Bluestone & Vine by Donna Kauffman (21)

Read more about Blue Hollow Falls
in the holiday anthology A Season to Celebrate,
available now!

 

 

by Donna Kauffman

“Weddings on Christmas. There should be a law.”

“For or against?”

Moira Brogan drained the last of the Coke from her glass until the straw made a slurping sound, jiggled the ice a bit, then found one last sip. Because you need more sugar. And more caffeine. Ignoring her little voice, as she had been all day—week, month, year—she glanced up at the bartender, pondering the question with all the gravity of the attorney she was. “Against, your honor. I mean, who wants to share their anniversary with Santa’s big day? It should be all about him.”

“Unless you don’t believe in Santa,” replied the bartender.

The bartender—Sally, according to her hotel name badge—looked about five or six years older than Moira’s own twenty-seven, and eons wiser.

“Even if you don’t, it should be recognized that many people do,” Moira countered, warming to the debate. Debate she understood. Debate she knew how to win. Life outside the courtroom? Not so much with the winning there. Case in point? Sitting in a rural hotel bar drowning her sorrows in a gallon of carbonated sugar and caffeine instead of dancing the night away at her brother’s lovely and beautiful wedding reception up in Blue Hollow Falls. “Those people, the believers,” Moira went on, perhaps more doggedly than required given the judge and jury was bartender Sally, “might, and quite probably would, construe a person marrying on such a day as being ... well, sacrilegious. Or, at the very least, unimaginative. Like, said person could only improve on the most celebrated day of the year by getting married on it. Somewhat self-aggrandizing, don’t you think?”

“Point taken,” Sally said, judiciously.

Gaining momentum, Moira said, “I mean, I suppose we might include a clause for people like my wonderful and completely besotted brother, who are just so madly in love, they think what could be more festive than getting married on Christmas? Because, really, what could be?”

“Getting married in Disney World?”

“Ha,” Moira said with a grin, raising her empty glass in toast. “Point to the prosecution.” Then she caught the look on Sally’s face and set her glass down. “Oh my God. You didn’t. Did you? Was Mickey Mouse the justice of the peace?” A splutter of laughter threatened and Moira tried to frown it into submission. Firstly, because it would be rude to her new friend Sally, and secondly, because she knew she was one-too-many-insomnia-riddled-nights away from the kind of laughter that would quickly devolve into a run of convulsive, bordering-on-hysterical giggles. And she doubted Sally would join in, given it was her nuptials that had triggered them.

“Not me, your honor.” Sally smiled and lifted a hand, as if she was being sworn in. “Maid of honor.”

“Me, too!” Moira replied, perhaps a little too loudly. In addition to far too little sleep, she was definitely way too hopped up on wedding cake. “Well, co-maid of honor, anyway, with the bride’s sister.”

“Yeah,” Sally replied with a smile and a nod toward Moira’s outfit. “I gathered.”

Moira looked down to the strapless, silk and organza, emerald green formal she was wearing. She probably should have changed when she’d first gotten back to the hotel. She’d left the reception right after Seth and Pippa had taken off for their honeymoon in Ireland. She’d done her due diligence, smiled and laughed her way through all of her sworn duties. But once her brother and brand-new sister-in-law were gone, Moira had wanted nothing more than to be alone with her stupid, self-pitying misery. She was not proud of herself, of her apparent inability to get over her latest life disaster. Either of them. But the romantic disaster had been last spring, for God’s sake.

Only when she’d gotten back to the hotel in Turtle Springs, itself a tiny town tucked into a curve of the Hawksbill River, in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, she’d realized the very last thing she wanted was to be alone.

She just hadn’t wanted to be with people who knew her. People who would expect her to be overcome with joy and happiness for her brother, Seth, and his new bride, whom Moira adored almost as much as she adored her older brother. And she was quite sincerely thrilled for them. She was. It was just the host of painful memories watching them say their I Do’s had rousted up, coupled with the recent collapse of all her future career plans, that had her escaping the family-clogged reception like Cinderella from the ball.

She didn’t know which had made her more miserable, the tough love “oh, come now, Mouse, get on over yourself, lass” looks from her oldest brother and sister, Aiden and Kathleen, the “you poor, wee thing” pats on the shoulder from her dear Aunt Margery, or the endless variations of “don’t you worry, you’ll get married, too ... someday” comments from what felt like every last one of the rest of her relatives and family friends. And given she was the youngest of six, as were both of her parents, their collective clan was a small army. And that was just the Brogan side.

