A Promise at Bluebell Hill (26 page)

 

Chapter Twenty-three

T
hat night, Monica retreated to her old bedroom in her parents' house by nine. She'd tried to stay awake, playing Trivial Pursuit with her parents and siblings like the old days, but she just couldn't keep her eyes open. And she had even more flowers to finish and deliver in the morning.

She was smiling all the way up the stairs, listening to the happy laughter drifting up behind her. God, it sounded good.

When she arrived in her old room, she heard her phone ringing from the depths of her purse, and by the time she found it and saw that it was Travis, she thought for sure she'd missed him.

“Hello?” she said breathlessly.

“Hey, Monica, are you okay?”

His deep voice made her close her eyes and shiver. “Yeah, sorry, we were playing Trivial Pursuit, and I didn't hear the phone, and—­”

“You were playing without me?”

But he was chuckling as he spoke, and it sounded just wonderful. She sank onto the bed and closed her eyes, pretending she could see him.

“Your parade was pretty impressive.”

She grinned, so glad that the weight of secrets had been lifted between them. “Thanks. I did mean to tell you about the elephant, I swear, but we got off topic yesterday afternoon, then my parents' dinner wasn't exactly private, and—­”

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.”

There was a long pause, and she felt on the brink of something major, but she didn't know what—­and didn't want to talk about any of it on the phone.

“I wish I could see you,” she finally said.

“I'll make time. I always have time for you.” His voice dipped lower, huskier.

The tone caught her by surprise, made her throat catch, but he went on before she could even begin figuring out what was going on.

“I was called in by the president as the parade was passing by,” he said.

“She really saw it?”

“She did. She thought it was cool.”

Monica closed her eyes on a sigh. “Oh, that's good. It made CNN, too. I got a text from the widows a while ago that they were getting all kinds of interview requests. And the owner of the Renaissance Spa wants to talk. It worked, Travis, it really worked.”

“You know, the widows even got to talk to the president about it themselves.”

“They did? Oh, that's right, they were at the rehearsal dinner! How did it go? Wait, wait—­I don't want to have this discussion over the phone. Can we meet?”

“The restaurants and bars are packed, or so Royce tells me. And I don't really want to share you with everyone you know.”

She smiled even as the warmth of happiness spread through her. She prayed she wasn't making a mistake encouraging this. “Why don't you come over here?”

“Your dad having car trouble again?”

“No, I'd rather keep you to myself this time. Don't come to the house, sneak in back. I'll be waiting for you on the swing.”

“A playground? Kinky.”

She laughed. “Don't make me wait!”

After hanging up, she went to brush her teeth and check her makeup. Which was silly, considering it was pitch-­dark outside. She didn't know why she was so excited—­lately, every time she and Travis were together, they argued. But she kept hoping that
this
time . . .

This time what? He'd be leaving Sunday. And the thought was like a punch to the gut. She'd been telling herself to keep emotion out of their relationship, but obviously
that
wasn't working. Then what? What did she want or expect from him?

Or from herself? Was she supposed to make a grand gesture to be with him?

The thought was frightening and exhilarating all at once—­when she didn't even know if Travis wanted to be with her beyond this final weekend. Although during their argument, he'd said she meant more to him . . .

Looking at herself in the bathroom mirror, she put on delicious-­tasting lipstick, too.

She crept down the stairs, hearing everyone laughing in the family room. Opening the front door a crack, she slid through and eased it shut behind her before hurrying down the porch stairs and around the stone path that led to the backyard. The sky was like black velvet flecked with stars, and she knew he didn't see stars like this in Washington, D.C. She followed the path through the lawn to the big two-­person swing, the kind you often saw on porches. But her parents, just like her, preferred to look at the stars when they sat together.

Not that this old swing had seen much of that lately.

Monica put that out of her mind and sat down on the cushioned bench, giving a little push with her feet and leaning back to look up. Not much time passed before she heard Travis's deep voice.

“Now that swing has possibilities.”

She laughed and slowed to a stop, patting the seat beside her. He sank down, and it creaked with his weight. She looked at him, and he looked at her under the moonlight. He was wearing a light jacket over a dark polo shirt, with jeans.

“You don't wear jeans much,” she said, “but when you do, you make this small-­town girl just swoon.”

“Glad to hear it. I dress with purpose.”

He reached for her hand, then pushed off gently with his feet. They swung silently for several minutes.

“God, it's beautiful here,” he said, looking up at the night sky. The jagged silhouette of black mountains was the only thing that interrupted the perfection of stars that glittered like sequins.

