what Duncan’s thinking.”

“That he’s lucky to have you,” her sister said with a grin and hugged her.

She tried to call Duncan at his house a number of times that night but he never answered. She wanted to see him the next morning, but it seemed that every moment was busy with hair appointments and pedicures. All day she kept expecting someone to deliver a note from him telling her never mind, he didn’t want to get married, after all, but none came.

That evening, the little church was filled with family and with friends who’d come over from Icicle Falls. The flower girls did their walk down the aisle, followed by her sister, and then her father offered her his arm.

“Okay, kid, let’s do this,” he said, and she could smell whiskey on his breath.

She looked at Duncan. He stood waiting next to his best man. The expression on his face wasn’t that of a besotted groom. He looked like old Howdy Doody would look if someone set him too close to a roaring bonfire. They should have talked. She should’ve tracked him down. What kind of way was this to get married? She hesitated.

“Come on,” her father teased. “Too late to back out now.”

Was it? Was that what Duncan thought?

Down the aisle they went. Her father said his piece about giving her away and then sat down next to her stepmother. Duncan held out his elbow. Dot took it, and they climbed the three carpeted stairs to where the pastor stood. It was hot in the church with the evening sun streaming through the stained-glass windows, and Dot could feel perspiration gathering on her brow. Duncan was sweating like a crook under police interrogation.

The bridal party turned to face the minister, who told them that marriage wasn’t a state to be entered into lightly. She thought she heard Duncan whimper. She stole a glance at him. His mouth was set in a determined line. This was not the face of a happy groom anticipating his wedding night.

Now it was time to kneel on the carpeted stairs in front of the minister while her cousin Cornelia sang “The Lord’s Prayer.” She got as far as “lead us not into temptation” when Duncan moaned and fell over like a toppled tree.

Pandemonium ensued. Duncan’s mother let out a cry and his brothers carried him from the sanctuary.

“Get him water,” one of Dot’s aunts called after them.

As if water would solve the problem.

“We’ll continue this in a few minutes,” the minister promised.

Dot wasn’t so sure. She picked up her skirts and followed the men to the choir room, which had served as their dressing room.

Duncan was just coming around, thanks to a couple of not-so-gentle slaps from his brother, when she entered the room. One look at her and he passed out again. Now one of his aunts had entered with a glass of water.

Dot took it from her and commanded, “Leave us for a minute.”

The others exchanged looks, then tiptoed off like people leaving the side of a deathbed.

She walked up to where Duncan lay prone on a church pew and dumped the water on his face, which brought him to, spluttering and shaking his head. “We need to talk,” she snapped. “Do you want to marry me or don’t you?”

His expression turned mulish. “Of course I do.”

She smiled sweetly. “Good. We should be able to live happily ever after...as long as you don’t cross me and we never go mountain climbing.”

That put him back to looking like Casper the Friendly Ghost.

“Oh, honestly, Duncan. Do you really think I killed my husband?”

“No. I... No.”

“So then, why did you pass out?”

“It was hot in there.”

“It was hot for
you
. If you can’t stand the heat, Duncan, stay out of the kitchen.” This wasn’t going to work. Duncan was a big chicken and her stepsister was a witch. At the moment, she could happily have choked them both. She turned to leave. “I’m going to tell everyone to take their presents and go home.”

He caught her gown. “Don’t.”

She looked over her shoulder and cocked an eyebrow at him. “I don’t see the point in going on. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. But don’t you think whatever happened with your husband is something you could have told me about?”

“You’d have run screaming into the night, just like you want to do now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Tell me what happened.”

She made a face. “He was drinking. We were up on Mount Rainier with some lousy friends of his and their girlfriends. They were all drinking. We got into a fight.” She could remember it all so clearly. The angry march away from the campsite, the raised voices. Corey grabbing her arm and her jerking away. Him losing his balance. “He fell down a ravine and broke his neck, plain and simple. Of course, no one saw it. They only came when they heard me scream.”