Pippa’s family, straight over from Ireland, was just as prolific when it came to propagating the family tree. And they brought those lovely, awful accents with them. Lovely because that beautiful lilt was still music to her ears, and her heart. Awful because she still missed that particular lilt and the man it had belonged to, and hearing it all around her, in conjunction with a wedding no less, had doomed any chance she might have had to avoid reliving every moment of their whirlwind love affair. All the good parts, which had been every moment of it, and the very, very sad parts ... which had only been right at the end of it. Because it had been the end of it.

And no one in her family even knew that her big, bold career plans of being a trial attorney in Silicon Valley had suffered an equally swift and demoralizing demise when she’d learned she’d flunked the bar exam. Yeah, won’t that be a fun reveal.

So, she’d fled back to the small hotel she’d booked herself into, claiming she’d be fine there as all the lodgings in Blue Hollow Springs were fully taken by her family and the equally extensive MacMillan clan. In truth, she’d been relieved for the excuse. She’d liked knowing she had an escape route, a bolt hole, somewhere to hide, if needed.

Upon her return, the small hotel lounge had been packed to the gills with reporters from all over the globe, along with a fair number of the less-than-savory paparazzi, who’d all rushed to the rural mountain region—in most cases, judging by the bevy of accents in the room, from far, far away—in hopes of getting photos or footage of Moira’s new sister-in-law, Pippa MacMillan. Well, Pippa Brogan now, she presumed. It just so happened, Pippa was a very famous Irish folk singer. The reporters hadn’t been successful, though. Blue Hollow Falls had well and truly adopted Pippa, and they protected their own. The ranks had been locked up tight, and not so much as a single long-range lens had intruded upon the happy couple’s special day.

From the raucous noise level inside the hotel bar, Moira presumed the collective journalist horde had apparently decided to drown their defeat as well, only in something far stronger than her Coke.

Moira took another long sip of her soda, the fizzy bubbles tickling her nose, absently realizing that while she’d slipped back into her melancholy, Sally had refreshed her drink. Moira continued to sip while she watched Sally deftly handle the gaggle pressed up against the bar. Moira shifted away, into the shadows where she had tucked herself at the very end of the bar.

The only reason she had a stool at all was because Sally had spied Moira edging her way around the periphery of the dimly lit place and had slid one under the exit gap at the end of the bar. Sally probably kept one on her side of the bar specifically for forlorn-looking creatures such as herself. Sally had even taken Moira’s long, winter coat and tucked it back in the office, making Moira initially wonder if perhaps the bartender was angling for some kind of wedding scoop herself. But, even sleep-deprived and on a cake frosting high, Moira was pretty good at reading people. Bartender Sally was a good egg. She’d bet her one and still only law license on it.

Moira really didn’t want to think about that second law license, the one she didn’t have. The lack of which had crushed all her future plans. Instead, she tilted up her glass, intent on crunching a few pieces of ice, only the full cluster slid down and splashed her in the face. Sally appeared like the magical genie Moira was beginning to suspect she was, and proffered a clean napkin to Moira while quickly mopping up the spill. “Thanks,” Moira said, checking the front of her gown, relieved to see she hadn’t stained the fabric.

She caught Sally checking out the dress, and held her arms out slightly. “I thought the bride did a pretty good job picking these out,” Moira said. “I mean, they’re tasteful, and they don’t make me look like I’m playing dress-up as a Grecian goddess or anything.” She looked back at Sally and sighed. “It still has bridesmaid written all over it, though, doesn’t it?” Lifting a hand to her short mop of auburn curls, she said, “At least I don’t have the teased and lacquered beehive up-do to go with it. It could be so much worse.”

“Actually, you look great. Amazing even,” Sally said, appearing quite sincere. “The green dress, with your red hair, and fair skin? And don’t get me started on the green eyes, which I’m just going to pretend are colored contacts, because, honestly, so not fair.”

Moira blushed and laughed at the same time. “If you’re angling for a bigger tip, done. I’ll just be emptying my wallet on the bar right now.”

Sally laughed, waved her hand. “Just being honest. But I’d have known it was a bridesmaid dress no matter what it looked like. This is Turtle Springs, Virginia,” Sally added dryly. “Out here, we don’t have much call for formal anything.” She pulled another two beers from the tap, put them on a tray and handed them to one of the waitresses, while taking three more orders from the other waitress, which she’d already started filling with her free hand. People jammed up against the bar shouted their orders non-stop and somehow Sally managed to pull their drinks, smile and joke with them, all while continuing the conversation with Moira as if they were seated at a café table alone together, dishing over wedding gossip.

