The Christmas Concierge, page 14
He furrowed his brow. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” She squared her shoulders. “And I get it. There’s a lot of pressure this time of year. Lots of obligations and choices and what basically boils down to emotional blackmail.”
Paul whispered, “Mom,” and nodded.
“I’m no blackmailer.” She stared him right in the eye. “I don’t want you doing me any favors or resenting me because I forced your hand. If you bail, I won’t be disappointed. This isn’t personal.”
The ripping turned into crunching as he crumpled the receipt into a tiny ball. “Nothing’s personal with you. You’ve made that clear.”
She folded her arms and told herself that she had no idea what he was talking about. “I have a job and I’m doing it. With or without you.”
“I don’t see how . . .” Paul started. He trailed off when they both turned to him, scowling. “I’ll go get in line.”
Holiday turned back to Alex, her exasperation growing by the second. “I’m letting you off the hook. I’m not disappointed. I’m not resentful. Why are you mad?”
“You’re never disappointed,” he shot back. “You’re too busy getting out of the way before anything disappointing can happen.”
She snatched up a cashmere cardigan and held it to her chest. “What does that even mean?”
He waited until she met his gaze and held it. “It means that you’ve found someone who wants to make your wishes come true and you won’t let me.”
She was so stunned, all she could manage to say in reply was “That’s not true.” Because she feared it wasn’t true. Other men had said the same, and it hadn’t been true. But oh, how she wanted it to be true. The depth of her longing was terrifying.
“I know it’s true from my side,” he said.
She clutched the cashmere, feeling as though she was right on the edge of falling. But with a deep breath, she pulled herself back from the brink. She had just met this man. Even if he meant it when he said he wanted to make her wishes come true, she wasn’t sure she could do the same for him. What was the point of squandering her career and other people’s hopes and dreams if, in the end, she couldn’t give him what he wanted?
She lowered her voice, and her whole body slumped. “I have promises to keep.”
There ensued a long pause, during which she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
“Pick a sweater and I’ll wear it and that’s the end of that. See you at five.” He strode out of the store without a backward glance.
Chapter Seventeen
Holiday hurried out of the shop, only to hear footsteps pounding on the sidewalk behind her. She whirled around to find herself face-to-face with Paul. He was holding a pair of shopping bags, from which he pulled the puffy maroon jacket.
“You forgot your coat,” he said.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he interrupted. “I already paid for it, and I am not about to stand in that line again to return it. Do me a favor and don’t argue.”
“Thank you.” Holiday slipped into the luxurious jacket and tugged up the zipper. Despite all the down insulation and windproof fabric, she felt cold from the inside out. “I guess I’ve done enough arguing for today.”
Paul lifted the remaining shopping bag. “At least Alex’ll be well dressed. I wasn’t sure if he’d decided on anything, so I bought ’em all. If there’s something he doesn’t want, let him stand in the return line.”
Holiday shivered as the snowflakes started to accumulate on her hair. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”
Paul laughed. “Ooh, a thirty-second verbal spat. I’m scarred for life.”
His goofiness was infectious, and she almost smiled too. “I’m serious. That wasn’t very professional of me.”
“Who cares?” He scoffed. “You and Alex passed the ‘professional’ stage of things a country mile ago.”
Holiday stepped to the far edge of the sidewalk as a family with a dog and a stroller bustled by. She jammed her hands in her pockets and tried to scrape together the last vestiges of her unflappable business persona. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Paul laughed again. “Save it. I already heard about the elf uniforms.” He shook his head at the mental image. “Listen, I know Alex said some rough stuff back there—”
“Nothing as rough as what I said,” Holiday interjected.
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You just got caught in the Christmas crossfire.” Paul seemed unaware of the snowflakes pelting his face. “My mom is harassing him, work is harassing him—”
“And I am harassing him.”
