Iced Inn Page 4

  "But then Marge will know what I did!"

  "It's Cranberry Island," John pointed out. "It's not like you're going to be able to keep things under wraps."

  "Besides," I said, "maybe she'll think it's romantic." Although desperate and creepy were closer to the mark.

  "You think?" he asked, brightening. He was a good person, even though he was a little clueless.

  "We'll find out," John said. "Now let's get this stuff loaded up. I don't know if we can get to the church today, but I can take it tomorrow if I need to."

  He let out a heavy sigh and stood up. "I suppose you're right," he said. "What's Marge going to say?"

  "If I were you, I'd get in touch with her before she hears it through the grapevine."

  His doughy face was as white as the snow. "Will I go to jail?"

  "I can't make any promises about that, but if I were you, I'd start working on those apologies today," John advised. "Now, let's get that shed unlocked and load up the van."

  * * *

  While we'd been off solving one problem, alas, another one seemed to have boiled over.

  We could hear the sound of raised voices even before we got to the inn. "Uh oh," I said as John and I stamped the snow off our boots and headed back into the inn, feeling dread.

  When we walked into the parlor, with the exception of Adam and Gwen, the two families had retreated to their respective sides of the room and the tension was thicker than frozen fudge. Even the cats had retreated from the fireplace and gone into hiding.

  "We're just talking!" Margaret protested.

  "No," Adam corrected her. "You've been pitting us against each other since you arrived, measuring us against one another. And it stops now."

  "I really don't know what you're talking about," James said, drawing himself up.

  "Yes, you do," Adam corrected him. He reached for Gwen and put an arm around her. "This is my bride. The love of my life. If you can't treat her with respect, you will not be attending the ceremony."

  Adam's mother blanched, and a small, catlike smile had crept over Bridget's face.

  Until Gwen turned to her parents and announced, "The same goes for you. Both of you. All of you. We invited you to share our joy, not harpoon it."

  "But..." Bridget started.

  "No, Mom," Gwen said. "No buts. Adam's going home now, and I'm going upstairs. You can make your cases in the morning. Good night."

  And with that, the couple marched out of the parlor, leaving four parents dumbfounded.

  I wanted to burst into applause, but thought better of it.

  * * *

  "So, what do you think they'll do?" John asked as we got ready for bed. The cats were snuggled into the comforter already; it was chilly in the inn, and they were staying far away from the warring factions downstairs.

  "I don't know," I said. "The wedding's on, at least. Gwen told me she and Adam are going through with it--Charlene's doing her hair and make-up in the morning--but she and Adam will decide tomorrow whether their parents are invited."

  "They should be able to swallow their pride and act decently for one day, don't you think?"

  "I hope so," I said. "But either way, I love that Adam and Gwen stuck up for each other. It bodes well."

  "It does," he agreed, and together we snuggled down under the comforter, both wondering what the morning would bring.

  * * *

  The day of the wedding dawned clear and bright... and, thankfully, with power, I discovered when the lights all blinked on at four in the morning. The snow had stopped falling during the night, and the wind had died down, leaving Cranberry Island looking like something out of a Christmas card. Snow blanketed the slopes leading down from the inn to the dark blue water, the pines were frosted white, and the cerulean sky was cloudless.

  I headed downstairs to make coffee before everyone got up, only to find Gwen at the kitchen table, cradling a mug.

  "You're up early," I said. "Wedding jitters?"

  "No," she said, smiling. Her lovely face was glowing. "I made a big pot of coffee and put out some muffins," she said, gesturing toward the counter. "I had a talk with Mom a little while ago, and Adam talked with his parents. I think it'll go on as planned."

  "Really?" I asked, doubtfully.

  "Really," she said quietly. "I know she wants something different for me. But it's my life. I love her, but I'm not going to give up Adam, my art, you and John, and my life here on the island just to chase a dream that isn't even mine."

  "And she understood that?"

  Gwen nodded. "She did... and she apologized."

  "Really?"

  "She did. I think she just wants to be sure she's doing right by me. When really, it's about me doing right by me."