“I know. I love living here.” Internally she winced—­that sounded like a specific comment on their relationship though she hadn't meant it that way.

But Travis only nodded solemnly. “I feel like we're back in high school, and you snuck out of your parents' house to see me.”

She laughed softly. “I did, didn't I?”

“So tell me about the elephant. How the hell did the widows manage
that
?”

“Oh, they are mysterious about their contacts, but I can tell you that Mali is retiring and is on her way from California to an elephant preserve in Tennessee, where she'll roam free over hundreds of acres for the rest of her life. They persuaded the new owner to allow us to borrow her for a few days on her way across country. The owner thought it was wonderful she'd be marching in front of the president and was glad Mali had a good break from being confined in her trailer. And she's used to costumes since she occasionally was used at Indian weddings. We were very careful to make the ghillie suit light and airy so she'd be comfortable.”

“Where did you keep her? I can't believe I didn't hear about it,” he added with teasing reproach.

She smiled. “At Brooke's indoor riding arena, where Mali had a good time spraying ­people with water. And the food! Two hundred pounds of grain and hay and fruit, along with fifty gallons of water every day. Brooke just kept a hose running in the trough all day long.”

Travis shook his head. “Well, you certainly got your point across.”

“Thanks. And the media are responding. The widows will be busy for days if not weeks with all the interview requests they're getting. But now tell me how the rehearsal went!”

“I didn't stand post at the rehearsal itself although Mikayla told me it went well.”

“It's still . . . okay working with her?”

“It's fine. We always worked well together. It was the marriage part that we failed at.”

He spoke so matter-­of-­factly that something tight she hadn't known she felt eased inside her. And it was good that he wasn't the kind of man to dwell obsessively on the past.

“But I was at the rehearsal dinner, and watched Ashley introduce the widows to President Torres. Let me tell you, I didn't think the president was going to get a word in edgewise for a while there.”

Monica laughed. “Oh, I wish I'd been there. Hope Ashley didn't mind.”

“No, she was pretty much focused on Jeremy the whole evening. Kind of sappy.”

She gave his hand a tug. “Hey, they're about to be married. I'd be disappointed if they weren't sappy about it!” She sighed with satisfaction. “I'm so glad they're doing well—­and that our protest didn't cause problems for them. I really worried about that.”

“And her grandmother didn't?”

“Mrs. Ludlow always seems to know what she's doing—­or she gives that impression anyway. Maybe it comes from living a long life—­no point worrying about stuff unless it happens. You know, Travis”—­she turned to face him, her knee against his thigh—­“maybe it's too little, too late, but it really was hard for me to keep the protest from you. Not at the beginning, of course. I didn't know you, and I would never disappoint the widows if I could help it. But after we got to know each other . . .”

He squeezed her hand. “I understand because I know just how you feel.”

“I think I didn't want to see that the protest could have serious consequences to you because to me, it was all about the widows and protecting something so fragile and easily lost when no one else seemed to care. I know there are other digs, but there are none like
ours.
I felt . . . serious about it, and I only feel serious about certain things.”

“You're very serious about your business.”

“But those are flowers, and I love them, and I love using them to make ­people happy. I think . . . I think I've spent my whole life trying to make ­people happy, even when I was a kid. I grew up knowing every day that my grandpa was so sick he could die, and I wanted him to have the best memories. How could I be sad or serious about anything when he needed me to be happy?”

He cupped her cheek with one hand. “That's a big burden for a young girl.”

“It didn't feel like a burden.” She briefly leaned her head into his hand.

“So that's why you help the widows, why you took the rap for your sister.”

She shrugged, then leaned against his side. He put his arm around her, and she sighed, feeling content just to absorb the warmth of his big body and listen to the evening birds chirp. It was so peaceful, she didn't even realize she'd dozed until Travis shook her gently.

“Monica?” he murmured against her hair, “you have a big day tomorrow. Maybe you should go inside.”

Smiling, stretching, she looked up at him, then pulled his head down for a kiss, so gentle, so tender, without all the crazy lust that usually exploded between them. When he lifted his head, she stared up at him solemnly, but the night shadows hid his eyes from her, and she couldn't read anything.

She let him walk her around to the front of the house to say good night. Hugging herself against the chill, she watched him until he got in his car and drove away.

She tried the front door—­and it was locked.

“Dammit.”

And her mom had stopped leaving a hidden key since they were all grown-­up now. Half grumbling, half laughing at herself, she went around back and tried that door, but it, too, was locked. She stared up at her window, knowing there was no way she was going to climb the tree like she'd done when she was a kid. So using the age-­old method, she grabbed a handful of pebbles and started tossing them at Missy's window.

