A Promise at Bluebell Hill (21 page)

“You know I wouldn't hurt you like that,” he said calmly, even cautiously.

“Do I? We're done with this conversation. Nothing bad is going to happen, and three old women will have their voices heard.”

But something bad had happened already, she thought, though it was just between the two of them.

They stared at each other until he spoke with disappointment, “Never mind about the hike. I can take things from here.” He turned and went back into the showroom.

She now knew it was pointless to have any deeper feelings for him. They were using each other, she for fun, he for mixed reasons she didn't want to think about. It
was
just fun because if it were more, she'd have to feel worse than she already did.

T
hat evening, just as Monica was about to leave for the boardinghouse, her phone rang, and she saw her dad's caller ID. They had a great relationship, but they didn't often chat on the phone.

“Hi, Dad,” she said, juggling the shopping bags of jute she'd had to drive to Basalt to buy. “I'm heading out the door, but I have a sec.”

“Hey, baby girl. I just have a quick question. Why is Dom upset with Missy, and no one will discuss it?”

Monica winced. “I'm—­I'm not really sure, Dad. You know Dom—­he can be so sensitive.”

“Well, I don't like it. I don't like a lot of the tension going on these days.”

Tension? Was he at last talking about himself and Janet? “Dad, I'm sure some things'll get better when the stress of the presidential visit is over.”

“And then Missy will go back to DC, and every problem will be swept under the rug. I think we need a family dinner before she goes.”

“It's a great idea, Dad, but I don't know if we can all find the time, between both Missy and me working for this presidential visit.”

“And let's not forget this big protest you and your mother are involved in,” he said dryly.

“You mean the Mammoth Party?”

“And Bigfoot?”

“That's not part of our protest,” she insisted.

“Do you know who did that?”

“No, but I'm hoping to find out and put a stop to those kinds of stunts. It's not making Travis's job any easier.”

“Travis, huh?”

“Never mind about Travis,” she said hastily.

“Is this going to get out of hand, Monica? I don't want my girls hurt. Maybe you all need to dial it back a bit. Your mom's new at this and probably doesn't know what she's getting into.”

“Really?” she said, wanting to stare at her phone in shock. “She's not exactly clueless, Dad, and you know what she'd say if you said that to her face. I don't know why you care so much about this protest. From what I hear, you like your freedom with your car racing, but you don't like Mom to have her freedom?”

“Where did you get that from?” he demanded with exasperation.

“You're the one who's upset with her activism. Maybe it's not me you should be talking to, but Mom.”

He grumbled something she didn't quite catch.

“I've got to go, Dad. Talk to you later.”

A
t the boardinghouse, the Dig Defenders' membership had expanded, as Brooke, Emily, Whitney, and Whitney's assistant Ryan returned to help them finish the sewing. They discussed the success of the Mammoth Party, which had led to Mayor Galimi promising to have another talk with the Renaissance Spa ­people. Towns­people had donated more money to the cause. The widows had found several newspapers online who'd picked up the story because of President Torres's impending arrival. The evening had been an unqualified success.

But it hadn't stopped Travis's suspicions, Monica thought, feeling again the hurt of their argument that afternoon. Neither one of them had called the other afterward, and she'd told herself they were both just busy. She wondered if she could find a way to get back to the casual nature of their friendship without the deeper emotions that would only complicate things.

When they'd all eased their stiff fingers by digging into a cheese-­and-­fruit plate, Monica said, “We have to talk about Bigfoot. Who was it?”

Every young pair of eyes turned to the widows.

Mrs. Thalberg innocently popped a cube of cheese into her mouth. Mrs. Ludlow frowned.

“It was me!” Mrs. Palmer said brightly.

Brooke groaned, and Monica imagined how the old woman's grandson Adam was going to take it.

“I just couldn't resist! You know I love my costumes. I just wanted to see if those spa ­people were damagin' the dig in any way. I thought I was stayin' out of view, but I guess not.”

And she didn't look all that sad about it.

“You know how this makes us look,” Mrs. Ludlow coolly pointed out.

“And you think our Friday protest will look like the height of elegance?” Whitney asked.

“Mrs. Palmer, do you know what the Secret Ser­vice thinks of when they hear of ghillie suits?” Monica asked. “Snipers. Someone aiming rifles at the president.”

Smiles died, and the Double Ds gave each other worried looks.

“Of course, Travis doesn't really think we're a bunch of snipers,” Monica pointed out. “But he's been asking a lot of questions, and it's getting difficult to put him off.”

