A Promise at Bluebell Hill (7 page)

Janet interrupted. “And let's not forget national exposure in what some might term ‘offensive' photos.” She patted her daughter's hand.

Theresa and Matt exchanged an amused glance.

Monica rolled her eyes. “I'm not saying I've haven't been side by side with you all. But if you're going to do this, I want you to be reasonable about it.”

“The wedding weekend will probably be our last chance,” Mrs. Thalberg said earnestly. “The spa is even discussing moving up the construction date.”

Solemn looks were exchanged.

“It's hard to be both original and tame,” Monica pointed out. “But . . . I have an idea.”

They listened politely, and before Monica knew it, the widows had gone beyond her original idea with an over-­the-­top one of their own. Much laughter and discussion filled the next hour as they began to work, even as Monica promised herself she would steer the group away from anything that might bother the Secret Ser­vice.

“Now that we have a plan,” Mrs. Palmer said, clapping her hands together, “we need a name for our group, so we can talk among ourselves and ­people won't know what we're talkin' about. I have an idea already.”

Monica saw Mrs. Thalberg and Mrs. Ludlow exchange glances with an air of resignation.

Mrs. Palmer beamed. “Well, we're all defendin' the mammoth dig, so I thought about calling us the Defenders, short and sweet. But if ­people overheard, they'd be curious—­”

“You mean if your grandson overheard,” Janet said, smiling.

Mrs. Palmer waved a hand. “Adam can be too curious. So what are we doin'? We're defendin' science and the important memory of a mammoth—­we're ­defendin' an archaeological dig. How about Dig Defenders, the Double Ds for short?”

“Uh . . . the Double Ds?” Monica said. “You do know what that can be interpreted as?”

“Bra sizes!” Mrs. Palmer said, nodding vigorously. “And who wants to talk to an elderly woman about that?”

Monica's snort turned into a laugh, and she was joined by the others. “Fine, the Double Ds it is.”

“Now that that's settled,” Mrs. Ludlow said, giving them all a tolerant stare over her glasses, “let's put the finishing touches on the Mammoth Party. It will be good to remind ­people why history is so important and to have children excited, too.”

Mrs. Ludlow was a retired teacher, so she always thought about the children.

“I've typed out a list of everything that still has to be done,” she continued.

“And if ­people think this is our last protest?” Mrs. Thalberg said, rubbing her hands together. “So much the better.” She smiled at Monica. “Thank you for the wonderful idea.”

Janet even patted her back with pride, and they all began to discuss the party. But all Monica could think about was Travis. Though he'd asked for any information on wedding weekend “disruptions,” she couldn't betray her friends—­or her principles—­by telling him about this. So now she wasn't only lying to her friends and family
about
him, she was lying
to
him.

What a mess.

 

Chapter Six

T
he next morning, Travis walked out of the firehouse with Sheriff Buchanan, his liaison with the local police. They were on Grace Street, a block off Main, and the firehouse was built of brick, as if it had seen at least a hundred years of Valentine Valley history. The sheriff, a grizzled man in his sixties, had a white crew cut and the stiff bearing of a former military man. Travis felt right at home with him, especially when they each looked discreetly at their phones before putting them away again.

“Thanks for introducing me to the fire chief, Sheriff,” Travis said, glancing up at the overcast sky to see if it looked like it was going to rain. “I think it'll make a great safe house should we have an emergency while the president is on the route through town.”

“Both Bud and I are proud to be of help, Agent Beaumont,” the sheriff said.

Standing on the street, they casually discussed routes to the medical clinic and the hospital in Aspen, making plans to go over maps together. The sheriff had already agreed to make detailed notes on any vulnerabilities along the planned motorcade routes.

“Any known dissent groups in the area?” Travis asked.

“None that would harm the president,” Sheriff Buchanan said, then took another sip of the coffee in his styrofoam cup. “Around here, the majority of the activism is about wilderness conservation, and even then it's been a while.”

“I saw posters protesting the closing of an archaeological dig.” He wondered if Buchanan would enlighten him more than Monica had. She'd seemed a little protective when telling him about it.

The sheriff shook his head. “Yes, sir, there's a group of ­people wishing that owners of private land could be forced to change their construction plans. Ain't gonna happen. I mean yes, dinosaurs are big about now, what with the huge find at Snowmass Village. Hell, I even bought some Dino Dirt up at the farmer's market in Glenwood Springs.”

“Dino Dirt?” Travis echoed curiously.

“The scientists removed a lot of dirt as they uncovered the fossils. Someone got the great idea to sell it, and I tell you, it did wonders for my vegetable garden.” He cleared his throat. “There's a certain element behind most of our local demonstrations, but I don't think you have to worry about them. They're the widows of the Widows' Boardinghouse, but one of them is the grandma of your bride.”

“The Widows' Boardinghouse? Sounds like the nineteenth century.”