“Nah, you’re helping him. He should be grateful.” Paul stepped closer to her and confided, “It was probably the sweaters that set him off. He’s been prickly about sweaters ever since that incident with Kathryn.”
It took Holiday a moment to place the name. “The ex-girlfriend?”
Paul’s eyebrows shot up. “He told you about Kathryn? You guys are definitely past the professional stage.”
“Maybe a little bit,” Holiday allowed. “He mentioned that she rearranged his kitchen.”
“You don’t know the half of it.” Paul’s tone suggested that he had been holding in these grievances for months. “That woman was a control freak like none other. She tried to act all easy-breezy in the beginning, but I am here to tell you that was a ruse. She was a total type A, and the A stood for . . .” He held up his index finger. “Um . . . authoritative? No, authoritarian. That’s right, right?”
“Exactly right.” Holiday nodded. “Alex told me about the preemptive engagement ring photos.”
“Did he tell you about how she tried to overhaul his diet? And his wardrobe?” Paul was on a roll.
“What was wrong with his diet and his wardrobe?” Holiday was so intrigued by all this, she forgot to be cold.
“Nothing! But it wasn’t the way she wanted him to eat and dress. Did he tell you they broke up over a sweater?”
“No.”
“Yeah. At Christmas, actually.” Paul spread out his hands, inviting her to imagine the scene. “They were going to have dinner at a fancy restaurant with her family and my mom, and so Alex put on a sweater my mom had given him.”
“That’s sweet.”
“That’s not what Kathryn said. She wanted to him to wear a different color or pattern or whatever, and he held his ground, and they broke up right there in his closet.” Paul crossed his arms and nodded. “The sweater drama was intense.”
Holiday winced as she remembered the way she’d shoved sweaters and issued orders at Alex in the dressing room. “Well, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have pushed the sweater agenda today.”
“You couldn’t have known.” Paul gave her a pat on the back. “And I’m no psychologist, but I’d say it wasn’t really about the sweater.”
“Neither was today.” She sighed.
“And listen, it’s not like that guy doesn’t know how to work under pressure. He lived that start-up life for ten years.” Paul’s laugh turned dry. “I don’t feel sorry for him. He already has a nonprofessional thing going with you, plus he gets to go on a date with the hot girl from high school who he doesn’t even remember! And meanwhile, I’m going to our mom’s house tonight, and she’ll be twiddling her thumbs the whole time, waiting for Alex to show up.” He shook his head at Holiday. “Life, man.”
“Life,” she echoed. “Hey, you want to come decorate the wine bar for Alex’s date tonight?”
“I sure don’t.”
She gave him a jaunty wave. “Well, then, adieu, and a merry Christmas to you.”
He responded with a salute. “Feliz Navidad, baby.”
*
“Oof.” Holiday carried in the last pair of potted poinsettias and hoisted them up on the back wall of the bar along with the dozen other flowers she’d already hauled in. The addition of pine garlands and votive candles set the scene for intimacy and indulgence.
I can’t believe I got myself into this.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Alex’s words—or his tone—as she decked the bar with boughs of holly. The look on his face when he’d said nothing was ever personal with her. If she could go back and do things differently . . .
But there was no going back. She wasn’t going to let herself spiral into doubt and despair. Not right now. She had a job to do, and she was going to do get it done, then retreat to the loving family Christmas she’d missed for too many years. She could practically smell her mother’s cinnamon rolls. Or was that the mulled wine starting to scald?
Holiday rushed into the kitchen area to stir the wine and turn down the heat on the stovetop. She’d put a wheel of brie to warm in the countertop oven and arranged a variety of nuts, crackers, and dried fruits on a marble cutting board. Now, she had only to select the perfect background music and wait for her guests to arrive. Francie had texted from the airport in Portland to notify Holiday that she’d arrived but was “anticipating possible road delays due to the weather.” Even without glancing out the windows, Holiday could hear the blizzard gathering strength as tiny particles of ice pelted the glass.
