FIRST KISS Page 4

  Or not, she admitted as she scuffed though fallen leaves and pine needles. It had been a while since her last date. It wasn't that she hadn't had any invitations. She simply lacked the desire. What did it mean when she preferred the company of friends over an evening out, and a night in, with a handsome man? Or, worse, when she preferred a quiet evening alone?

  "It means," she said aloud, "that you're getting old." She was thirty-seven. Too young to be a crotchety old spinster—her goal in life—and too young to consider giving up men completely, but too old for a good number of the available men in town.

  Once upon a time, she'd had dreams of growing up, falling in love, and living happily ever after. The dreams had never included marriage, though—not with the example her parents had set for her. Marriage had made them both desperately unhappy. Her father had wanted out of the union, and her mother had wanted out of Bethlehem. They'd both gotten their wishes with his death.

  Be careful what you wish for. You may get it.

  Holly smiled thinly. Wherever her father was, she had no doubt he was happier than he'd been with Margery. At least he had peace. She'd never given him one day of it the entire twenty-some years they'd lived together in Bethlehem.

  The trail she was following abruptly lost its gentle meandering curve and ran in a straight shot to the top of a not-very-steep hill. On the other side was her lake, both in ownership and in name. Years ago, before life and Margery had defeated her father, he'd brought her out here to fish and skip stones, and he'd christened it Holly's Lake in her honor

  It had seemed the biggest and best of all lakes back then, though it was really just a pond. Some summers she'd swum in its waters, but most of her time there had been spent sitting on the dock her grandfather had built, hiding from her mother, mooning over the latest boy in her life, dreaming of a different life. All that was left of the dock was the pilings that had supported it, and all that was left of her dreams was…

  Oh, who cared about stupid long-ago dreams? she thought crossly as she sat cross-legged on a flat rock at the water's edge.

  It was a chilly day, but the sun was shining and felt good on her face. Tilting her head back, she closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply. The air smelled cool, crisp, and clean, and it filled her lungs, forcing out tension, old memories, old disappointments.

  Something plopped in the water, and she opened her eyes. Her first thought was that a fish had broken the surface, but the second and third plops proved her wrong.

  "I realize I'm trespassing," said a woman's voice from behind her. "I hope you don't mind. I wanted to take a walk, and this seemed the best way to come."

  "I don't mind." Holly lied, then asked, "A walk from where?" The only property for a good long way in any direction was hers. Wherever the woman had come from, she wasn't just taking a walk. She was doing a cross-country march.

  "That way." She gestured to the northeast. "I'm visiting friends on Hillis Road

  ."

  Holly pointed to the southeast. "Hillis Road

  is a few miles that way."

  The woman laughed, tossed the rest of her stones into the water, then dusted her hands before coming close to offer a handshake. "I'm Gloria, and I have a lousy sense of direction, but thankfully I never get lost."

  "I'm Holly McBride," she said, studying the woman. They were about the same height—five-five, five-six—but Gloria was probably twenty pounds heavier. Her short brown hair was touched with gray and cut in a simple style. She was probably in her forties and not particularly pretty, but there was something compelling about her. Her eyes, or maybe that wonderful laugh, or the sense of comfortableness that surrounded her. She looked like someone's mother. Like someone you could trust with your deepest secrets.

  "Holly McBride," Gloria repeated. "I've heard about you." She started to join her on the rock, then stopped and asked, "Do you mind?"

  Holly shook her head. "Good or bad?"

  Gloria sat down, then sighed. "It's a lovely place you have here."

  For a moment, Holly allowed herself to be distracted. It was a lovely place—surrounded by trees, yet open to the sky, with no noise but bird calls and the occasional rustle of wind in the trees. As a kid, she'd planned to build a house right there, with a deck that extended over the water. Occasionally, as her business had grown, she'd thought about it again. Maybe she would. Or maybe she would save it as her place to go when she needed to be alone.

  Or not alone, she thought as she glanced at Gloria. The woman appeared to be ignoring her question, but just as Holly had decided to repeat it, she spoke.