“That's why they like it. They live in a renovated house on the Silver Creek Ranch. They're the major force on the committee for the Valentine Valley Preservation Fund—­supporting historical houses and promoting small businesses and such. They're pretty proud of this town and determined to protect it. They've done some demonstrating in the past, and now they've taken the spa dig as their new project. Kind of surprised about it, myself—­they're getting up there in age. But these women are passionate—­they once chained themselves to a brothel because it was part of women's history in Valentine. Kept them from tearing it down, they did.”

“They
sound
passionate. I'd like to meet them.”

“You can sign up for a tarot reading,” the sheriff said dryly. “They do that, too.”

Travis hid a smile. “No, thanks. Mind if we take a ride together? I'd like to get a feel for what's outside the town, the ranches, maybe even the spa that's getting so much attention.”

M
onica was relieved when Ashley Ludlow came to town on Sunday afternoon, settled into her mom's house, and wasted no time in getting down to business. Monica, Emily, and Heather got a text from her, apologizing for the last-­minute notice, and asking if they could meet that evening at the Sweetheart Inn. Like any of the three women minded.

Because the rain clouds had at last departed, the women walked the few blocks to the inn, where globe lights lit the grounds as dusk descended. Spotlights highlighted the three floors of Queen Anne turrets and porches adorned with sunburst trim. The lobby was the original front parlor, still decorated with stained-­glass lamps resting on mahogany furniture, and a wide staircase led up to the next floor. The front desk must have been the bar in an old saloon because it was massive and intricately carved. The only modern thing was a huge family portrait showing the living generations of Sweets. The next photo they took, Emily would be a part of it, Monica thought, smiling with contentment, Eileen Sweet's long-­lost and newly found grand­daughter.

Ashley Ludlow rose from the sofa in front of the fireplace and rushed to hug Monica.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” Monica said, giving her a squeeze.

“Thanks!”

They separated and looked at each other for a moment, still holding each other's upper arms. Her hair was blonder than Monica remembered, cut in a short, shaggy style that looked casual but probably took more time to style than it seemed. She still had a curvy figure that made you think old-­fashioned movie star and cute glasses that managed to remind you that she was a serious lawyer.

Mrs. Ludlow rose slowly with the aid of her daughter-­in-­law, Donna Ludlow. They watched the reunion with fondness, even as Donna still looked a little dazed and wide-­eyed. Who could blame her, having to plan a wedding in less than two weeks' time? Still young-­looking, with wavy brown hair and a slim figure, she wore a suit, as if she was ready to impress the president from the beginning.

“Practicing law in D.C. seems to suit you,” Monica told Ashley.

“And so does being in love—­don't forget that. Jeremy is an incredible man—­I can't believe I'm lucky enough to be marrying him!”

Monica introduced Emily and Heather. Heather glanced through the open French doors into the restaurant, with its ambiance of candles and fine linen.

“I'm not sure why I'm here, Ashley,” Heather said with regret. “The inn has a delicious menu.”

Mrs. Ludlow walked around the couch, leaning on her walker. “I'd like you to cater the bridal shower, Heather. Emily tells me wonderful things about your cooking.”

Heather blushed as only a redhead could. “Thank you, ma'am, and I'd be happy to help.”

Ashley led the way into a conference room off the main lobby. It had obviously once been a spacious dining room, complete with wooden columns, an intricately carved fireplace, and a long, stained-­glass window running along the top of the other windows. Theresa Sweet was waiting for them, pouring coffee and straightening bottles of water and soda. There was a big spread of cookies, along with a tray of cheese, vegetables, and fruit. The elder Mrs. Sweet was already seated, stirring a cup of coffee. Monica wasn't surprised that the owner took a personal interest in such an important wedding.

Theresa smiled at them. “Ladies, please help yourselves to some refreshments first.”

As they began to fill their plates, Monica asked Ashley, “So, will you have Secret Ser­vice protection, too?”

Ashley made a face. “When we're married, yes. Children of sitting presidents have to. I guess they can be pretty good at fading into the background, but still . . . it'll be difficult not to just hop in my car without running my plans by someone else at first.”

Monica wondered if Travis had done such protective duties already, and she had a hard time imagining anyone thinking he “faded into the background.” She'd caught the occasional glimpse of him leaving or entering the hotel since she'd last seen him yesterday morning, but that was it.

Mrs. Ludlow sat down next to Mrs. Sweet while her daughter-­in-­law brought her a coffee cup and a plate of goodies. As much as the widows as a group did not always get along with Mrs. Sweet, Mrs. Ludlow was a bridge of sorts, and now the two women talked softly together.

Everyone soon took a seat but Ashley, who perched one knee on her chair as if she were too nervous to sit down. “I knew months ago that we were going to get married in Valentine. Mrs. Sweet let me know when one of the reservations for a banquet room canceled, so I could have it. I still can't believe the president was able to alter her schedule for us. It's been really strange not to have more time to deal with all this.”

