Her Mistletoe Magic. Kristine RolofsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
of the wedding guests turned out to be familiar with the role. The much-anticipated and very casual staff party would be held tomorrow morning, but she had nothing left to do for that event.
As far as she knew, the lodge was full, though Grace was pretty sure the groom and his family would be leaving the hotel and heading home. She made a note to check with Patsy on that. The maid of honor had arrived today, so either she hadn’t known about the cancellation of the wedding or she was here to support the bride. Or maybe she loved to ski. After all, the bride and her mother had decided to stay for a few days and turn the visit into a vacation.
A vacation without lace, flowers, rings or promises of enduring love.
Grace couldn’t understand it, but what Julie Barrett did or did not do was her own business. It was up to Grace to pick up the pieces.
She stalled for another two hours, making phone calls and going over the week’s events. Finally she emerged from her office, which was conveniently tucked along a hallway next to the front desk in the main building. The double-door entrance facing the lake was decorated with the customary greenery and white lights. Each wreath was adorned with a red velvet bow and a set of tiny dangling sleigh bells. Patsy had Perry Como crooning through the stereo system.
“I will get even,” she murmured as she passed the front desk where Patsy and Noelle huddled over the computer monitor. “I just downloaded ‘Boogie Woogie Santa Claus’ from Amazon.”
“Bring it on,” Patsy said. “You can’t possibly compete. I have forty-seven easy-listening Christmas albums on my iPod, including Elvis.”
“Kill me now.”
Noelle looked up and smiled. “I heard that Nico loves Andrea Bocelli.”
“Gosh, really?” Grace feigned surprise, which made both women grin, and she headed up the polished wooden stairs to the restaurant. She loved the lodge, with its elegant white exterior and porches, stone fireplaces and pine walls. She loved the views of the lake, piles of snow framing ice perfect for skating, and the Oriental rugs on the polished wooden floors.
She did not love Christmas, not this year. This year it was merely a holiday to be endured. Her father was on a cruise with his latest fiancée and Grace’s only other relative, Aunt Ellen, was in Arizona with her daughter’s family and a new grandchild. It wasn’t the holiday she’d envisioned eighteen months ago when she’d been planning her own Christmas wedding, but she would make the best of it. On January 4, when the lodge’s many Christmas trees were stripped of their sparkly decorations and Patsy’s CDs were returned to the drawer labeled Boring Holiday Music, Grace would breathe a sigh of relief and look forward to a lovely, hectic ski season.
Grace stepped into the restaurant and waved to one of the waiters.
“He’s in the back,” the young man called out.
“Thanks, Tom.” She made her way past the elegant linen-covered tables and white chairs, the empty tables set with the lodge’s trademark white linen napkins and December’s emerald tablecloths. She approved of the holiday flower arrangements, shades of cream and white dotted with silvery jingle bells, all very elegant and tasteful, as sophisticated as the chef himself.
The restaurant was a spacious room, much longer than it was wide, with windows along the wall that faced the lake. The far end could be enclosed for private events, something Grace had done many times in the past four years. Tonight’s tour group had opted to sit in the main area of the dining room, and she saw that a table for twenty-six stretched along the windows across from the stone fireplace. Eight or so tables held the last of the lunch crowd and, as usual, the long room was immaculate.
Mirror Lake Lodge was known for its many stone fireplaces. Not every venue in the Lake Placid area could boast so many beautiful public rooms, which made her job booking events easier. All she had to do was show potential brides the Wildwood Room, a private dining room and wedding venue separated from the main restaurant with a view of the lake and, of course, its own massive fireplace. Then there was the Mirror Lakeview Ballroom, just a few steps up from the Wildwood Room through a set of French doors. Floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted a huge room designed in the Victorian summer-home style, with wooden walls painted white and dark wood floors. It boasted two rustic stone fireplaces, one on each end of the rectangular room. Since its construction ten years ago, the Mirror Lakeview Ballroom had been the setting for many weddings, reunions, fashion shows, civic functions and “celebrations of life.”
Julie Barrett’s wedding ceremony was to have taken place in front of the fireplace in the Wildwood Room, with her reception for eighty-five people up half a flight of stairs in the ballroom. She’d wanted room for dancing, and had been thrilled that the two large Christmas trees would be decorated and lit. She’d even requested Grace’s specialty, the hot-chocolate bar, to add to the cozy winter atmosphere. So, what had happened?
It was none of her business, she reminded herself as she weaved through the tables toward the kitchen. But still, what made love start and stop? She found it all a little sad.
A young waiter carrying two silver platters of homemade cookies burst out of the kitchen and headed her way.
“Teatime,” Brian announced, stopping to lower one of the gaily decorated platters in front of Grace. “Want one?”
“No thanks.” Tea and cookies were provided in the lobby each afternoon, much to Patsy’s delight. Their guests loved the tradition, of course, which added to the lodge’s popularity. “Is he in?”
“Of course.” The boy grinned. “He’s training two more interns.”
“Uh-oh.” She inhaled. “Those smell so good.”
“Hey, you know baking cookies is the highlight of Maria’s day,” he called, hurrying out of the room.
Maria had been the lodge’s pastry chef for thirty-one years. Her cookie recipes were highly guarded secrets, though Patsy swore she’d replicated the almond cookies once. Maria was a sweet, quiet woman in her fifties who rarely spoke, but she had a gift for baking, if not for conversation. She made a different kind of cookie for each day of the week and Mondays were oatmeal raisin.
“Grace! You are looking for me?” Dominic “Nico” Vitelli stepped out of the kitchen and smiled. “Finally!”
His smile lit up his eyes. That genuine smile of his had attracted viewers of all ages to his television show last year. The tall rangy body clad in a white chef’s jacket and jeans, along with dark curling hair and surprising blue eyes, looked good on camera. Grace, who had little interest in cooking, had watched the show several times, but only when she was channel surfing on a rare Saturday afternoon off. And during those times she had been mesmerized by the man’s sex appeal. He made cooking look seductive and sensual. She often wondered why his show had been cancelled, why he’d returned home after that failure—and it must have been devastating—instead of continuing his exciting Hollywood lifestyle. But here he was. Smiling at her.
“Finally?” She couldn’t imagine why he’d be looking forward to seeing her. She kept their meetings brief and to the point. All business, all the time. She didn’t want to be flirted with, had no desire to play games with the former television star. She longed to meet a quiet accountant who dreamed of living a quiet, ordinary life devoted to his wife and family.
Unfortunately, the accountants she met at the lodge were all married, snapped up by women who knew a good thing when they saw it. Unlike Grace, who fell for charming men with commitment issues.
“Of course.” He waved her closer. “Come into the kitchen. I want you to try the special tonight, ravioli with pesto cream. And I have a bottle of Chianti breathing on the counter.”
“I have something important—”
“Good. We’ll discuss it. Come,” he said, holding the door open for her.
She had no choice but to step into the kitchen, Nico following behind her. Grace scurried around the corner and into the gleaming kitchen. Nico’s World, someone had nicknamed