A Promise at Bluebell Hill (6 page)

“Will a manly calendar ‘disrupt' your wedding weekend?”

He heard the emphasis she put on “disrupt,” and knew she was echoing his words back to him. “No, it won't, but I appreciate your warning me.”

He glanced around the hot springs, and when he looked back at her, she was studying him.

“If you ever need a hand getting a feel for Valentine, you can let me know. Spent my whole life here, but for college. We have a little bit of nightlife here, too. I'd hate for you to hang out just with your coworkers twenty-­four hours a day. As you said, you can't really let loose with them.”

“Thanks for thinking of me,” he answered.

Her smile faded, and they had one of those strange moments where he felt almost . . . attached to her by some sort of invisible rope that kept drawing tighter, pulling them together. She gave him a slow, gorgeous smile that made him flush with warmth. God, she was sexy.

“Gotta go,” she suddenly said. “See you later.”

And then she turned and ran back down the trail, treating him once again to a view of her ass cupped in those tight shorts.

Why hadn't he discouraged her? He didn't have time for a flirtation with a beautiful woman.

But she made him want to, and that wasn't good.

 

Chapter Five

A
fter a busy, satisfying day at work, Monica dropped in at her parents' place a good hour earlier than the widows' protest meeting was supposed to start. The Shaws lived a few streets off Main, where the houses were built in the twentieth century rather than the nineteenth, a regular four-­bedroom colonial that you could find anywhere in the US. But inside, Janet had decorated with mountain décor, twisted twigs in a tall vase in the corner, a fireplace made of stone, antique skis hanging on a wall next to a landscape of snow-­covered mountains. In the family room, she'd grouped framed ski posters from the forties and fifties. It all felt like home when Monica dropped in until she caught her mom eating dinner in front of the TV, a
huge
no-­no when she was growing up.

Janet visibly brightened when she turned and saw Monica dump her purse on a chair. She jumped up, setting her plate on an end table to hug her daughter.

“You're early!” Janet exclaimed, appearing perfectly happy about it.

“When I saw you at the shower, I realized I hadn't been home in a while, and if I was going to take you to the meeting, we might as well chat first. Dad here?”

“In his office.”

Monica blinked. They hadn't eaten dinner together?

“I'll call him up. Have you eaten?”

“Nope. Any extra?”

“Of course! Let's head into the kitchen.”

The kitchen was only separated from the dining room by a column, after her mom had had a wall torn down for a more “open” look. The cabinets were pine, the window curtains white, and everything seemed so cheery.

Except her mom, although she was doing her best to fake it.

As Monica washed her hands, Janet opened the basement door, and called, “Ben, Monica's here!”

“I'll be up in a minute!”

With tongs, Janet spread a plate with spaghetti. Though she used sauce from a jar, her meatballs were homemade and incredible. Back in high school, Monica and her teammates used to debate whose team meals were number one, and each was convinced their own mom made the best meatballs. Monica knew the other girls were all wrong.

“I probably shouldn't be eating all this pasta,” Janet said ruefully as she placed Monica's plate next to her own on the kitchen table. “I seem to be putting on a few pounds.”

Janet had always been a little chubbier than her daughters but not seriously overweight—­and she wasn't now.

Monica frowned at her. “Mom, you look fine. Why would you think that?”

“Well, if I don't diet occasionally, the weight keeps creeping up.”

“You're still taking that yoga class, right?”

Janet nodded, but she seemed distracted as she poured a big glass of milk and set it down on the table, along with silverware.

When her dad came through the door, Monica hugged him but looked him over curiously, considering her mom's unusual behavior of late. He was a tall, lean man, with the broad shoulders Dom had inherited but a little belly above his belt. He wore a closely trimmed beard and mustache threaded with gray though he wasn't one of those guys making up for a balding head.

He always had a big smile for her. “Good to see you, baby girl.”

She smiled at the childhood endearment. “Thanks, Dad.” She looked down at the empty plate he set on the counter. “You're not eating with us?”

“Already did, sorry.”

She thought he avoided her mom's gaze. What the heck?

“Sit down with us anyway,” she urged.

As Ben slid out a chair, Monica dug in to her spaghetti. The two women ate silently for a few minutes, Janet taking smaller bites and chewing a long time.