  I smiled at my wise niece. "Adam's a lucky man, you know."

  "And I'm a lucky woman," she said. "Thanks so much for inviting me here all those years ago. You've changed my life. For the better."

  Which was the best Christmas present anyone could ever have given me.

  * * *

  The church was completely full when the first bars of music played, the smell of candle wax and Christmas greenery filling the air. Adam stood at the front of the church, looking like a romance novel hero in his crisp tux, even though I noticed him running a finger around the inside of his collar; none of us was used to dressing up. A moment later, the whole church turned to see my niece, Gwen, step into the church.

  She wore a cream-colored satin sleeveless gown that set off her pale shoulders. Her dark hair was a tumble of curls, as always, and she carried a small nosegay of cream-colored roses interspersed with red berries and a few sprigs of pine. There was an audible intake of breath as she walked down the aisle flanked by her proud parents, eyes shining. Although the dress was beautiful, she'd have been gorgeous in a burlap sack. I glanced back to Adam; his handsome jaw had dropped at the sight of his bride.

  I smiled at Gwen, who had eyes only for her future husband, and as she joined him at the altar, I looked back the rest of the folks in the pews. Marge had made it to the ceremony, as had Frank, who had evidently dressed up for the occasion in his best overalls and was actually sitting next to the object of his affection; he might have been the only other person in the church not staring at Gwen, as his eyes were firmly fixed on Marge. Claudette and Eli were toward the front; Claudette seemed to have recovered, although I thought I saw her dart a glare at Frank. A few pews up, Charlene stood next to Robert, smiling, as was my cousin, who seemed enchanted by my friend; I had hopes for that potential connection. But more importantly, Adam's mother Margaret and my sister Bridget, whose own dark, curly hair was swept up in a beautiful updo, were now standing next to each other in the first pew, if not beaming, then at least not frowning. As I watched, Margaret leaned over to whisper something into Bridget's ear, and her face broke into a sunny smile as she nodded and whispered something back.

  "It's a Christmas miracle," I murmured to John, who had also seen the exchange. As the priest began the ceremony, I took a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed by gratitude for all of the good things in my life. As I dabbed a tear from the corner of my eye, John kissed me on the head and reached for my hand.

  And together, hands clasped, we watched as two of our favorite people joined their lives together in love.

  The End

  For a sneak peek of Mistletoe Murder, a Dewberry Farm Christmas Mystery featuring Natalie’s college roommate Lucy Resnick, read on!

  Chapter One, Mistletoe Murder

  "I love a woodstove on a cold night," Flora Kocurek said as the wind whipped out of the north, moaning around the yellow farmhouse and rattling the windowpanes.

  It was cold and raining outside, but inside, the fire was warm and bright. The Buttercup Knitting Brigade was settled around my big pine kitchen table, munching on snickerdoodles and sipping hot chocolate—some of it laced with rum. It was just a few days before Christmas, and we were all working on our Christmas gifts... none of which was quite done yet. It w
as a busy season for all of us; I'd been harvesting winter veggies for the Blue Onion Café and the Red and White Grocery. I'd made lots of preserves over the summer, and I was offering those along with beeswax candles, mistletoe bunches, and homemade soap for sale at weekend markets. I'd experimented with a few new products this year, including a few homemade cheeses and some lavender sachets I'd hand-stitched and stamped with the Dewberry Farm logo, but they'd already sold out. Based on the rate at which I was managing to knit, Tobias, the local vet—and my boyfriend—a scarf, though, I wouldn't be adding knitted items to my inventory anytime soon. At least not anything knitted by me.

  "Supposed to ice over tonight," my friend Molly said. She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and inspected the red and white scarf she was knitting. "As long as we're home by midnight, though, we should be okay; temperature won't drop until then."

  "I'm glad we got Bessie Mae's house fixed up last year," said Quinn, another of my friends, who was working on a stocking cap for her organic-farmer boyfriend Peter Swenson. She wore a big red Aran Islands sweater—a treat to be able to wear in Texas—and her curly hair was done up in a green ribbon. With her pink cheeks and upturned nose, she reminded me of a Christmas elf.

