A Promise at Bluebell Hill (25 page)

He cupped her face in his hands. “I think it feels right.”

And then he kissed her, right in her parents' front hallway, not with openmouthed passion but gentle understanding.

Oh God.

He finally stepped away and put his hand on the doorknob. “Looking forward to the parade tomorrow.”

Her eyes widened. “Maybe I should warn you about—­”

“No,” he interrupted. “Let me be surprised. I'm sure whatever your group came up with will live up to a name like the Double Ds.”

Then he walked outside, giving her a final wave before turning away.

Monica closed the door and leaned back against it, feeling a little weak.

Missy was standing there, holding out a dish towel. “Just because you're in love, doesn't mean you get out of the dishes.”

“I'm not in love,” Monica said—­too quickly. But she took the towel.

 

Chapter Twenty-two

F
riday morning in the command center, Travis checked his watch one more time. It was five of ten. He glanced out at Main Street and finally he saw some action—­two policemen were blocking Main Street off right in front of town hall. Traffic slowed and finally stopped altogether; if he leaned really close to the glass, he thought he could see another set of wooden barriers being set up a ­couple blocks down. Just to be safe, he'd already alerted Royce and his countersnipers about the event.

“Excuse me, I need to see the president.”

By now, that voice felt like nails on a chalkboard to Travis. He turned around and saw Samantha Weichert, his favorite junior staffer, in the hallway outside the command center.

“Can I help you, Ms. Weichert?” Travis asked impassively as he approached the hallway.

Mikayla stood in front of the doors to the president's suite, and though her face was impassive, he could tell she didn't think much of the junior staffer.

“I doubt it,” Samantha said coldly.

He knew she was remembering how she'd broken down in a childish tantrum right in front of him and was now glad to have information she thought he didn't. “Why don't you try me?”

She gave an exasperated sigh. “If you must know, I have a contact at town hall, and was just told about a parade permit being granted for today—­
today,
of all days. This will distract the president, and she needs to get through that file from the UN ambassador.”

And ­people thought
he
took his job seriously.

“It's a parade, Ms. Weichert. If the president is concentrating, she won't see it. If she needs a mental break, she'll watch. This is a private weekend for her, remember. I have orders from the chief of staff that she's not to be disturbed.”

“We'll see about that.”

She marched toward the door, Travis eyed his ex-­wife, and she stepped forward.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Weichert,” she said, “you won't be seeing the president right now.”

“But—­”

“Hey, come look at this,” one of the agents called from her table near the window. “You're not going to believe what's coming down the street.”

“It's a parade,” Samantha said with exasperation.

“Not just any parade,” said the agent, and began to laugh.

Travis crowded the window along with a half dozen other ­people. First came a 1920s roadster, tooting its horn. He could swear it was being driven by Mrs. Ludlow, her walker sticking out of the backseat, a long white scarf draped around her neck and fluttering. Then came about a dozen ­people carrying signs and a broad banner promoting the museum involved in the dig.

“What do the signs say?” someone asked.

“It's a protest against the closing of the archaeological dig at the Renaissance Spa,” Travis began—­and then his mouth dropped open.

Lumbering behind the protesters was a woolly mammoth, curled tusks and all.

Mikayla was peering over his shoulder. “Is that . . .” And then her voice died away.

Travis started to laugh—­he couldn't help it. His stomach hurt by the time he was done, and although many others were smiling, most were staring at him in amazement, including Mikayla.

“Sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes. “I knew something about this, but not . . . that.” He chuckled some more. “Ghillie suits. They sewed ghillie suits and put them on an elephant. Where the hell did they get an elephant?”

“Who's ‘they'?” Mikayla asked.

“Monica Shaw and her cohorts. She owns the flower shop across the street, and there are these three widows—­”

“Oh my God,” one of the older agents called, “there's an elderly woman dressed as Pebbles Flintstone.”

Travis snorted another laugh. “Either Mrs. Thalberg or Mrs. Palmer. I'm betting Mrs. Palmer.”

Mikayla was smiling at him even through her curiosity. “You've gotten to know these ­people pretty well.”