Duncan said nothing. He sat there on the pew, taking in everything she said.

“He had a life insurance policy. An insurance salesman talked us into getting a policy, told us it would be a good way to save money. I guess it was. I used it to buy my restaurant.” Duncan seemed so relieved she could only conclude that he’d considered her capable of murder. She narrowed her eyes. “Of course, I could be making this all up, so we’d better not get married.”

Again, she turned to go, and again, he grabbed her gown. “Quit grabbing my gown, Duncan. You’re going to rip it.” So what if he did? She’d never wear it again.

“You didn’t kill him. Of course you didn’t. But even if you did, I want you anyway. I love you, Dot. I’ll take my chances.”

“Yeah? I might kill you.”

“Then I’ll die with a smile on my face.”

He stood up and put his arms around her. “Let’s go back out there and finish what we started.”

He was either crazy or the most wonderful man in the world. “Are you sure?”

“You bet. But I’m taking off this jacket. I don’t want to pass out again. I don’t want to miss another moment with you.”

* * *

Dot raised her champagne glass, toasting her dead husband. “You know what? He did die with a smile on his face. Duncan was the sweetest man.” The band was playing a romantic slow dance. She looked out at the couples swaying on the floor, the women with their arms around their partners’ necks, smiling at the other. And the bride and groom... If ever a pair looked ready to hit the honeymoon suite, it was them.

Dot pointed in their direction. “Check out Roberta and Curtis. They’re grinning like they won the lottery.”

“I think they did,” Muriel said. “You know, Dot, God gave human beings a lot of wonderful gifts, but love is the best one of all.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dot said and poured herself more champagne.

Acknowledgments

I had such a good time writing this book! And I’d really like to thank the wonderful people who helped me along the way. Thanks as always to the “brain trust”: Susan Wiggs, Anjali Banerjee, Kate Breslin, Lois Dyer and Elsa Watson. And a very special thanks to Megan Keller, event designer and owner of A Kurant Event in Seattle, Washington, for giving me a glimpse into the life of a wedding planner. (I’m sure there are some things I didn’t get right, but that’s my fault and not hers.) I’ve seen Megan in action and she plans fabulous weddings! Thanks to my good friend Theresia for the wonderful recipes. Everything you make is fabulous!

Finally, a big thank-you to my agent, Paige Wheeler (you’re the best!), my insightful and lovely editor, Paula Eykelhof, and all the wonderful people at MIRA who work so hard to turn stories into books and dreams into dreams come true.

Keep reading for an excerpt from
THE LODGE ON HOLLY ROAD
by Sheila Roberts.

“Sheila Roberts makes me laugh. I read her books and come away inspired, hopeful and happy.”
—Debbie Macomber, #1
New York Times
bestselling author

Looking for more heartwarming Life in Icicle Falls stories from Sheila Roberts?

This Christmas, despite family disasters, irritating ex-husbands and unforeseen kitchen catastrophes, Icicle Falls is still the
perfect
place to be:

Christmas on Candy Cane Lane
(November 2015)

Catch up on the complete series today for more charming tales of small-town romance:

Welcome to Icicle Falls
(novella)
Better Than Chocolate
Merry Ex-Mas
What She Wants
The Cottage on Juniper Ridge
The Tea Shop on Lavender Lane
The Lodge on Holly Road

Complete your collection!

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The Lodge on Holly Road

by Sheila Roberts

Chapter One

Jolly Old Saint Nicholas

T
he toddler wasn’t simply crying. Oh, no. These were the kind of earsplitting screams that would make the strongest department-store Santa want to run for his sleigh. Her face was a perfect match for James Claussen’s red Santa suit, and both her eyes and her nose had the spigot turned on full blast.

What was he doing here, sitting on this uncomfortable throne, ruling over a kingdom of fake snow, candy canes and mechanical reindeer? What had possessed him to come back to work? He didn’t want to be jolly, even imitation jolly.