  "I saw her down there waving to the trains just today," Flora said. "She looked happy." The proceeds of last year's Christmas Market had gone to renovating the house elderly Bessie Mae Jurecka had lived in her whole life. This year's proceeds were to go toward renovating the courthouse. What had started as a minor fix-up in November had turned into a giant nightmare when workers discovered the old wood building was being held together largely by termite spit. Although it was decorated gaily for Christmas on the outside, with garlands and lights and two big wreaths on the doors, the inside was a chaotic mess of ripped-up wood flooring and torn-out walls.

  "How's the courthouse renovation going, anyway?" Molly asked Quinn, as if reading my mind.

  "Slowly," Quinn said. She owned the Blue Onion Cafe, which was one of the town's gathering hubs and right across from the courthouse, so she was the source of the latest information on the doings of downtown Buttercup. "And I can't believe I forgot to tell you what they found today!"

  "More wood rot?" I joked.

  "Um... not exactly," Quinn said, and leaned forward over the table. "Bones."

  "Bones. Well, that's festive," Molly quipped. As she spoke, there was a knock at the door; everyone jumped. I walked over to answer it; it was Serafine.

  "I'm so sorry I'm late," she said as she hurried inside. "It's wicked out there tonight!"

  "Come in and warm up with some hot chocolate," I suggested. "Everyone except Opal's here tonight."

  "She had to pick up a shift down at the sheriff's office," Molly said as Serafine took off her raincoat and came in, rubbing her hands together. "How are the bees doing in this weather?"

  "They're hunkered down, staying warm," Serafine said as I poured her a mug of hot chocolate. Serafine had opened the Honeyed Moon Mead Winery a few months back, and had several hives of bees on her property.

  "A touch of rum to warm you up?"

  "Oh my word, that would be just what the doctor ordered," Serafine said as she pulled a black cap with cat ears out of her knitting bag. If she ever finished it, her sister Aimee would look terrific in it. "Now. I've got to do twenty more rows in the next five days. If I get it done, it'll be a Christmas miracle."

  "Hear, hear," I said, eyeing my scarf with trepidation. "How long does a scarf have to be to be functional, anyway?"

  "Longer than ten inches," Quinn said with a grin.

  "It's much longer than ten inches," I said. "It's like fourteen, maybe even fifteen, if I stretch it a little. Can't you make them bigger by blocking them or something?"

  "Not that much bigger," she said.

  I sighed and picked up the knitting needles. I'd started it last year and hadn't finished it; I was hoping this would be the year, but I might have to give it to Tobias next Christmas instead. If I got it done in time. "Tell us more about the courthouse," I said.

  Serafine perked up. "The courthouse? That place gives me the creeps." She gave a theatrical shudder. "Did they find something nasty in there?"

  "They found a few old paintings, but they also found something else," Quinn confirmed. "Bones."

  "Like, opossum bones?" Molly asked hopefully.

  "Maybe," Quinn answered. "Or maybe human."

  The wind howled outside, and even though the kitchen was warm, I shivered. "Where were they?"

  "They took off the skirting, and Ed Zapp's beagle got off the leash and ran under the courthouse. When they finally got him to come out, he had what looked like a femur in his mouth."

  "How recent?" Molly asked quietly, taking another sip of her rum-laced hot chocolate.

  "It was old," Quinn said, and we all breathed a quiet sigh of relief. "Rooster came waddling over," she said, referring to our less-than-competent sheriff, "and is theoretically running an investigation."

  "Any ideas on who it might be?" I asked. "I mean, have you heard anything at the cafe? I don't expect Rooster to have come up with anything."

  "Not yet," she said. "They stopped the renovation, of course. I was hoping Opal would be here to give us any juicy details."

  "I invited Mandy, too," I said—Mandy Vargas being the primary reporter of the Buttercup Zephyr—"but she's got some family trouble going on, apparently. Plus, she claimed not to know how to knit."

