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.”
“No, it can’t.”
Something in his tone made her turn around.
“Are you still planning to leave the island tonight and go home?”
She had so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to ask. But she had made a commitment, and she was out of time. “Yes,” she said into the giant steel pot simmering on the stove.
He let out a long, slow breath. “Okay. Then there’s something you need to know.”
She turned around and met his gaze. “I’m serious. We cannot get into this right now.”
He set his jaw. “It’s thirty-three degrees outside.”
Her wary gaze turned into a bemused stare. “What?”
“It’s thirty-three degrees, which means that all that snow coming down is turning into sleet. The roads are going to be incredibly slick—especially on the bridge.”
Holiday recalled the wording of the sign by the overpass to the island. “Bridge freezes before road.”
He nodded. “If you’re planning to leave tonight, you need to get on the road right now.”
Her jaw dropped. “Are you kicking me out?”
“I’m trying to make sure you get what you want,” he countered.
There were so many things she wanted to say in response, none of them helpful or appropriate for this time and place.
He was still looking at her intently. “Thirty-three degrees,” he repeated.
Nothing about their time together, nothing about seeing each other again, not even a goodbye. Holiday took off her apron and accepted that “thirty-three degrees” was all that Alex was going to offer her right now. He was trying to give her what she wanted. She had set the terms that none of this was personal.
“Thank you,” she told him. She let herself look at him for a long, lingering moment before heading back into the main room.
“Francie, you’re all set for your accommodations tonight, is that correct?” she asked.
Francie beamed. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I’m going to make myself scarce and let you two get to know each other. Here’s my number. Text if you need anything.” She started to scribble on a paper napkin.
“I have your number,” Francie assured her.
“I’ll make sure she gets back to the inn safe and sound,” Alex promised.
Francie’s beam brightened. “My knight in shining snow tires.”
“My friend Janine lives just down the street. I’m going to text her right now and ask her to come hang out in the kitchen until you guys are done.” Holiday scribbled another number down on the napkin.
Francie laughed. “We don’t need a chaperone.”
“Someone needs to stir the wine and lock the place up when you’re done.”
“Hey.” Alex touched her wrist. “Go. I got this.”
Holiday hurried into the backroom, pulled on her parka, and wound her scarf around her neck in a distinctly non-Parisian manner. She strode out the exit to the tiny parking lot behind the bistro, where the wind was sweeping the snow up into icy dervishes that stung her cheeks and eyes. Despite the meteorological theatrics, the wind wasn’t that frigid.
Alex was right. The temperature hovered right around thirty-three degrees—ideal conditions for black ice and treacherous driving. But a few days in rural Maine had been sufficient to vanquish her residual snow-related trauma. Holiday knew she could handle thirty-three degrees. She could handle anything.
The wine bar’s metal door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the warm golden light and the smell of spices and the sound of soft male and female laughter. Holiday tapped the key fob to unlock her car and sternly informed herself that there was no good reason for the pang of loneliness in her heart. She was finally, finally, going to have a Christmas morning with her family. She had a full tank of gas and a steady stream of travel podcasts to get her through the drive. Alex and Francie were having a grand old time, and there didn’t seem to be any awkwardness between them at all. Everyone’s wishes had come true.
“Bah humbug,” she muttered as she climbed into her car and fastened her seat belt.
She forced herself to switch from Scrooge-isms to Christmas carols as she turned onto the main road and headed toward the edge of town. Nothing like an a cappella version of “Jingle Bells” at the top of your lungs to really get the spirit.
She ramped up the vocal dramatics as she approached the bridge. “Oh, what fun it is to ride in a one-horse open sleigh . . . crap!” She slammed on the brakes, sending the car slip-sliding to a stop as she saw the flashing yellow lights. A portable, illuminated sign announced: BRIDGE CLOSED TO TRAFFIC.