I can’t believe I got myself into this.
She couldn’t do anything about the weather or Alex’s history of intense sweater drama or her own rocky romantic past, but she could ensure that she’d done everything in her power to provide Francie with the date she—and her grandmother—had been dreaming of for the last twenty years. She’d created the perfect playlist full of soothing Christmas ballads by the likes of Andrea Bocelli and Norah Jones, then fastened a tiny sprig of mistletoe above the bar. She figured that, no matter how much snow came down, she’d be able to make it off the island as long as she said her goodbyes by six. Janine had offered to lock up and return the keys to the bar’s owner.
And, speaking of Janine, a text binged in: There’s some chatter about closing the bridge because of the snow. Any chance you can get the rendezvous started early?
Holiday grimaced as she replied: Not unless we can move the whole thing to Portland right now. I only need a few more hours.
Janine texted back the “fingers crossed” emoji.
Holiday helped herself to a tiny sip of mulled wine—just to make sure it still tasted delicious—and comforted herself with the thought that in mere hours, she’d be under her parents’ roof. She would be warm and well-fed. She could take a break from red-eye flights and scratchy hotel sheets and the frantic stress of December. And Alex. And whatever was or wasn’t happening between them.
If only the bridge would stay open for a few more hours.
Chapter Eighteen
The tiny bell atop the bar’s front door tinkled at 5:03 p.m. Holiday wiped her hands on a dish towel, tucked her hair behind her ear, and stepped out from the kitchen area holding the charcuterie board in both hands.
“Welcome to Alemos Island.” She placed the charcuterie board on the bar and inwardly died as she beheld the woman who she couldn’t stop thinking of as her competition.
“Hello, I’m Francie Penewate.” The tall, willowy brunette with rosy cheeks and a porcelain complexion looked like a former model who had given up the runways of Milan to claim her true birthright as European aristocracy. Her hair was glossy, her teeth were perfect, even her scarf was tied in the sort of elegant Parisian knot that Holiday had never been able to master. “You must be Holiday Smith. My grandmother told me all about you.” The model-slash-marchioness took off her leather gloves and offered a handshake. “Thank you for arranging all of this—it looks as though you’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Holiday assured her. “Thanks for braving all the Christmas Eve airport insanity to get here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Francie said. “I adore travel, but I’ve never been to Maine. Can you believe that? I’ve been to Zanzibar, Antarctica, and Easter Island, but not Maine.”
“I heard you’re staying at the Alemos Inn tonight,” Holiday said, opting to leave out the part where Francie would be taking over her vacated room. “Enjoy the breakfast scones. They’re transformative.”
“I’ll make a note of that.” Francie took off her navy overcoat, revealing an almost painfully thin frame. “My grandmother made me promise to eat well on this trip. I’ve lost fifteen pounds since my divorce. I call it the Despondency Diet.”
Holiday slid the charcuterie board toward her. “You know what helps with that? Three different kinds of cheese.”
“You’re very kind.” Francie glanced back at the door. “When is Alex supposed to arrive?”
“Um . . .” Five minutes ago. “Any time now. The roads are kind of a mess.”
“So I noticed.” Francie loaded up a cracker with brie and cranberry preserves. “I was lucky enough to find a snowplow to follow all the way into town.”
And she hadn’t dropped her belongings to be run over by said snow plow. Of course.
“No issues with the bridge?” Holiday pressed.
Francie shook her head. She took a few minutes to commune with the cheese. “I wonder what he’ll be like.”
“Alex?” The guy who’s now ten minutes late?
“Mm-hmm.” Francie’s smile was self-deprecating. “I’m sure my grandmother divulged every detail. I had such a crush on him all through high school. He was tall and good-looking, so smart, so quick . . . but he was kind too. Never mean at someone else’s expense.” She fluffed up her perfect hair. “I hope that success in the tech world hasn’t rotted his soul.”