“Very exciting about Ashley Ludlow marrying the president's son,” Janet said.

“What?” Ben said, looking between them in surprise.

“Oh, we're not supposed to tell anyone,” Janet explained. “I must not have showed you the wedding invitation that just came in the mail. You don't care all that much about weddings, anyway.”

“Maybe not,” Monica said, “but since this one will be taking place in Valentine Valley, and the
president
will be attending, this might be one wedding to capture your interest.”

“Wow,” Ben said mildly.

“But you really can't tell anyone,” Monica amended in a serious voice. “They're trying not to make this a circus.”

“Fine by me.”

“But Ashley wants me to do the flowers for the wedding!” Monica said excitedly, and they talked for a while about her plans and how the business had been going lately. Thank goodness, nobody asked about the stranger lurking around her shop.

At last, her dad excused himself to go work on his vintage Mustang in the garage since she and her mom would be leaving for their meeting soon. He didn't ask what the meeting was about. Monica watched Janet's eyes follow him out, and there was no disguising her troubled expression.

“What going on with you and Dad?” Monica asked.

Janet gave her a phony smile. “Nothing at all, so don't you worry about it. Every marriage has the occasional patch where you don't get each other. We'll be fine.”

This seemed more serious than that, and Monica felt a little lump in her stomach although she told herself she'd just eaten too fast. “Is whatever”—­she waved her hand toward the garage door—­“the reason you're suddenly so interested in the widows' latest cause? You disapproved of it when Missy and I were younger.”

“I never disapproved of the
causes,
” Janet said, pointing at her with a meatball on a fork. “I disapproved of the way the protests were handled, and I disapproved of your youth and how things could backfire and ruin college for you. And after that photo came out, and strangers were calling you or showing up at the door or using that photo for their own purposes—­well, it only made me more nervous.”

Monica sighed. “That was one bad side effect. It didn't negate the good work we did bringing environmental issues into the public eye.”

“I see that. And now that you're all grown-­up, I'd like to be a part of it.”

“I notice you didn't remind Dad of where you're going—­does he know?”

“It's none of his business.”

Monica straightened abruptly, no longer hungry. “None of Dad's business? Are you embarrassed?”

“Not a bit! But I want this to be for me. He has his friends in the vintage-­car-­racing world; I need to develop my own interests. Don't think you're the only one who was inspired by Grandpa Shaw's stories of the marches. I don't remember a lot from those days, but I do remember the occasional suspicious looks when I shopped in certain stores. And, sadly, that
still
happens.”

And what was Monica supposed to say to that? “I suggest you don't tell Dom unless you have to,” she finally said, taking her plate to the sink and rinsing it off. “He still hasn't forgiven me for that photo.”

“Nonsense.” Janet opened the dishwasher.

“Oh, we get along, but . . .” She let her words trail off. Dom's reaction had almost made Missy come clean about the whole deception. Monica hadn't allowed it.

“I hope you're not trying to change my mind,” Janet said softly.

“I'm not, I promise. I've just been curious about the motivation.”

“Understandable.” Janet took the rinsed plates Monica handed her and loaded them in the dishwasher. “So let me be curious. I talk to a lot of ­people at Doc Ericson's all day, right?”

“You're the ‘face' of the medical community,” Monica agreed brightly. As the receptionist to the town's only doctor, her mom ended up speaking to absolutely everyone in Valentine Valley.

Janet chuckled. “And they like to talk to me, especially about my own children. Someone saw you running this morning with a handsome out-­of-­towner.”

“Of course they did.” Monica rinsed the silverware and handed it over. “He's just a guest at the hotel, Mom. We were running at the same time.”

“And hanging out at Tony's, too? And in your flower shop?”

“Mom! Honestly, he's just an interesting guy, and he's flirting.” She hesitated, but this was her mom. “All right, there is more, but it can't go any further, right?”

Janet leaned against the counter eagerly. “I may be the face of the medical community, but I don't spill secrets to them, especially not
your
secrets, baby girl.”

Monica grinned. “Okay, then. Travis isn't just an interesting guy. He's with the Secret Ser­vice, setting up the trip for President Torres. He wants to use my shop for an observation post.”

Janet's expression fell. “That's all?”

Monica started to laugh.

“I thought it would be about you and a nice guy,” Janet explained lamely.