“You’re very good at your job,” Moira told her, vaguely wondering what kind of money a bartender made. Maybe she needed to completely rethink her life. And maybe you need to steer clear of the caffeine and sugar and get more than a catnap at night. She prudently pushed her once again empty glass away.

“Besides, it’s not like your brother’s wedding was flying under the radar,” Sally continued, taking the compliment in stride. “It’s been front-page news pretty much everywhere since the moment they got engaged.” She nodded to the throng. “Hence this insanity.”

“Well, they did initially try and keep the wedding date under wraps,” Moira said. “In truth, I think Seth thought that having it today would kind of throw everybody off. Like, who would get married on Christmas? Because he’d never want to compete with Santa, either.”

“Who would?” Sally offered.

“Right? But there was no way to keep it from getting out. I mean, you know all about it, everyone knows all about it.” She waved at the crowded lounge. “The whole world knows about it, because, you know—”

“Pippa MacMillan,” Sally finished for her, nodding, as if nothing else needed to be said. And it didn’t.

“It’s such a happily-ever-after story, too.” Sally, who had seemed so pragmatic and seen-it-all, clearly wasn’t immune to the Christmas fairytale wedding, either. “I mean, Pippa finally returns to the music scene just when speculation reached the point that everyone was convinced she’d never come back from her injury, and then she’s getting engaged after a whirlwind romance during her secret hideaway trip to the States? And they’re getting married on Christmas? Even Mickey Mouse has to bow to that.” Sally let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “Listen to me, getting all sappy.” She wiped down the bar and went to refill Moira’s glass but Moira waved her away. “But, you know what, a gorgeous holiday wedding up in the mountains here? What could be more romantic than that?”

Falling in love while you’re on a whirlwind trip to Ireland, was Moira’s immediate thought. Finally allowing yourself to consider having a personal life after years of studying, and studying, and more studying. Maybe even picturing your own wedding day for the first time.

Only her whirlwind romance hadn’t ended with the fairytale wedding, holiday or no. Nope. Hers had just . . . ended.

“I mean, they seem perfect for each other,” Sally went on. “I bet it was a really beautiful ceremony, too, up at your brother’s winery. What with the recent snowfall and that view. I went to a tasting up there in October. It’s gorgeous.” She filled another set of orders and began drying a few freshly washed glasses that someone had just brought out from the back. “I know you probably can’t talk about it.”

Moira had promised Pippa and Seth not to talk about the ceremony to anyone outside the family and invited guests. And she wouldn’t. She just wished she didn’t have to picture it in her own mind. Because it had been stunning and beautiful and perfect. Sally was also right that Seth and Pippa were perfect for each other. So much so, it made Moira’s newly mended heart ache all over again, reliving their sweetly intimate ceremony in her mind.

She’d felt selfish and ridiculous, thinking about her own heartbreak while they said their I Do’s. But how was she supposed to watch them, their love shining so brightly as they shared both laughter and tears while speaking their personally written vows to each other, and not wonder what might have been for her? Maybe it wasn’t selfish—she was sincere in celebrating their happiness after all—so much as simply human.

“If they’d really wanted to keep it secret, I guess they could have eloped,” Sally said, then handed two more trays of beers over the bar.

Moira laughed at that. “Maybe, but it would have been a toss-up over which clan would have disowned them first. Turns out the only family more traditional and excited about all family events than the Brogans is the MacMillans.”

Sally laughed along with her, then nodded toward two swarthy, good-looking men who’d pushed their way to the bar, laughing and jostling each other, while a third man, a bit older and quieter, moved in behind them. He was also good-looking, but of the tall, blond, and chiseled variety. He wore a beautifully tailored suit that didn’t fit in with the relaxed throng.

“What’ll you fellas have?” Sally asked. “That you haven’t had already, that is?”

The two younger guys started flirting outrageously with Sally, despite being easily a decade her junior, their accents pegging them as French, maybe Belgian. Sally handled them with easy aplomb, and appeared just a little flattered by the attention. Beware the accent, Moira wanted to warn her. That’s how they get you to lower all your defenses and act like an idiot. Never again, she vowed. No more pretty men from distant lands with beautiful accents.