“Oh dear, we didn't mean to get in the middle of your courtin'.” Mrs. Palmer wrung her hands together.

“Courting”? Now
that
was an old-­fashioned term applied to a very modern fling. Brooke was biting her lip hard to keep from laughing, and Monica wanted to elbow her.

“Let's just promise there'll be no more Bigfoot sightings,” Emily said reasonably.

Mrs. Palmer made an X over her heart. “I promise.”

Later, after making signs for the demonstration, they all left with boxes of calendars to distribute. Monica walked ahead with the girls, while Matt and Ryan stood talking on the porch.

“All right, spill,” Brooke said to Monica once they'd put the boxes in their cars. “You talked a lot about Travis. Are things going well with him?”

“Well?” Theresa echoed, grinning. “Don't you mean are things
hot
with him?”

“They were,” Monica said glumly, “but now he's upset I won't reveal all the protest details. I'm pretty sure I was a means to an end.”

Emily touched her shoulder. “I've seen him with you. I don't believe that's true.”

“It was great until today,” Monica admitted, “when he wanted more answers than I would give. We ended the discussion on a bad note, and neither of us has called to apologize.”

“He's busy, so are you,” said the practical Brooke.

Monica remained silent.

Emily studied her. “Why, Monica, I do believe you feel more for this guy than you meant to.”

“I'm starting to worry about that, too, since I've been feeling so down about our argument. He's . . . pretty special. But I can't keep thinking like that. He's leaving in a ­couple days. Maybe if I stay angry at him, these soft, gooey feelings will go away.”

“Do you believe that?” Emily asked.

Monica sighed. “No. I—­I really like him. Which is stupid because we can't have anything even if this protest weren't standing between us.”

And she would have to continue to emphasize that to herself whenever she started feeling tender toward him. He was a man of strength and focus, but she'd thought he'd been yearning for something more in his life, just as she had. Too bad they couldn't be that for each other.

 

Chapter Nineteen

M
onica had stayed awake far too late working, unable to sleep, wishing she'd called Travis when the hour was more reasonable. Angry words festered if they weren't talked through. She would put her own hurt feelings aside—­emotions had no place in their relationship, and that was her problem, not his.

But their sexual relationship had been a cold-­blooded attempt to use her . . .

And that thought had kept her awake, sick at heart.

She was still asleep when her doorbell began to ring at eight thirty. After pulling on yoga pants and an oversized t-­shirt, she glanced at her wild hair and winced, trying to wipe smudged mascara from under her eyes. She went to answer in case it was an early flower ­delivery.

Instead, three sunglasses-­wearing, nicely dressed Secret Ser­vice agents stood in her alley, carrying boxes and several cases with handles on them. For the first time, each agent had an earpiece with a curled wire disappearing under the collar of his suit jacket. Guess they had to talk to each other more, once the president arrived. She imagined how sleep-­deprived and exhausted she must look—­

And then she saw Travis, getting out of the car last. She felt her body respond immediately, her heart racing, her mouth going dry, like she had a junior-­high crush. He wore a suit and an official earpiece, as if there was no longer any need to pretend he blended in. It was like medieval armor between them, a reminder that he didn't belong.

That he wasn't what he seemed.

She pressed a hand against the pain in her stomach even as she knew it wasn't going away.

“Good morning, Miss Shaw,” said the lead man right in front of her.

She blinked and tried to focus on the threesome, when everything in her yearned for the impassive man behind them. How could she still feel this way when she might have been only a means to an end to him?

The unfamiliar agent took off his sunglasses to reveal Asian features beneath short dark hair. “I'm Special Agent Nguyen. We need to set up the observation post for the president's arrival this afternoon.” He glanced at her clothing. “I was told Agent Beaumont briefed you . . .” he began, then glanced over his shoulder at Travis.

“He did,” Monica quickly said. “But I guess I didn't get the memo about the time.” Or maybe they'd been too busy arguing for him to remember to tell her.

But he'd come with his men, when it would have been easier to stay away, something she could reluctantly appreciate.

“I'm sorry for the miscommunication, Monica,” Travis said, removing his sunglasses to look at her, his gaze serious, even earnest.

Which miscommunication was he talking about?

“It's okay,” she said warily. “Guess you've all seen a woman who's just rolled out of bed.”

Not that Travis had seen her the morning after, of course. Maybe that would have been too intimate, considering his questionable motives.

She swallowed and tried to shake away her morose emotions—­there was nothing like having an argument with yourself, where you were creating all the guy's answers in your head. Pathetic.