  "I suppose it depends on what you consider good and bad. Things that insult some people amuse others."

  "Hmm. What have you heard that I might consider an insult?" She could well imagine. In a small town like Bethlehem, with small-town values, her too-active sex life raised more than a few eyebrows and spurred its share of gossip.

  "Well," Gloria began, "they say you're softhearted."

  Holly stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. "You must have me confused with somecould else. I'm not softhearted. I'm a cynic. A first-class skeptic. I don't have a soft spot anywhere in my could."

  Gloria ignored her disagreement. "They say you'll give a job to anyone who needs it, whether they can do it or not."

  Holly thought of Bree, who'd managed that morning to break an antique teapot, wash a load of white sheets with a red tablecloth, and clog the vacuum so thoroughly that they'd had to send it out for repair. "That's not being softhearted," she defended herself. "Ask anyone in the hotel industry. Help is hard to find. I pay my employees a fair salary but I expect them to earn it."

  "See what I mean?" Gloria's smile was bright and pleased. "Most people wouldn't be offended by the suggestion that they were kindhearted." She stretched her legs out in front of her and sighed. She wore navy slacks and a navy parka, and her lace-up shoes were navy, too. It was a no-nonsense outfit, except for the wildly patterned socks. "So tell me, Holly McBride, why aren't you married?"

  Holly thought about pointing out what a personal question that was, but passed on that. Instead, she offered the truth. "I have no desire to be."

  "Ever?" Gloria looked scandalized. "But what if you fall in love?"

  There wasn't much chance of that happening. It seemed to Holly that, with all the men in her past, if she were destined to fall in love it would have happened by now. Since it hadn't… "Falling in love has nothing to do with marriage. If I fell in love, I would have a long and satisfying relationship. No marriage. No misery."

  "Ahh. You've had a bad experience."

  "Or two."

  "But marriage can be a beautiful thing. Why, look at Emilie and Nathaniel Bishop."

  "Nathan Bishop," Holly corrected. Emilie was her assistant manager and one of her best friends. She and Nathan had been married two years, had a son, and were providing a home for Emilie's two nieces and nephew. Even the most cynical soul couldn't deny that they were incredibly in love.

  "And what about the McKennas?" Gloria continued.

  "McKinneys."

  "Them, too. And Alec and Melissa Thomas, and the chief of police and his lovely wife, Kelly."

  "It's Alex, not Alec. And Shelley, not Kelly."

  "Right, Shelby." Gloria's half-smile, half-grimace was all charm. "I have a terrible time with names. Until I've known someone a decade or two, there's no telling what I might call them. Anyway, Holly—it is Holly, right?—my point is that you shouldn't write off marriage for yourself just because your parents' marriage was unhappy. They were the exception, not the rule. Your friends are proof of that."

  Holly tried to ease the frown caused by the mention of her parents, but it refused to be eased. She knew people gossiped about her affairs. Some of them even debated which was stronger—her desire to seduce Tom or his desire to remain unseduced. She wouldn't have been surprised if some enterprising soul was giving odds on the outcome.

  But she'd never guessed that a
nyone gossiped about her parents' marriage. She would have bet most people in town didn't even know the truth of it.

  "For someone who's just visiting, you've certainly learned a lot," she said stiffly.

  "Oh, I'm not visiting. I'm in Bethlehem to stay. And you're right. I have learned a lot. I guess I just have one of those faces that make people want to talk."

  Standing up, Holly dusted the seat of her pants, then slid her hands in her jacket pockets. "Well, Gloria, right now I'd rather not talk. And for the record, I'm not foolish enough to think that all marriages are destined to fail because my parents' failed. And I really don't appreciate having a total stranger take me to task for choices I've made that you know nothing about. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work."

  "Oh, please … I'm sorry…" Gloria scrambled up the hill after her, then stopped at the top. "Don't leave on my account. Stay here and enjoy the peace. Don't go away mad… Oh, fiddlesticks!"