  "I think maybe we need to teach her," Molly said. "How else are we supposed to stay informed?"

  "You could always buy the paper," I pointed out. As a former journalist, I was a big proponent of supporting local papers.

  "Of course I'm going to buy the paper," Molly said. "But I want to know before the paper comes out. What's going on with Mandy's family?"

  "Her sister and her husband are in for a visit, and apparently, things aren't going very well."

  "Are they staying with her?"

  "They are," I said. "Apparently, they have a bit of a fiery relationship."

  "I'm surprised she didn't come just to get out of the house," Quinn said. "That can be hard to live with." She shivered, as if shaking off memories of her violent ex. "But let's get to work, ladies. This hat isn't going to knit itself!"

  The wind kicked up again outside, and we all reached for more cookies as we worked on our Christmas projects. And if there were a few snickerdoodle crumbs in the finished products? Well, it would be okay, we decided.

  * * *

  When the group began breaking up, heading out into the cold, wet evening—I'd made another inch of progress, which meant with steady work it would bring the scarf up to a whopping nineteen inches by Christmas Day—Flora stayed behind to help me clean up. She'd been quiet that night, and as she dried the clean mugs in her slow, methodical way, I had the feeling she had something she wanted to talk to me about.

  "How are things out at your place?" I asked as I scrubbed out the hot chocolate pot with some steel wool.

  "Okay, I guess," she said. "But... it's kind of lonely. I think I'm the only one who doesn't have anyone to knit anything for."

  "I thought you were making that blanket for your cousin's baby?" I asked.

  "I have a confession to make," she said as she replaced a mug on the shelf with bony fingers. "I started that blanket fourteen and a half years ago. The baby is about to get his learner's permit."

  "Ah," I said. The yarn wrappers had seemed kind of vintage. It made sense now. "So, the dating thing isn't going too well?"

  "No, it's not," she said. "Sometimes I wonder if Roger really was my true love."

  "Oh, honey." I put down the pot and looked at Flora, whose eyes looked like they were welling with tears. "He wasn't, I assure you." Although Flora had come into her own when dating her ex, he'd turned out to be a bad apple.

  She swiped at her eyes. "I know that, but... this time of year is hard."

  "I get that," I told her. I'd spent many Christmases without a special so
meone to share the holiday with. I did at least have my parents, though, and I knew Flora didn't share my good fortune. Her father had passed years earlier and her mother, Nettie Kocurek, had died not long ago. Nettie hadn't been a very nice person; in fact, she'd been a tyrant where Flora—and everyone else in Buttercup—was concerned. "Hey," I said. "I could use some help at the Christmas Market tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to come give me a hand?"

  "I've never done anything like that before," she replied, her eyes darting around the room nervously.

  "It'll be fun! I'll show you what to do," I assured her. "Meet me there at five, okay?"

  "Are you sure?"

  "Unless we get iced out, I'm positive."

  She gave me a tremulous smile. "Thank you, Lucy. You just seem to know how to meet people. I've never been good at that." My rescue poodle Chuck, sensing her emotion, came over and plopped himself down on her feet. She reached down and tickled his tummy, and he writhed with pleasure.

  "It'll come," I told her, surveying the clean kitchen. "Thanks so much for helping me out; and I'm so glad you came." As I spoke, a fresh wave of cold rain dashed against the windowpanes. "Now, why don't you hurry home before it gets any colder?"

  "I probably should," she said, giving Chuck one more belly rub. "Thanks again, Lucy. I know we didn't get off on the right foot, what with my mother and all, but thanks for including me in the knitting group."

  "My pleasure," I said, walking her to the door.

  As I watched her hurry to her mother's Cadillac in the driving rain, I found myself hoping she'd find some Christmas magic of her own this year. I knew the odds of finding someone while helping me out at the Christmas Market were low, but it was better than sitting in her mother's brick ranch-style house alone.

  * * *

  I woke the next morning buried under two down comforters, with Chuck snuggled in next to me and a cool, wintry light filling my bedroom.