“Come on, Joy,” coaxed the little girl’s mother from her spot on the sidelines of Santa Land. “Smile for Mommy.”

“Waaah,” Joy responded.

I understand how you feel,
James thought. “Joy, that’s a pretty name for a pretty girl. Can you give your mommy a big smile?” he coaxed.

“Waaah,” Joy shrieked, and began kicking her feet. The black patent leather shoes turned those little feet into lethal weapons. Come tomorrow he’d have a bruise on the inside of his left thigh.

“Ho, ho, ho,” James tried, but the shrieks only got louder.

Okay, this was as good as the picture with Santa was going to get. He stood and handed off the child, who was still kicking and crying, barely dodging an assault to the family jewels in the process. The jewels weren’t so perfect now that he was sixty-six but they were still valuable to him and he wanted to keep them.

Shauna Sullivan, his loyal elf, sent him a sympathetic look and ushered up the next child, a baby girl carried by her mother. Rosy-cheeked and alert, probably just awake from a nap, the baby was dolled up in a red velvet dress with white booties on her feet and a headband decorated with a red flower. She was old enough to smile and coo but not quite old enough to walk or, thank God, kick Santa where it hurt.

This baby girl reminded him of his daughter, Brooke, when she was a baby, all smiles and dimples. Big brown eyes that looked at him in delighted wonder. Oh, those were the days, when his kids were small and Faith was still...

Don’t go there.

“And what would this little dumpling like for Christmas?” he asked, settling the baby on his lap.

For a few seconds it looked as if she was actually concentrating on an answer. But then a sound anyone who’d had children could easily recognize, followed by a foul odor, told him she’d been concentrating on something else. Oh, man.

“Smile, Santa,” Krystal, the photographer, teased, and the smelly baby on his lap gurgled happily.

James had never been good with poopy diapers but he gave it his best effort and hoped he looked like a proper Santa.

Finally, they were down to the last kid in line. Thank God. After this, Santa was going home to enjoy a cold beer.

That was about the only thing he’d enjoy. Oh, he’d turn on the TV to some cop show, but he wouldn’t really watch it. Then he’d go to bed and wish the days wouldn’t keep coming, forcing him to move on.

He especially dreaded the next day, December 24. How he wished he could skip right to New Year’s Day. Or better yet, go backward to New Year’s Day two years ago, when he and Faith were planning their European cruise.

Stay in the moment,
he told himself.
Stay in character.
He put on his jolliest Santa face and held out a welcoming arm to the next child.

This one was going to be a terror; he could tell by the scowl on the kid’s freckled face as he approached. He was a big, hefty burger of a boy, wearing jeans and an oversize T-shirt, and could have been anywhere between the ages of ten and thirteen. Logic ruled out the older end of the spectrum. Usually by about eight or nine, kids stopped believing.

“And who have we got here?” James asked in his jolly I-love-kids voice.

Normally he did love kids and he loved playing Santa, had been doing it since his children were little. He’d always had the husky build for it, although when he was younger Faith had padded him out with a pillow. No pillow necessary now. And no need for a fake beard, either. Mother Nature had turned his beard white over the past few years.

These days he wasn’t into the role, wasn’t into Christmas, period. Santa had lost his holiday spirit and he was starting to lose his patience, too. Very un-Santa-like. He should never have agreed to fill in today, should have told Holiday Memories to find another Santa.

His new customer didn’t answer him.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked, trying again.

“Richie,” said the boy, and landed on James’s leg like a ton of coal.

“And how old are you, Richie?”

“Too old for this. This is stupid.” The kid crossed his arms and glared at his mother.

“So you’re twelve?” James guessed.

“I’m ten and I know there’s no such thing as Santa. You’re a big fake.”

Boy, he had that right.

“And that’s fake, too,” Richie added.

James was usually prepared for rotten-kid beard assaults, but this year his game was off and Richie got a handful of beard before James could stop him. He yanked so hard he nearly separated James’s jawbone from the rest of his skull. For a moment there he saw stars, and two Richies. As if one wasn’t bad enough.