Nodding, her mom, Donna, took too deep a gulp of her hot coffee and coughed into her napkin.

“Poor Mom,” Ashley said, wincing. “I wanted to elope, or get married in a very small ceremony in D.C., I really did, but frankly, I couldn't hurt both sets of parents. You can't believe how excited the president is for her son's wedding.”

“He's her only child,” Theresa reminded them.

“Yes,” Ashley answered, “and she just wants to be like a normal mother of the groom. Well, normal might be relative,” she added ruefully.

“How did you two meet?” Emily asked.

Ashley's smile softened. “Typical singles in a bar. I didn't know who he was—­most ­people didn't. He's not been in the public eye all that much since he doesn't live in the White House. Dating has been an interesting adventure, but when I'm with the Torreses for a family dinner, they're really just like everyone else.” She turned to Monica. “I have to tell you, I've been keeping up with everything online, reading the
Valentine Gazette.
I was so excited to see how well you'd launched Josh's craftsmanship. Your flower shop really must be doing well!”

“Thanks, I'm pretty happy with how it's going,” Monica admitted.

“My future father-­in-­law is a big fan of Josh's, and he really wants to see your display of his work. Would you mind if he stops at your place when he gets into town next week?”

“Of course not. Maybe I can even arrange for Josh to be there if you give me advance notice.”

“I'll do that!”

After promising not to be a bridezilla, Ashley got down to business, looking through Emily's binder and Monica's PowerPoint presentation. Emily stuck out her tongue about the computer demonstration, making Monica laugh. Plans were made, the Sweet ladies consulted. Heather and Mrs. Ludlow kept their heads together discussing the bridal shower.

As the meeting broke up, Monica felt energized and challenged and thrilled about the work. She'd be putting fresh flowers in the president's suite at the hotel and at St. John's Church, as well as the banquet room at the Sweetheart Inn. Her mind was already buzzing about how to keep the whole schedule straight, but she didn't panic. She'd always had a cool head under pressure.

Out in the lobby, Theresa pulled her aside while the others began their good-­byes.

“Did you hear anything from the wi—­the Double Ds?” she asked in a quiet voice.

Mrs. Sweet watched her granddaughter with faint suspicion, and Theresa made it worse by looking guilty.

“Nothing,” Monica answered. “But it's only been a day.”

Theresa nodded and seemed to dart away as if she were hiding a crime.

Once Monica, Emily, and Heather were outside, Emily shot Monica a suspicious look.

“So what's going on?” she asked. “You and Theresa looked too cozy.”

“And Mrs. Sweet noticed,” Heather added. “She scares me a little.”

Monica sighed. “Theresa used to go to protests with me in college and helped me do the research for the grants I used to write—­heck, so did Ashley, but she gave it up a long time ago. Anyway, as I predicted, the widows haven't given up their idea of protesting the closing of the spa dig, especially now that the president is coming. They've settled on the morning of the wedding rehearsal. They want national attention for their cause, and I couldn't talk them out of it.”

“Well, if anyone can keep a lid on things, it's you,” Emily said at last.

Monica felt a twinge of unease. She hoped she proved worthy of the trust.

L
ate afternoon on Monday at the flower shop, Monica heard the door jingle and looked up from her computer behind the front counter. Travis Beaumont was already removing his sunglasses as he walked toward her. It had only been two days, and she was surprised at the feeling of anticipation that welled up inside her at just the sight of him. She found herself smiling, and to her surprise, the corners of his lips turned up a bit, his first almost smile.

“Hi, Travis,” she said pleasantly.

“Monica,” he said with a nod, “I need to meet the pastry chef next door since she'll be supplying food at several of the wedding events. I thought you could introduce me, so I could get a feel for her.”

Business. Monica wasn't surprised since he seemed like a focused kind of guy. She wondered if there was a way to get him to realize there were more hours in the day, a way for him to relax.

“We should get one thing straight,” she said. “Do you still need your secret identity? I've already met with Ashley about the wedding.”

“Secret identity—­you make me sound like a comic-­book character.”

“Didn't you always want to be a superhero when you were young? My favorite was Spider-­Man.”

“No, I just wanted to be a soldier. I was focused, even then.”

“Were you any fun to be around, Beaumont?”

He looked like he was giving that serious consideration. “I guess it depends on whom you ask.”

She rolled her eyes. “A vague answer.”

“But in answer to your main question, I'd rather wait until the news of the president hits the paper. Anonymity makes it easier to do my job. But I will introduce myself to vendors as necessary and hope I can count on their discretion.”

“Emily is very trustworthy. Let me tell my sales associate, Mrs. Wilcox, that I'm leaving.”

When they reached the street, several ­people were turning into Sugar and Spice. Monica peered through the window and saw even more customers at the counter and seated at the scattered tables.

“You know what, it's the end of the workday, and she's very busy. And I'm starving. How 'bout you buy me an early dinner in exchange for my help? And then we can have dessert with Emily, when her business has slowed down.”