“Oh please, there's only one of them
he
cares about,” Samantha said disdainfully. “And it's not one of those old ladies. I've seen him at the flower shop way too much—­and he didn't need to set up the observation post there.”

Travis shrugged toward Mikayla, who only shook her head, smiling.

Just then, Ashley Ludlow leaned into the command center. “The president wanted me to make sure you were all looking out the window—­she's having a great time in Valentine. I knew she'd love it.”

Samantha left the command center in a huff.

Travis went back to the window, smiling as he watched little kids fall into line behind the elephant, who was being led by a man with a long stick he used with light touches for guidance. Considering that Travis had spent the last two weeks trying to discover and stop this protest, he couldn't believe how relieved he was to simply watch and enjoy. He'd known from the beginning that Monica hadn't meant to thwart him personally—­it was about her town and what she felt passionately about. She never focused on herself at all. It was about helping the widows when not many other ­people cared what the elderly did.

Ashley stepped back in. “Hey, Travis, the president wants more details about the parade and the protest—­and I figured you might have them. My grandma's been pretty quiet about it around me.” She blushed when she met his gaze, and he knew she was remembering when she'd let slip about the protest last week.

He smiled at her reassuringly. “Of course. Lots of detective work on my part to figure it all out.”

Her relieved smile was brilliant.

In the best suite of the hotel, old-­fashioned charm mixed with modern conveniences. Wooden columns separated the living and dining rooms, and plush leather furniture inspired relaxation. A wet bar had been added, now being well used by Jeremy Torres, who poured coffee in mugs and brought them to his parents.

President Torres, who looked larger than life on TV, always surprised him with how tiny she really was, especially next to her lanky husband. The president was relaxing in a pair of khakis and a buttoned-­down blouse, her reading glasses on, a file now forgotten on the coffee table. Her husband, a professor of Latin American Studies at George Washington University, had gray hair and mustache, and looked relaxed in a sport coat and open-­necked shirt. The two of them were smiling as they paged through the “Men of Valentine Valley” calendar.

Ashley tugged on Travis's arm. “President Torres, this is Travis Beaumont, the lead agent for your advance team. He discovered information about the protest before today.”

“The whole thing is pretty harmless, Madam President,” Travis said, nodding.

“And I have to be honest,” Ashley added, giving a cute blush. “The woman driving the old car? She's my grandmother.”

Jeremy grinned and saluted with a Coke. “I already like everything I'm hearing about my new family.”

“Don't discuss the parade with my mom,” Ashley said in a fake whisper. “She's probably mortified.”

“She's the mother of the bride,” the president said, smiling. “Of course she wants everything perfect this weekend.”

Travis explained all about the mammoth dig and the protest, and even the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund, which was selling the calendar.

“But the elephant—­I mean mammoth,” Dr. Torres said, shaking his head. “Now that was inspired.”

Travis grinned, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mikayla staring at him as if he were a ghost. Maybe he really had changed.

For a few minutes, he answered questions, watching the way the president and her husband discussed the local guys on display in the calendar, the elderly widows running the town, and it dawned on Travis that even the head of the free world took time for her husband, for fun. She knew how to separate the private and public parts of her life—­something Travis had never mastered. If even the president could focus on the job without fixating on the dangers to her family, what the hell was
his
problem? She trusted the Secret Ser­vice to protect her family, then she put her fears aside without shutting down all her emotions.

He wasn't going to make that mistake again, not ever. He was thirty-­five years old—­and he had the chance to leave behind the loneliness, the isolation, he'd only caused himself.

He didn't want to lose Monica—­he really had fallen in love with her. Somehow, he had to find a way to keep her in his life.

M
onica spent a lot of time walking backward, watching the spectacle that was their growing parade. Not only kids were following, but adults, too. ­People had cheered their signs, howled with boisterous delight at their “mammoth,” even if the papier-­mâché curly tusks were kind of drooping on one side where they hung from the elephant's harness.

She'd walked beside her mom, and when she saw Missy waving and pointing with her thumb at the camera beside her, Monica and Janet had slung their arms around each other and waved for CNN and their global audience.

She thought she'd seen Travis, too, and had definitely noticed ­people in the window of the presidential suite. Success felt good.