After a few minutes, her sister threw the window open and looked down.

“Monica, is that you?” she hissed.

“I'm locked out! Can you let me in?”

A moment later, Missy unlocked the back door and stepped outside to say, “What the heck are you doing out here? You went to bed!”

“Well . . . Travis called, and I wanted to see him, and he came over, and we've been sitting on the swing . . .”

Missy smirked, opened her mouth, but Monica held up a hand.

“I know, I know, it was just like high school all over again. Including the kisses. But mostly we talked about how the rehearsal dinner went. It went well, and the widows got to talk to the president about the dig.”

“And Travis?”

Monica shrugged. “I don't know. He's leaving Sunday, right?” Suddenly, the quiet rightness of the evening mixed up in her brain with the thought of his being gone, and once again, she burst into tears.

“Oh, Monica!” Missy slung her arms around her.

“I never cry!” Monica moaned with impatience. “Why does he do this to me? I just—­I just—­I don't want him to leave.”

“But he'll be in D.C. You can come visit.”

Monica straightened up and took the crumpled tissue Missy pulled out of her pocket. “It won't be the same. And on the advance team, he's all over the country—­all over the world—­and it's not like I could visit those places and see him. I feel like two ­people—­half the time I'm so happy to be with him, and half the time I'm so sad.”

“Sounds like love.”

Monica winced. “I don't want to be in love.”

“I don't think you have a choice. Come on, let's get something to drink, and you can cry on my shoulder. Or I'll cheer you up and tell you how Royce and I plan to get together in two weeks when he's back in D.C.”

“Oh, sure, rub it in.” But Monica smiled, glad for her sister.

“Isn't it cool we're both dating Secret Ser­vice agents,” Missy gushed. “And we're twins!”

By the time Monica went to bed, she was telling herself to be optimistic, to see what happened. If it was meant to be, it was meant to be.

That was what Grandpa used to say, and she let good memories console her.

 

Chapter Twenty-four

T
he afternoon wedding of Ashley Ludlow and Jeremy Torres was as beautiful as any ceremony for two ­people in love. Though Monica was magged by the Secret Ser­vice going into church, and her purse was searched, she didn't mind. She was at last able to feel exhausted and peaceful because her work was done. Earlier that morning, she'd delivered all the flowers for both St. John's and the Sweetheart Inn, getting within the perimeter of the events though blocks of Valentine Valley were closed off and manned by motorcycle cops for the presidential motorcade. She'd had a lot of help from friends and family and hadn't let a little thing like bomb-­sniffing dogs in her arrangements bother her. The First Family's being safe was all that mattered. She was able to take lots of pictures of her work before the Secret Ser­vice decided it was time for her to leave, just as the dogs were going from pew to pew. The security wasn't any less delivering flowers at the inn, and when she caught sight of Theresa in the banquet room, they sent each other a quick, frazzled wave but never had a chance to talk.

But all the work was now done, and Monica could simply be a guest, relaxing beside her family. It was wonderful to watch Ashley preceded up the aisle by her nieces, Zana and Miri, and her sister, Kim, as her matron of honor.

For the first time, she caught sight of Travis, standing motionless near a side door close to the altar. He wasn't wearing his sunglasses inside the church, so she could see his eyes constantly scanning the crowd, his face impassive.

She thought of the first time she'd seen him, wearing that same expression—­and then thought of the man who'd held her in his arms underneath a starlit sky and kissed her tenderly. Whatever happened, she couldn't regret anything, not their affair, not the way she'd stood up for her own beliefs, not the loss she might soon feel.

She found her eyes welling up with tears as Ashley's voice broke on the vows, and seeing the heartfelt way Jeremy looked down at her. Monica felt a little melancholy, wishing she could have that kind of love and devotion.

If she and Travis could only be friends, then so be it. But their friendship would have begun in love, for he was the only man she'd ever fallen in love with, truly in love, beyond infatuation or lust.

He put himself between the presidential family and harm, showed more courage and dedication than most ­people could even hope they might feel. He'd served his country in one kind of war, now he served it in defense, and cared so much. There was so much to admire about such a man. And yet he was a tender lover, funny at rare and surprising moments, and all the things that made being with him a joy.

“The wedding's up on the altar,” Missy leaned in to say, giving her an elbow.

Monica's gaze left Travis and focused on the ­couple doing their “you may now kiss the bride” moment to enthusiastic applause. “Sorry,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.

“Don't be. Can't blame you for looking. Think positive. If it was meant to be—­”

“It was meant to be,” Monica finished, smiling into her sister's lovely brown eyes. “As the widows would say, from your lips to God's ear.”