“Whoa there, son, that’s real,” James said, rubbing his chin, his eyes watering. “Let’s take it easy on old Santa.”

Now Richie’s mother was glaring, too, as though it was James’s fault she’d spawned a monster.

“Look, Richie,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’re both men here. We know this is all pretend.”

And Christmas is a crock and life sucks. So deal with it, you little fart.

James reeled in his bad Santa before he could get loose and do any damage. Good Santa continued, “But your mom wants this picture. One last picture she can send to your relatives and brag about what a great kid you are.”
Not.
“Can you man-up and pose so she can have a nice picture of you for Christmas?”

Richie scowled at him suspiciously, as if he was up to some strange trick.

James sweetened the holiday pot. “I bet if you do, you’ll get what you want for Christmas.” Now the kid was looking less adversarial. James pressed his advantage. “Come on, kid. One smile and we can both get out of here. Whaddya say?”

Richie grunted and managed half a smile and Krystal captured it. “But you’re still a fake,” Richie said.

And you’re still a little fart.
“Ho, ho, ho,” James replied, and rocketed the boy off his leg, sending him flying.

“Hey, he shoved me,” Richie said to his mother, and pointed an accusing finger at James.

“Trick leg,” James said apologetically. “Old war injury. Merry Christmas,” he called and, with a wave, abdicated his holiday throne.

“Okay,” he said to Shauna, “I’m out of here.” Thank God today was over. He was never doing this again. He didn’t care if every Santa on the planet was home with the flu.

“You can’t go yet,” she protested, and began looking desperately around the mall.

After a ten-hour day? Oh, yeah, he could. “No kids, and it’s ten minutes till the end of our shift. We’ll be okay to leave. Right, Krystal?”

Krystal frowned. “Well...”

It was nearly five o’clock. All the moms and kiddies were now on their way home to make dinner. The next Santa crew would arrive soon to deal with the evening crowd. All they had to do was put up the Santa-will-be-back sign. What was the problem? Maybe Shauna and Krystal felt guilty about stealing a couple of extra minutes from work.

Not James. He’d worked hard all his life and he had no qualms about stealing a few minutes for himself now. For over forty years he’d been a welder at Boeing. Then he’d come home and work some more, putting that addition on the house, mowing the lawn, cleaning the garage, repairing broken faucets.

Of course, he’d also realized the importance of playing—backyard baseball with the kids, Frisbee at the park, board games on a rainy Sunday afternoon. And real life had taught him that you had to take advantage of everything good, even little things like getting off ten minutes early. Because you never knew what cosmic pie in the face was waiting for you around the corner.

“Come on, ladies,” he said, putting an arm around each of them and trying to move them in the direction of the Starbucks. “The eggnog lattes are on me.” They still balked. He’d never known the women to turn down a latte. He glanced from one to the other. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“It’s a surprise,” Shauna said.

James frowned. He hated surprises, had hated them ever since Faith got sick.

“It’s a good one,” Krystal said as if reading his mind.

And then he saw his daughter hurrying down the mall toward him and the heaviness settling over him was blown away. There she was, his brown-eyed girl, all bundled up in boots and black leggings and a winter coat, her hair falling to her shoulders in a stylish light brown sheet. Once upon a time, it had been curly and so cute. Then suddenly she’d decided she needed to straighten her hair. He never could understand why the curls had to go. But then he’d never understood women’s fashion.

He’d also never understood why she thought her face was too round or why she thought she was fat. Her face was sweet. And she was just curvy. As far as he was concerned she was the prettiest young woman in Seattle. That wasn’t fatherly prejudice. It was fact, plain and simple.

“Daddy,” she called, and waved and began to run toward him.

Krystal had been right. This was a good surprise.

“Hello there, angel,” he greeted her, and gave her a big hug. “Did you come so your old man could take you to dinner?”