“It hasn’t,” Holiday blurted out.
“He never even looked my way,” Francie went on. “And I was so shy, I barely looked at him. I just nurtured a ridiculous crush for years and never said a word. I guess I was waiting for a bolt of lightning to come out of the sky and make him see that I was the perfect match for him.”
“High school.” Holiday shook her head. “Good times.”
“My awkward stage lasted longer than it had any right to.” Francie laughed. “It was excruciating. And then Alex stayed in Massachusetts for college, I went off to the west coast, and we never saw each other again.” She took a big bite of cheese and crackers before confessing, “Which is not to say that I didn’t look him up now and then on social media over the years.”
“Isn’t that the whole purpose of social media?” Holiday sympathized.
Francie sighed and sank onto a bar stool. “I suppose this whole thing seems pathetic to you.”
“Not at all.” Holiday sat down next to her. “There are some guys who just get to you. Especially guys like him.”
Francie laughed. “You know the feeling?”
“Well, no, I mean, not with him, obviously.” Holiday was speaking too quickly, but she couldn’t seem to slow down. “But I think almost everyone has someone from the past they think about. The one who got away.”
“I should have married a guy like Alex.” Francie rested her chin on her hand. Her gold watch gleamed in the candlelight. “Maybe next time.”
Holiday cursed herself for creating such a cozy, inviting tableau. The bar owner was right—her targets were going to fall in love and live happily ever after. Why must she be so good at her job?
“That’s the spirit,” she said to Francie. “The best is yet to come.”
“Definitely. I’ve learned my lesson. Next time, I’m picking a completely different type of guy and having a completely different type of wedding.” Francie looked around. “Might I trouble you for a drink?”
Holiday hopped off the stool and hastened to provide a glass cup full of mulled wine. “Cheers.”
“Thank you.” Francie inhaled the scent of cinnamon and oranges before taking a sip. “Delicious. Anyway, as I was saying, next go-round, there’ll be none of that Town & Country fuss and frill. Next time, I’ll say my vows to Elvis at the drive-through chapel in Vegas.”
Holiday narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure? You seem a bit too . . .”
“Straitlaced?” Francie laughed. “Well, that’s how my mother and grandmother brought me up. But now that I’m starting over, I’m ready to do things my way. I wonder if Alex is a drive-through chapel type of man.”
Finally—finally—Alex walked through the door and took off his coat to reveal the gray sweater that really did set off his eyes.
“Sorry I’m late.” He shot Holiday a furtive glance. “I had to deal with a work emergency.”
“Hello again. I’m Francie Penewate.” Francie got to her feet with the grace of a prima ballerina and offered her hand to him. “Thank you so much for humoring my grandmother. You’re a very good sport.”
“Oh, it was all her doing.” He pointed to Holiday. “I mean, it’s my pleasure.”
“Well, since we’re going to spend all night getting to know each other, I’ll ask the first question,” Francie said. “Alex, do you enjoy going to Vegas?”
“Yes?” It came out as more of a question than a reply. “I’m not much of a gambler, but I’ll fly out there for a weekend every few years.”
“Fair enough.” Francie sat back down and indicated that Alex should take the stool next to hers. “Now it’s your turn. Ask me anything.”
He walked toward the bar, but stopped in front of Holiday instead of Francie. “Can I talk to you for one second?”
Holiday paused with one hand hovering over the charcuterie board. “Um . . .”
Alex turned on a heart-melting smile as he apologized to Francie. “It’s business-related. I’ll be right back and then I want to hear all about you.”
“Go for it.” Francie turned her attention back to the charcuterie. “I’ve got wine and cheese. That’s all I need to keep me happy.”
“I like your style,” Alex told her. Then he addressed Holiday in a low murmur. “I’ll keep it short, I promise.”
She led the way into the kitchen area, turned her back on him, and busied herself with stirring the mulled wine. “Whatever this is about, it can wait, Alex.”