“Most ­people would think a presidential trip is a big deal, but not a mother wanting her daughter to settle down.”

“I never said you had to settle down—­I just want you to be happy.”

Monica reached across the dishwasher and gave her mom a quick hug. “Thanks. You've raised me to make
myself
very happy. I don't need a man for that.”

Janet groaned. “So I did too good of a job, making you independent and self-­fulfilled.”

“Guess you did. Are we done here? They'll start without us, and I have a few words to say to the widows.”

Janet gave her a speculative look but didn't ask questions.

T
he sun was already behind the Elk Mountains when Monica drove down the gravel road and followed the drive to the back of the Widows' Boardinghouse. The porch lights were on, and she marched up the steps with determination, organizing all the things she wanted to say to dissuade them. She prayed they didn't have in mind an actual protest at the Renaissance Spa, like chaining themselves to the front door or camping out among the fossils to protect them.

Everyone else had already arrived and welcomed Monica and Janet. Besides the widows, Emily's cousins, siblings Theresa and Matt Sweet were there. Matt, a little younger, had never protested with them, but Theresa had dragged him along. They both had variations of light brown hair, Theresa's a chin-­length bob, Matt's sun-­streaked because he was in charge of the landscaping at the Sweetheart Inn and spent a lot of his days outside. He'd even taken a part-­time job with Josh Thalberg, stitching together his leathercraft creations. Theresa had been as avid a protester as Monica a few years back, but lately she was being groomed by her grandma to eventually help run the Sweetheart Inn. Sometimes, Theresa complained that that only meant too much hostessing at the hotel's five-­star restaurant.

Brenda Hutcheson was the last member of their group, a rancher's wife with short, curly gray hair, hands that had seen a lot of hard work, and a brisk manner that made her clip her sentences short.

Soon the eight of them were settled around the dining-­room table, each with their own matching pad of paper provided by the widows. Mrs. Thalberg took the lead, glancing at a typed set of notes, then thanking them all for coming. She briefly went over the mammoth dig again, and their original plan for a party to present the archaeology to the public, make it fun for kids, and in general, get the population enthused.

“That's the problem—­­people
aren't
too enthused anymore,” Mrs. Palmer said with a sigh. “After the dig at Snowmass, ­people feel they've given enough money to support fossils. And one little mammoth seems trivial compared to the thousands of bones found down there. We've been to town-­council meetin's, we've met with the museum, and with the spa—­although they say they're done talkin'.”

It was almost hard to concentrate on her serious words when Mrs. Palmer had a fake dog bone stuck in her blond wig, like Pebbles from the old
Flintstones
cartoon. Monica loved that about her. She wanted to
be
her when she was an old lady.

“Then perhaps we should just stop at the party,” Monica suggested.

Everyone turned frowns on her.

“All right, let me say my piece, then you can shoot me down. Yes, this is a presidential wedding, and perhaps making President Torres aware of the dig might do . . . something.”

“It's more about making the media aware of the dig,” Mrs. Ludlow said patiently.

Monica turned a serious gaze on her. “But it's your granddaughter's wedding weekend. Do you want to mar her memories?”

She almost expected Mrs. Ludlow to stiffen, offended, but she just gave Monica a kind smile.

“I would never permit that to happen, my dear.”

“Of course you wouldn't intend to, but—­”

“And we would have our demonstration on Friday, before the rehearsal dinner or anything else related to the wedding.”

“But won't the Mammoth Party bring just as much attention to our cause?” Monica continued.

“No, it won't,” Brenda Hutcheson said firmly. “The posters have been up for a week. When I ask, no one has even read them. We'll get parents and kids. That's it. We need more attention than that.”

All around the table, heads bobbed in agreement.

Monica had to make one last attempt. “You don't think ­people holding signs will be ignored? Especially when everyone's trying to get a look at the president herself?”

“That's why we can't have our
usual
demonstration,” Mrs. Palmer said with satisfaction, as if Monica had made her point for her.

With a sigh, Monica sat back and admitted defeat. Her last desperate strategy would be to curb their more insane impulses.

“What's the ‘usual'?” Matt, new to the group, asked.

Monica ticked off each point on her fingers. “Picketing, camping out in the way of . . . whatever, organizing an e-­mail barrage, chaining themselves to buildings—­”