“I came to take my old man somewhere special for Christmas,” she said. “Thanks for not letting him get away,” she told his holiday helpers.

“No problem,” said Shauna. “Have a great time.”

“For Christmas?” James repeated as Brooke linked her arm through his and started them walking toward the shopping mall’s main entrance.

They were going somewhere for Christmas on the twenty-third? Did that mean she wouldn’t be spending Christmas with him and Dylan? It was their first Christmas without Faith (well, technically their second since she’d died on December 24 the year before). He’d assumed he and his son and daughter would all be together to help one another through the holidays.

But she was an adult. She could do what she wanted. Maybe she’d made plans with friends. If she had, he couldn’t blame her for wanting to escape unpleasant memories. Maybe she’d found someone in the past couple of weeks and wanted to be with him. She shouldn’t have to babysit her dad.

“Don’t worry, Daddy,” she said. “I’ve got it all under control.”

He didn’t doubt that. Like her mother, Brooke was a planner and an organizer. She’d organized their Thanksgiving dinner, gathering his sister and his cousin and her husband, assigning everyone dishes to bring.

But what was she talking about? “Got what under control?”

“You’ll see,” she said with a Santa-like twinkle in her eyes.

Oh, boy, another surprise. “What are you up to, angel?”

“I’m not telling, but trust me, you’ll like it.”

He wouldn’t like
anything
this season but he decided to play along. “Okay, lead on.”

He hoped she hadn’t spent too much money. Kindergarten teachers didn’t make a lot and he hated to think of her spending a fortune on some fancy meal. He’d be happy enough with a hamburger. Anyway, he’d rather eat in the car than go into a restaurant dressed in his Santa suit.

They were out of the mall now and at her trusty SUV. She complained about her gas mileage but he was secretly glad she had this vehicle. It had all-wheel drive and handled well in the snow, so he didn’t have to worry about her when she was driving in bad weather. Seattle rarely got much of the white stuff, but they’d had a couple of inches earlier in the month and the weatherman was predicting more by New Year’s.

James had always loved it when they had a white Christmas. It meant snowball fights with the kids and hot chocolate afterward. Faith would lace his and hers with peppermint schnapps.

“No frowning allowed,” Brooke said as they got in.

“Who’s frowning? Santa doesn’t frown.”

“He never used to,” Brooke said softly.

“Well, Santa’s getting too grumpy for this job. It’s about time for the old boy to pack it in.”

His daughter shot a startled look in his direction. “Daddy, are you crazy?”

“No, I’m just...”
Sick of this ho-ho-ho crap.
It would never do to say such a cynical thing to his daughter. “Ready for a break,” he improvised.

“You can’t take a break,” she protested as she drove out of the parking lot. “You’re Santa.”

James studied the crowd of cars rushing around them, people busy running errands, going places, preparing for holiday gatherings with loved ones. Most of the men in Seattle would be out the following day, frantically finding gifts for their women. He wished he was going to be one of them.

He reminded himself that he still had his kids. He had a lot for which to be thankful, and if Brooke had plans for Christmas, well, he and Dylan could make turkey TV dinners and eat the last of the cookies she’d baked for them, then watch a movie, like
Bad Santa.
Heh, heh, heh.

Now they were on the southbound freeway. Where were they going? Knowing his daughter, it would be someplace special.

He smiled as he thought about the contrast between her and his son. Dylan would come up with something at the last minute, most likely a six-pack of beer and a bag of nachos, their favorite football food. Naturally, Dylan would help him consume it all.

James was wondering what downtown Seattle spot his daughter had picked for dinner and was hoping it was in the Pike Place Market, where anything went in the way of dress, when they exited I-5 onto I-90, heading east out of Seattle. “Dinner in Bellevue?”

“Maybe,” she said, determined to be mysterious.

They passed Bellevue. And then Issaquah, getting increasingly farther from the city. Where the heck was she taking him?

When they reached North Bend at the foot of the Cascades, he said, “So, we’re eating here?”