  Holly was halfway to the inn before she slowed her steps. It was stupid of her to get annoyed. All she had needed to do was change the subject, and Gloria would have taken the hint.

  It was particularly foolish of her to be annoyed when Gloria was right. She didn't look kindly on the institution of marriage in large part because of her parents' spectacular failure. She'd never wanted to find herself in the same situation.

  Not that it mattered. The truth was, no man had ever proposed to her. There was only one thing they wanted from her. The same thing the high-school boys had wanted when she was a starved-for-affection teenager, the same thing all those college boys had wanted. It wasn't marriage, and it sure as hell wasn't love.

  And it was all she wanted, too. Remember?

  * * *

  Harry's Diner was an institution in downtown Bethlehem. It occupied the best location on Main Street

  , directly across from the town square, and had for the last thirty-nine years. Every morning Harry Winslow arrived at five o'clock, entering through the back door. Within a minute or two, his head waitress, Maeve Carter, who'd been with him every one of those thirty-nine years, walked in the front door.

  Right on time Wednesday morning, Harry let himself in. The first thing he did was turn on the heat. It was a cold dawn and wasn't likely to get much warmer. The weatherman was predicting snow, and the ache in Harry's bum knee agreed. Didn't matter much to him. Snow or not, he'd be there until closing at eight that night, and he would be right back again in the morning. He was open seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year.

  Since his kids had moved away and his wife had died, God rest her soul, the diner was his life.

  A sound came from the dining room. As he measured out the ingredients for his famous sticky buns, he called, "Mornin', Maeve."

  Six days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, she answered back, "Mornin', Harry." But not this morning. And the dining room lights were still off, except for the ones over the counter that burned all the time.

  Dusting the flour from his hands, he went to investigate. He was standing there in the dining room, doing just that, when Maeve let herself in with her key. She set her handbag down, removed her coat and the scarf that covered her hair, and said, "Mornin', Harry."

  "Mornin', Maeve."

  She glanced at him, then gave him a second, more curious look. "What're you looking at?"

  He gestured toward the corner booth, the one with the bench that curved practically all the way around. She came to stand by his side and looked, too. "Why, who on earth is that?"

  Harry shrugged. "The more important question is, what is she doing spending the night in my diner?" Anticipating Maeve's elbow to the ribs, he sidestepped, getting only a gentle poke instead of the jab she'd intended.

  "Harry Winslow, why do you think she spent the night here? Because she had no place else to go, that's why!" Leaning across the table to better see the sleeping girl, she went on. "I remember her. She's had dinner in here every night this week. Just before closing time. Nice girl. Quiet. Kinda sad. I wonder who she is."

  "Wake her up and ask her."

  Maeve shot him an annoyed look. "I will not! The poor child looks exhausted. You get back to baking your sticky buns, you old grouch, and I'll take care of her."

  As he returned to the kitchen, Harry shook his head. Maeve had a tender heart. She should have had a houseful of kids to mother, but she'd only had the one, and only one grandchild. Her husband had been gone almost as long as his Mary Sue, but Maeve had adjusted better. She worked, baby-sat her granddaughter, helped out at the church, and tried to make him feel not so alone. She was a good friend. A good woman. It was a wonder some old rascal hadn't snapped her up. She sure could brighten a man's life.

  Of course, if someone did marry her up, Harry would be sorry. It wasn't likely that a man of an age to interest Maeve would want his brand-new wife working all the time. He'd want her home with him, and available for traveling to visit family and friends, maybe, or to go see the Grand Canyon and the giant redwoods and maybe even Disneyland. Harry sure would hate to lose her, but of course he wouldn't stand in her way.

  Hearing voices in the dining room, he moved to the pass-through. The lights were on, and the girl was awake. The first of a few dozen pots of coffee was brewing, and Maeve was sitting in the booth, watching the kid eat a slice of pie left over from yesterday.

  "What's your name, honey?" she asked when the girl was finished.

  The question was met with suspicion and a grudging answer. "Bree."