Mr. Tall, Blond, and Chiseled decided to turn his attention toward Moira. He appeared something of the brooding hero type, big and broad shouldered, with darker eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, and a sensuously shaped mouth. His hair was painfully perfect, and his eyes were a deep, dark brown, but there was nothing warm in them.

Moira shifted away from him on instinct.

His smile was slow and did nothing to warm his gaze. “Member of the wedding party, I see?” he said, his accent thick as well, but decidedly American. By way of the south. Texas, she guessed, noting the expensive Stetson he carried in one hand.

Ha-ha, Karma, Moira thought. Touché.

Her lack of immediate response was all the invitation Texas needed to insert himself way too deep into her personal space.

Moira hadn’t been genetically gifted in the stature department, topping out in the eighth grade at a few inches over five feet. However, as the youngest and shortest of six children, she’d long ago learned how to hold her own. She managed to slide her elbow onto the bar as she turned only her head to look directly at her would-be lothario, creating both a barrier to his intrusion while simultaneously making it clear she was not welcoming his attention. Unfortunately, not enough of a barrier to keep from smelling the alcohol on his breath. “Observant,” she said, not unkindly, but not kindly, either, then pointedly turned back to her soda. Which she belatedly remembered pushing away earlier. It now sat right in front of Texas.

“Looking for this?” He picked up her empty glass. “Why don’t I buy you another and we’ll get to know each other a little better.” His smile deepened, but his eyes remained cold. She caught a flash of what looked like irritation at her lack of a positive reaction to his overture. When she saw his smile change to something darker, as if she’d just issued him a challenge he intended to meet, the first tinkling of alarm prickled at the hairs on her neck. Moira was suddenly glad she was sitting in a public place, filled with people. A lot of people.

“Who knows, darlin’,” he added, picking up the glass and jiggling the ice, his gaze directly on hers now. “If you’re real lucky, maybe we’ll hit it off and someday you can upgrade that bridesmaid dress to the real deal.”

Moira knew the best response was no response of any kind, but he’d caught her so off guard with that decidedly misogynistic bon mot, her mouth dropped open before she could stop herself. “How do you know I’m not married with three kids?”

“No ring.”

“I’m liberated.”

“I’m Max,” he said, his gaze dropping to the front of her strapless dress, then back up to her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Libby.”

The predatory look, along with the smell of stale alcohol that he seemed to wear like some men wore cologne, made her shudder involuntarily. Moira turned to look for Sally, but she’d joined her fellow barkeep at the far end of the long, scarred, oak bar to help him break up an argument. Which Sally managed to do rather handily, Moira noted. “I want to be her when I grow up,” she murmured under her breath.

“I have something that wants to grow up,” Texas said, his hot breath now right next to her ear. “And you’re just the one to help me with that.”

Moira had to lean way back when she turned to look at him so as not to actually come into contact with his body. So far back she almost fell off her stool. She could have simply slid to her feet and put more space between them, but for one, she wasn’t letting this guy back her up. And secondly, she stayed seated because the high bar stool put her closer to even height with him. Standing, even in the heels she was still wearing, she’d have been at a sore disadvantage. “Max,” she said, quite sympathetically, “I know this will come as a big disappointment to you, so I’m apologizing up front, but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”

He made a big show of looking around. “Funny, I don’t see anyone.”

“I know,” she said, helpfully. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to take up any more of your time.”

He looked confused, which had been her goal.

“Now you’re free to go dazzle someone else. Or maybe get a cab and call it a night?” Moira wasn’t sure if Turtle Springs even had cabs. “Or an Uber.” They were everywhere, right?

Texas surprised her again by neatly sliding his arm through hers and tugging her off the stool. Caught off balance, and now from a standpoint decidedly lower than his six-foot-plus height, she staggered a step or two. He took that as an excuse to put his other hand on her hip to help steady her. His fingertips were hard and dug into her flesh. “Let’s go outside and you can help me with that, too,” he said, the cold light of what looked like victory gleaming in his dark eyes.

Moira felt a brief wave of nausea, and knew it was only partly due to her instinctive reaction to him and the sudden, untenable situation she’d somehow gotten herself into. She hadn’t had a full night sleep in longer than she could remember, and the catnaps she’d convinced herself were enough, had just been proven woefully inadequate.

“Your other gentleman caller will have to wait his turn,” Texas told her. He let his gaze dip to the front of her dress again, and that light in his eyes, when he looked back up, had gone from victorious to predatory. The kind of predator who looked like he’d take great pleasure in claiming his prey, and not necessarily in a way the prey was going to enjoy. “First come, first get, right, darlin’?”