She led the first three men up into her living room, where they ceased to pay attention to her as they began to set up their cameras and long-­range equipment near the window. Travis moved past her at a careful distance, then stood with the other agents, only overseeing, as far as she could tell. He didn't even seem necessary, so she could only wonder why he'd come. But she couldn't keep standing there making pathetic puppy eyes at him. Whatever his reasons for attending, they couldn't talk about it openly.

She put coffee on, took a quick shower and dressed, then went next door to Sugar and Spice for a tray of pastries. She was laying them out on her dining table when the first three agents enthusiastically descended on them as if they hadn't eaten their pastry quota for the month. She stepped back and saw that Travis was still at the window, staring out at Main Street below. Before she knew it, she was standing beside him, her own focus on the hotel across the street instead of him. She didn't know what to say and was still baffled by how much he'd been able to hurt her.

“Sorry about the bad timing,” he finally said.

“Do you mean the agents this morning, or something else?” she murmured coolly, finally risking a glance at him.

Those blue eyes captured her, held her. “The hurt in your eyes yesterday . . . I never wanted to do that to you.”

She swallowed hard, embarrassed as her eyes filled with tears she didn't want to shed. “Just because you didn't intend an outcome doesn't mean you had the best intentions.”

“Monica, I—­”

“Hey, Monica!”

If only he could have finished that sentence. She whirled as two more agents arrived, dressed in black tactical uniforms with lots of pockets, and
POLICE
written across the back of their vests, and the small star of the Secret Ser­vice on the front left. She guessed their long cases weren't for telephoto lenses. She'd been so intent on the uniform, it took her a moment to recognize Royce Ames.

She smiled at him. “Hi, Royce. So the hard part of your job officially begins?”

“I'm hopin' it runs smooth as cream.”

And then he looked past her at the other agents, and perhaps his eyes widened a fraction on seeing Travis, but he asked no questions. She knew it was time to get out of the way.

After leaving her apartment key for the agents, Monica went to drop off boxes of calendars at her list of the various businesses who'd offered to sell them: the Royal Theater box office, the Open Book, Mountainside Deli, and the Vista Gallery of Art. In her flower shop, she put them on their own table at the front, opening the display copy to Josh's page, and arranging some of his work nearby. Okay, he'd been photographed snowboarding in December with a decorated Christmas tree nearby, but his handsome face would draw customers over at any time of the year, and Mrs. Wilcox or Karista could talk up his leatherwork.

Then Monica loaded her van with the flowers meant for the presidential suite. Just as she was getting in, Missy pulled up in their mom's car.

“Am I too late?” Missy asked. “Mom said you needed help delivering today.”

“You're kidding, right? You're just trying to score an interview.”

“I am not!” Missy said, faking outrage. “And besides, the president's not giving interviews this weekend—­or so she says.”

“So you thought you'd interview the Secret Ser­vice.” She shook her head. “Thanks for the offer of help, but I've already pissed off Travis—­I'm not going to add you to the mix.”

“What happened with Travis?” Missy asked, her expression morphing into true concern.

“The protest and my insistence that I won't tattle on my friends. Surely you've run into this in your line of work.”

“Yeah, but not tattling can get a journalist thrown into jail.”

“It's not quite that bad. When I see him, I'll let you know what happens. Now you go join the press pool.”

Her shoulders slumped. “We rotate, and it's not my turn—­just as the president is arriving. Guess I'll go find some other news.”

Monica drove around to the rear of the Hotel Colorado to the delivery entrance. All the added security had changed everything. She was stopped before entering the lot; luckily, she was on the approved list and waved through. There was a cart waiting for her, though first she had to walk through a “mag,” then have her purse and all her flowers searched. To her surprise, the dog was pretty gentle with her arrangements.

When at last she was permitted into the lobby with her cart, several women stopped her to exclaim over her flower arrangements and ask her ideas for a luncheon they'd be hosting at the Sweetheart Inn. She slipped back into her regular persona, the successful florist with the unique, creative ideas. She was passing out business cards when she caught a glimpse of Travis on the other side of the lobby, talking with a group of agents, then speaking into the microphone up the sleeve of his suit coat.

When he saw her, though his expression didn't change, she felt the awareness, the pull of attraction, but thankfully not a wave of anger. She was too sad for that.

Deciding not to disturb him, she excused herself from the ladies and went to the elevator, where another agent stopped her. She'd just started to explain that her flowers had been ordered for the president's suite when Travis approached.

“I'll take this,” he said to the other agent, who went back to manning his post.