  "What a pretty name. Is it short for Sabrina? Brianne? Gabrielle?"

  "Just Bree."

  "You new in town?"

  Just-Bree nodded.

  "Having kind of a tough time, huh?"

  Still looking suspicious, Bree huddled in her jacket. It was old, inadequate for an upstate New York winter, and needed cleaning, repairing, and… Oh, heck, it needed throwing away and replacing with something warmer. With her straight brown hair and big hazel eyes, the kid looked about ten years old, though Harry would wager she was probably twice that. She looked scared, too. And lost.

  Harry gave himself a mental shake. He was starting to feel as softhearted as Maeve, and he wasn't that at all. He was cantankerous, and no one could prove any different.

  "I'm doing all right," the girl said defiantly. "I don't need help from anyone."

  Maeve's laugh brought a smile to Harry's face. "Well, honey, you're doing a lot better than me. I'm fifty-ni—well, a lot older than you, and I've needed help from someone every single day of my life. Where'd you come from?"

  "Rochester."

  "Do you have any family or friends here? Besides Harry and me, of course."

  "Who's Harry?"

  Without looking over her shoulder, Maeve said, "He's the nosy old man back there peeking through the window. He owns this establishment, but I run it."

  Bree's gaze shifted to Harry, and she nodded once in greeting. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Maybe he'd met her before, or her mama. Or maybe she just had one of those faces.

  After returning her nod, he said gruffly, "What you run around here is your mouth, Maeve. Can't you talk and work at the same time?"

  He didn't mean anything by the words, and Maeve knew it. She just winked at the girl, flashed a grin at Harry, and went on talking. "He's an old grouch, but we put up with him around here because he's a fairly decent cook … for a man."

  He harrumphed because she expected him to, and then she repeated her question. "You got any family around here, hon? Any place to stay?"

  Bree wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then went on the defensive. "I didn't take anything from you. I didn't eat or drink anything. I just slept on the bench and used the bathroom. That's all."

  Harry gave up any pretense of working and came out to the dining room, pulling up a chair from the nearest table. The sharp look Bree gave him, edged with fear, made him realize that he blocked her exit from the booth. Without a word, he scooted closer to Maeve, so the kid could get
out if she wanted. "How did you manage that?"

  "I—I came in for dinner about seven-thirty. Just before you closed, I paid the bill, then went to the bathroom. I stayed there until you were gone."

  He made a mental note to start checking the bathrooms at night.

  "Hon, you can't keep sleeping in here," Maeve said. "If we can get you a job—"

  "I have a job. I'm not looking for charity or anything. I got a job my first day in town."

  "Where at?" Harry asked.

  An odd look came across her face—part guilt, part distrust, part bitterness. "The McBride Inn. I'm a maid there."

  So she could make the beds there, but she couldn't sleep in one of them. Then Harry immediately regretted the thought. If Holly had known the girl had no place to live, she would have helped her out. Anyone in Bethlehem would have. Holly liked to pretend she was a coolheaded businesswoman, with all the compassion that implied, but no one was fooled. Like Maeve, Holly had a tender spot for people in need.

  "Have you told Holly—"

  Wide-eyed, Bree burst out, "No! She doesn't need to know! It's none of her business!"

  "But you must have given her an address, a phone number."

  It was Harry's turn to nudge Maeve. The girl had to have lied to Holly.

  That girl now slid to her feet and grabbed the battered backpack she'd used as a pillow Harry suspected it contained everything she owned. "Look, I'm sorry I borrowed your place without asking, and I promise I won't do it again, but you've got to promise you won't say anything to Holly." She looked anxiously from Harry to Maeve, then added, "Please!"

  With a sigh, Maeve said, "All right, hon. We promise."

  Relief spread across Bree's face as she turned toward the door.

  "Don't you want some breakfast, hon?" Maeve called. "It's on the house. The best breakfast in town."

  The only answer was the closing of the door. Harry watched the girl go, then looked back at Maeve, one brow raised. "You want to tell Holly, or should I?"

  * * *

  Chapter 4