“First—get?” Moira repeated, trying not to splutter. Okay, now she was done being nice. Actually, she’d been done the moment he’d put his hands on her. She tried to tug her arm free. “What on earth gave you the idea that I would ever—”

“You’re a bridesmaid, sitting in a bar, drinking alone.” This time he raked his gaze up and down the full length of her body. “What other idea would I get?”

Fair point, Moira conceded, and yet, that still didn’t give anyone license to put their hands on her. “I’ve said I’m not interested. Please respect that, and remove your hands,” she said in her best courtroom voice.

He merely stepped in closer, forcing her to look up at him to maintain eye contact. “When I said first come,” he began as he leaned down closer, making her almost gag with the stench of his breath, “I didn’t mean me. I’m a generous man, Libby. You’ll get yours, too.”

Moira’s long dress made kneeing the guy impossible. Even if her knee would reach up that high. She wasn’t averse to the idea of using a balled fist to get the same point across. Being short did have its advantages, and, due to her size, her brothers had taught her how to fight, and not always fairly. However, Max still had her arm in one hand and his other hand tightly gripped her hip, blocking her from getting in a good left hook.

Moira preferred to fight—and win—her own battles, but, given the day she’d had, on top of the week she’d had, and the month, and the year, well, right now, she’d settle for expediency. She glanced down the bar, knowing Sally would set Max here straight in two seconds flat. Only now there was some other argument going on, this one not so easily controlled. Moira’s eyes widened as she saw Sally pull a silver whistle out from under the neck of her shirt, while the other bartender reached under the bar and came up with a thick, wooden baseball bat. Uh oh.

Moira supposed it shouldn’t have surprised her that things would get out of hand. She suspected the hotel lounge had seen its share of bar fights, but she’d bet they’d never once been overrun by this many people all at the same time. And most certainly not from such a global community of travelers. Not to mention it was also Christmas Day.

Voices were being raised in multiple languages now, and the mood had begun to shift from overly festive to something far less jovial. Then Sally put the whistle in her mouth and the resulting series of shrill blasts instantly silenced the room. For about two seconds.

Max also noted the disturbance and tightened his hold on her arm to the point she was sure he’d leave marks. “I believe that’s our cue to go find somewhere a little quieter, and a lot more private.” Without warning, Max tugged her into the crowd, heading in the general direction of the door that led to the side parking lot of the small hotel. Her car was parked out front. Dressed as she was, and given their height and strength differences, she didn’t like her chances for making a clean getaway once outside.

So, there was only one thing to do. The moment he’d let go of her hip to pull her into the crowd, she’d snagged her clutch from the bar. She slid her hand to one end of the long, tubular shaped bag, then clutched it in her fist like her own little satin-and-pearl encrusted bat. It might not be thick and made of wood, but then my target is probably a lot smaller.

When he turned to move them sideways between two clusters of shouting patrons, she swung her bag right at the zippered front of his trousers. Any other impact site might result in an immediate retaliatory response. Her brothers had taught her that there was one particular spot guaranteed to make a man drop whatever he was holding and immediately cover the injured area with his hands. Do it well enough, he’d be on his knees while cupping himself.

Moira only needed Max to let go of her. She could lose herself in the crowd in an instant, and they’d never lay eyes on each other again. The only question would be whether it was better to head upstairs to her room, or to run to her car, so she could drive back to the Hollow and the security of her family.

An instant before impact, however, she was spared from having to make that split-second decision when a large, warm hand blocked her shot. His palm was broad enough to encompass her hand and her bag, which he proved by gently but firmly wrapping long fingers around them both. “There you are, sweetheart,” he said, swinging their joined fists neatly downward, appearing for all the world like they were simply a couple holding hands. “I looked at the bar for you.”

Pinned as she was between her errant Good Samaritan and Max, with the crowd pressing in all around them, Moira couldn’t turn her head enough to see much more than a flash of what looked like ... a white lab coat? She could feel his large frame behind her like a big, sturdy wall of support, however, and unlike Max’s egotistical slithering, this guy’s somewhat Neanderthal approach didn’t make her feel threatened at all. Quite the opposite.

“Sorry I’m late,” he added, then shocked her by leaning down and pressing what felt like a kiss to the top of her head. She quickly realized it was an excuse to put his mouth closer to her ear when she heard him whisper, “Go with me on this and I’ll have you out of here in a jiff.”