Monica followed Travis away from the elevator, and though they were in the middle of a busy lobby, just being close to him made it feel very intimate. “Hi again,” she said awkwardly.

He gave her that old faint smile. “Sorry for waking you this morning.”

“Really, you didn't,” she lied. “Not that I got around to running this morning.”

“I looked for you at dawn.”

She gave him a perfunctory smile. “Glad I was missed. Now about these flowers . . .”

“You can't go up. The rooms are being swept for bugs right now. You'll just have to trust that we'll pick the perfect place to display them.”

He cocked his head as if listening to something in his earpiece.

“You have to work,” she said. “Thanks for taking care of these for me.”

“No problem. Will I see you later?”

“Aren't things going to be hectic for us both?” she reminded him, frowning.

He sighed, looking past her, his expression grim. “Yeah, you're right.”

She swallowed the lump working its way back into her throat. “Okay. Well . . . bye.”

He nodded and turned away, already speaking into his sleeve again.

She'd known they'd have little time together once the president arrived, but their relationship seemed to have ended so abruptly, what with their argument and now his job. It made her feel . . . sad and alone, in a way she'd never felt before. She'd broken up with guys, relationships she would have considered a lot more serious than this one, but hadn't experienced anywhere near the same feeling of loss. Maybe this abrupt ending was best, after all. She didn't want to imagine how she could feel worse.

Back at her shop, she worked hard all afternoon on the flowers for the rehearsal dinner, trying to concentrate on the satisfaction she felt when the flowers seemed to blossom anew under her skilled hands and inspired designs. And that's how she felt with flowers—­inspired by their loveliness to display them even more beautifully. She wanted them to enhance the romance of the coming wedding, to make certain Ashley and Jeremy felt the specialness of their new start together.

Around four o'clock, Mrs. Wilcox excitedly called her name. Monica's mind left the gorgeous sights and scents of flowers and returned with a thud to her troubled reality.

“They're closing down Main Street!” the older woman cried, standing at the front windows of the showroom along with Karista and several customers. “My neighbor called me and said the president had landed in Aspen. Can you believe the president is actually here?”

Monica could believe it, especially since she couldn't relax in her own apartment because of tense, focused Secret Ser­vice agents. Somehow, it had seemed fun last week, imagining Travis in her apartment regularly. But that wasn't going to happen. She watched the show that was the prepresidential arrival, as agents blocked off the street. Working dogs were led from planter to mailbox to garbage container, searching for bombs. Crowds multiplied and were kept away from the Hotel Colorado by ropes. Cameramen gathered as close as they could, their microphone booms hitting each other as they set up.

“There's Missy!” Karista practically squealed.

At the customers' curious looks, Monica felt a little brag come on as she said, “My sister is a reporter for CNN.”

But Missy wasn't getting any closer to the door than anyone else. Apparently, President Torres was pretty serious about not giving interviews during her son's wedding weekend.

When her customers went outside to join the gawkers, Mrs. Wilcox, Monica, and Karista exchanged glances.

“Come on, let's just go outside,” Monica said, to everyone's relief.

It was like revelers waiting for the Thanksgiving Day Parade, as they emerged from restaurants and stores, only to have barricades keeping them from the streets. Emily joined Monica, while her sister Steph leaned in to say something to Karista, making both of them giggle.

Emily smiled sweetly at her sister, then glanced at Monica. “What do you think? Pretty exciting, huh?”

“Come on, you lived in San Francisco all your life. You must have seen lots of politicians and celebrities.”

“To be honest, we mostly tried to ignore them. But this . . . this is different. The president's son is getting married to one of our own. Sounds silly, considering I just met the bride, but it feels personal, important.” She eyed Monica. “You look like you're working too hard.”

“And you have shadows under your eyes you didn't have before. No carpal tunnel, right?”

Emily flexed her hands. “I keep the instruments of my genius in good shape.”

It felt kind of good to laugh. Fifteen minutes later, motorcycle cops blocked off side streets as the first black Suburbans glided into view in front of the hotel, several others following, surrounding two limousines. Secret Ser­vice agents walked into the street and along the crowds. Monica looked up at her closed apartment window, the glare of sunlight revealing nothing. But she knew that Royce and his countersniper agents were watching. There were other agents strategically placed along the street, and she saw several on the roof of the hotel.

And then on the far side of one of the limousines, agents opened the door and up popped the dark head of a diminutive woman who barely stood taller than the vehicles though she was the head of the free world. The crowds began to cheer, the US flags displayed up and down the street waved in the breeze. Agents surrounded President Torres and her husband, then whisked them inside.