“What?” Dom asked, leaning around Missy from the other side.

“Shh!” both women whispered.

T
hat evening, at the wedding reception, Travis manned his post near the bluegrass band. He'd been well trained to watch crowds, his senses peaking every time there was a surge of activity near the president. Mikayla and the rest of the detail were in place, but that didn't keep Travis's gaze from flicking to ­people's eyes, then their hands. His earpiece was a constant stream of calm chatter as agents reported the position of the president as she moved around.

He was looking for ­people who displayed unusual symptoms—­hands in their pockets like they were cold, nervous behavior, overly or underly enthusiastic responses near President Torres. Along a motorcade route, he often had to ask ­people to take their hands out of their pockets, and if they didn't do it immediately, they were taken away and frisked. He hoped that didn't happen at Ashley and Jeremy's reception. But so far, everything was running smoothly.

And then he saw Monica dancing with her sister. She wore a floor-­length pale yellow halter dress that left her back enticingly bare a long way down. The material occasionally glittered when the light caught it just right.

For just a moment, he remembered sitting on the swing last night, thinking he could be with her forever, even if she just slept in his arms. He loved her—­he'd almost said the words, but it hadn't seemed the right time. She was so sleepy, maybe she wouldn't have remembered, he thought, smothering a smile.

He wanted to be the one to dance with her, wanted the right to be a part of her family instead of the one always on the outside looking in. His impatience was startling, so he fell back on his training and resumed his focus on work.

M
onica did her best to have fun even though she longed to bring Travis into the heart of her friends and family. He stood alone and practically motionless through the dinner and the early part of the dancing. She knew it was his job, and she was proud of him, but she wanted him as her date, selfish as that was.

During the dinner, she'd focused on her happiness over her parents' reunion. They told her about the camper they'd bought so they could attend his vintage-­car races together on the weekends and explore the countryside, talking over each other in their excitement. They held hands like teenagers in love, and at one point, Missy clutched Monica's hand under the table, and Monica knew they were both trying hard not to cry tears of happiness and relief.

During the dancing, Monica never had the same partner twice. When she dragged Josh onto the dance floor at Whitney's urging, it was hard to keep his attention because he kept looking back at his wife.

“She's okay,” Monica called above the music. “You're making her a wreck with your fussing.”

The tall cowboy frowned at her. “Something's wrong. She seems tired and overly quiet.”

“She is about to have a baby in a few weeks,” Monica pointed out dryly.

He glanced back again at Whitney, whose head was bent, her hand on her stomach. “I don't know. Sorry, I can't dance any more.”

Monica followed him back to his table and watched as he dropped to one knee beside his wife.

“Whitney?”

Her smile was tense even as she glanced at Monica. “Hi. You didn't dance very long.”

“I can't keep him away from you,” Monica said, shaking her head. “It's kind of pathetic.”

Whitney nodded almost absently, and if Monica hadn't been paying attention, she'd have missed the slight wince in her expression.

“All right, that's it,” Josh said firmly. “What's going on?”

Whitney sighed. “I was hoping these were just Braxton-­Hicks contractions, you know, false labor.”

He took both her hands, and said slowly, “I know about false labor. This isn't false, is it?”

Biting her lip, she shook her head. “Babies take hours, Josh. Let's not make a big deal of this.”

Monica knelt beside her, felt a flash of unease at the pain that briefly etched its way across her friend's face. “Maybe you guys should go to the hospital. How long has this been going on?”

Whitney winced, then gave her husband a hesitant glance, even as her breathing deepened and quickened. “A few hours,” she admitted faintly. “But I thought it was false labor, remember?”

They were attracting the notice of Josh's parents, Doug and Sandy, who now stood up from their seats on the far side of the table.

“Josh?” Sandy said with concern, leaning forward on her cane.

He was still a lot calmer than most expectant dads, his voice reassuring for his wife, but Monica saw his wide eyes as he looked at his parents.

“I think Monica might be right,” he said.

“I don't want to miss the rest of the reception!” Whitney cried, then let out a groan, doubling over, her dark, layered hair falling forward to shield her tightly closed eyes.

Monica looked down at the spreading puddle on the polished wood floor. “Uh . . . I think your water broke, Whitney. This kid has other plans.”

Whitney swore, and Monica had to press her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Time to stand up and head for the car,” Josh said. His wife's hands were clenched tightly together, and he had to pry them apart to lift her to her feet.

She swayed, then leaned against him heavily.

“Oh, damn, I think I have to push!”