To her surprise, her dad had appeared in the crowd, laughing, and her mom had gestured to him. He'd joined the parade and spent the last blocks chatting with Janet. Monica tried not to look at them too much, tried not to feel too hopeful that maybe they were at last finding a way to communicate rather than spend their evenings and weekends apart. Tears actually stung her eyes, and she realized she'd been denying how truly worried she'd been about her parents.

As they left the center of Valentine Valley, she could see Mali the elephant's special trailer waiting for her. Monica was kind of glad it was all over. All three of the widows were crowded in the roadster now, and they were looking tired—­not that they'd admit such a thing.

As she helped untie and remove the mammoth costume, she felt such a feeling of satisfaction even though the protest had been a wall between her and Travis. She wished she could have seen his face when he saw the “mammoth.” In the end, he hadn't stopped her—­he'd even helped her.

Just walking in the parade, she'd let herself begin to feel hopeful about their relationship again—­even as she scoffed at herself. They lived across the country from each other. But . . . they'd both broken down and risked everything by telling each other the truth. He'd apologized, insisting that he'd never used sex to get answers. And she was starting to believe him, to let the hurt go. Surely, that meant something good.

Not that she knew what it could lead to—­but she wasn't going to think about that right now.

“We did it!” Mrs. Palmer practically crowed, an arm around each of her best friends.

It was hard to take the woman seriously with the fake bone once again in her hair and the green dress with tiny black triangles all over it, like Pebbles Flintstone used to wear. Not that Monica remembered the show all that well, but her mom had roared with laughter on seeing Mrs. Palmer. Monica couldn't help grinning at the threesome, whose eyes sparkled even though they looked tired.

“You ladies did an amazing job,” Monica said.

Brenda held an armful of signs she'd collected. “I admit, I didn't think we'd pull it off.”

“Did you see Mayor Galimi's shocked expression?” Matt asked. He elbowed his new friend. “I pointed her out to Ryan, and we both thought she looked like she couldn't decide if she should throw herself in front of the parade or just laugh.”

“She chose to laugh,” Theresa said smugly. “She's pretty cool. Guess no one told her about the parade.”

“I wonder how that happened?” Mrs. Thalberg said innocently.

Monica shook her head. “Your pockets must be lined in gold for all the bribes this must have taken.”

“Now, Monica,” Mrs. Ludlow said in her teacher voice, “don't underestimate the appeal of our beliefs. ­People wanted to help.”

“Even the Secret Ser­vice,” Mrs. Thalberg added, eyeing Monica with interest.

Monica felt her face getting a little hot. “Well . . .”

“That nice Agent Beaumont did come through in the end,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Surely it took somethin' other than pockets lined with gold to persuade that man to leave us alone.”

All three widows looked at her with interest, and she was very happy when Mali's hula hoop went rolling past.

“I'll get it!” Monica cried, and quickly hurried after it.

As Mali was led toward her trailer by her handler and the long guide he carried, Brooke said wistfully, “I'm going to miss the old girl. My dad got the shock of his life this morning when he came to find me and ran smack-­dab into Mali.”

Emily covered her mouth as a giggle escaped. “Oh no! Was he upset?”

“Nope. His mouth did drop open for so long I thought birds would roost, then Mali rolled her ball at him. How can you resist that? And besides, he's pretty resigned to Grandma's ‘projects.' ”

“I raised him right,” Mrs. Thalberg said emphatically.

After Mali entered her trailer, the elephant handler waved good-­bye and climbed into the cab with the driver. And then it was over, and suddenly, a feeling of determination swept over Monica. There was nothing left to focus on but the wedding and making sure Monica's Flowers and Gifts put on the best display of small-­town charm and décor. Emily obviously felt the same way because she and Steph barely said good-­bye before jogging back up Main Street toward the bakery, their signs trailing in their hands.

At Monica's Flowers and Gifts, Brooke and Whitney were waiting to help put displays together under her direction. When it was time to take them to St. John's, Dom and her dad showed up, and her mom arrived after the medical clinic closed for the weekend.

Monica bossed her friends and family around, and almost felt normal again—­except for Travis. She wished he were there, too.