“You've barely been in labor,” Josh said, his voice finally showing a crack of unease in his usual calm.

“Babies don't care about schedules,” Mrs. Thalberg told her grandson. “Not sure this one's going to wait.”

“Someone call an ambulance,” Josh said, even as he swung his wife up into his arms.

Ripples of disturbance spread out around them, ­people turning their heads to gawk or leaning together to whisper.

“What's going on?” Travis asked as he approached.

“Baby's coming,” Monica told him.

He said something into his sleeve, then spoke to Josh. “Ambulance is called. A second one. The first just left on a run because someone might have broken an arm. Don't worry, I hear first babies take a while,” he added lightly.

Josh stared at his wife, not noticing the teasing.

Monica did. Her man was not only cool under pressure, he could even attempt to ease fears.

“Let's find someplace private,” Travis said. “There's a lounge nearby.”

“I'm sure you know the whole layout,” Monica teased.

“I do.”

He led them through the nearest door, away from the reception, although it seemed like dozens of ­people followed, but Monica knew them all, concerned friends and relatives of Josh and Whitney. Theresa Sweet rushed forward and followed them into a lounge near the ladies' room.

“How do you feel now?” Josh asked as he laid Whitney down on a couch.

Between gritted teeth, she said, “Like this baby wants to come right now.”

“Try not to push,” Travis said, taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

Monica stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready to deliver the baby if the ambulance doesn't arrive on time,” he said matter-­of-­factly. To Josh, he said, “I take refresher courses in emergency medicine all the time.”

Josh nodded absently, his focus on Whitney.

Not everybody could fit into the lounge, and Monica noticed Emily keeping ­people out. Mrs. Thalberg, Doug, Sandy, Nate, and Brooke got through, of course.

“I think you'd better remove her lower undergarments,” Mrs. Thalberg said with practical efficiency. “And let's get some soap, hot water, and towels.”

“I'll be right back with the supplies,” Theresa called, rushing out of the lounge.

Travis caught Monica's eye. “Go find one of my colleagues and ask for someone from the president's medical staff.”

By the time she got back after relaying her message, there was a doctor in the lounge as well as family. Monica and Emily stood outside the door to answer questions, but all the while Monica kept glancing back inside, trying not to feel too nervous. Women had babies all the time, right?

Just as paramedics came through a door at the end of the hall, wheeling a stretcher, a newborn baby started crying.

Monica and Emily gripped each other's hands and just grinned. Then they looked back inside to see Travis take the wrapped baby from the doctor who'd delivered it and lay it on Whitney's chest, the umbilical cord still trailing down between her thighs.

Monica watched Travis in amazement and wonder, feeling so proud and full of love for him. He'd been calm and commanding and reassuring, having no problem stepping aside for the experts.

And then the paramedics pushed past them and cleared the lounge of everyone but the parents and grandparents. Travis emerged, nodded to Monica and Emily, and headed for the men's room, his hands in a towel.

Emily looked at Monica. “I think you need to keep that man,” she said reverently.

Brooke seemed a little shaky as she held on to Adam's hand. “I agree.”

“I'm going to do my best,” Monica answered, just as serious.

The paramedics pushed their stretcher back through the door, with a beaming, perspiring Whitney holding the baby. “Oh, wait!” she called.

They all looked down at the tiny little face, delicate eyelids closed, serene as she rested so peacefully in her mom's arms.

Smiling, Whitney said, “Little Olivia, this is Aunt Brooke, Aunt Monica, and Aunt Emily. They've promised to do lots of babysitting.”

“Oh, we will,” Emily said with quiet determination.

Whitney waved tiredly as her stretcher was pushed away.

Emily glanced up at her husband, and a brilliant smile grew on her face. “Maybe we need to start looking more seriously into adoption.”

Nate grinned at her. “I knew you wouldn't be able to resist a baby once this one arrived.”

After Whitney and Josh left in the ambulance, and the grandparents went looking for their cars, Monica waited in the corridor for Travis. He emerged from the men's room, unrolling his shirtsleeves and buttoning them at the wrist. But he smiled when he saw her. She didn't care that he was on duty, she simply went to him.

He enfolded her in a big hug and spoke against the top of her head. “This has been an exciting wedding reception.”

She laughed and looked up, her arms around him. “That's what we do in Valentine.”

He looked into her eyes, and his smile gradually faded. “Last night, I had some things I wanted to say, but you were too tired—­and I wanted to see your face, anyway.”

She let out her breath on a heavy sigh. “Good-­byes are so difficult.” She averted her gaze, hoping he wouldn't see the tears she was trying to keep hidden.