Love at Christmas Inn Collection 1 Page 9

  “I’m sorry. Looks like you’ll be stranded here for a day or two, so why not let me show you around?” She took custody of Graham’s credit card and registered him as a guest. “I may be biased, but Christmas Inn is best appreciated during a fresh snowfall.”

  “Which continues to come down. Heavily. You’re masochistic, right? In the throes of a secret longing to be buried alive in an ocean of white ice?”

  She beamed him a smile. “See? You understand me. Let’s finish with check in and then go for a reviving, mind-refreshing walk.”

  Graham stared. “So strange.”

  “What’s that?”

  “To find such a free-spirit working in the world of IT.”

  “What can I say? It takes all kinds.”

  Following a saucy head toss, she ran his credit card, swiped the approval slip from the printer and turned to hand it over for his signature. When she faced him once more, she noticed the intent way he studied his surroundings, in particular a shelf that rested several feet above Lydia’s head.

  “That’s a gorgeous nativity set,” he remarked.

  Lydia’s motions stilled and she viewed the piece along with him. The antique, crafted of distressed wood, featured delicate, porcelain figurines and rested in prominence above the reception desk. The piece had long been a favorite of Lydia’s.

  “The Christmas family has owned and operated this inn for generations. The figurines there? They were hand painted back in 1928 by Eloisa Christmas. She operated the front desk for almost twenty years and wanted Christ’s birth to be the welcoming point to what was then her home. Now that it’s an inn, we carry on that belief and share it with our guests.”

  “Which is just as it should be. Hand crafted. That’s amazing.”

  “The stable was sawed, sanded and nailed by Eloisa’s husband, Homer. The work of his hands has stood the test of time, like anything of value.” Graham’s interest remained, so Lydia continued. “For them, and for those that work here, Christmas isn’t just a heart-warming holiday about gifts, or a gimmick to get folks through the door of our resort. We keep Christ in the holiday, and at the heart of what this place is all about.”

  Following her spirited exposition, Lydia half expected an indulgent, tolerant reaction, or perhaps a simple, yet dismissive nod designed to end the conversation. Instead, Graham kept his focus on the crèche.

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. I admire the commitment. Respect it.”

  Wow. Fascinated, Lydia watched while he dipped his head and scrawled his name along the signature line of the receipt. Overhead light from the crystal chandelier shone against waves of deep brown hair. She wanted to smooth back a slice that slid against his forehead.

  “Would you like to take a walk with me?” The idea struck Lydia and broke free before she could filter the impulse. Graham lifted his head and looked at her askance. “For real. Since you’re stuck here, let’s make the most of it.” His focus softened. Intensified. Tingles rippled beneath Lydia’s skin, leaving her warm and lax while she waited on his reply.

  “Know what? I don’t mind if I do.”

  Graham returned to his room and Lydia danced back to her desk, giddy as she placed a temporary wrap on a few work details. She tucked into a puffy down coat, a pair of thick gloves and some boots. A quarter of an hour later she strolled the perimeter of the grounds at his side. Snow dusted the entire universe with white, and silence created its own unique sense of God’s peace. Communion, refreshment. That’s why she loved this place so much.

  “I have a confession to make.” Lydia looked up at him.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve always admired your work.” No sense denying it, or hiding from facts. “I recognized you from TV when you showed up last night, but you seemed so tired, and I didn’t want to hold you up, or gush, or—”

  “Pardon me while I cringe.”

  She slugged his arm in a playful tease, but levity died fast when she took a longer look into his eyes. He was visibly troubled. “Hey. What’s that all about?”

  A blink and smile later, the mood returned to center as Graham seemed to shrug off the reaction. “Nothing.”

  “Liar. I saw the shift.”

  “The shift?”

  “Yep. The one in your eyes, and your smile. You went from genuine to Hollywood. From the real you to the poised and polished Graham Forrester I always see on screen.” Lydia shrugged, lifting her face to the flakes, to the icy kiss of winter. “No need to build a buffer. Just consider this to be a conversation with a stranger. No misconceptions, no bias. It’s a form of freedom. Try it.”

  Silence fell as sure as the carpet of snow, drawing her focus to Graham once more. She could tell at a glance he vacillated between the ideas of being open, and known, and remaining safely guarded by a projected image.

  “I’m that transparent?”

  “No. I’m that intuitive.” She snickered, linking her arm through his. “C’mon. Nothing spells great therapy and mental relief like walks and talks.”

  “Funny. You seem less like that stranger you mention and more like some kind of pixie angel who’s currently coated by a layer of white.” In emphasis Graham’s real smile bloomed as he brushed his hands against strands of her hair, her shoulders and arms. Snow released, blowing into the wind like white glitter dust.

  “So, then, tell the angel everything.” She coaxed playfully, hoping to earn some trust and draw him out. She liked Graham. A lot. The recognition sent a flow of heat through her system. The rush of delicious warmth contrasted richly against a gust of wind that rippled through her hair and tossed loose wisps across her face.

  Graham continued to study her in an intent, searching way that was so potent and tender Lydia had to remember to breathe properly. Distraction was called for, pronto, so she opted to play the tour-guide card. “This is the bridge your room overlooks. North Pole Bridge. We named it such because it resides at the north end of the property.” She pointed to their right. “Over that way, just out of view, is South Pole Bridge.”

  A line of trees and an iced over riverbed stretched before them. Lydia tugged him toward the bridge which spanned a narrow waterway and directed their steps to its center arc. Lights strung along the rails and support columns of the metal structure cast multi-colored prisms across the snow, along the shimmering ice below, and the wide, sturdy planks where they now stood.

  Refocused, Lydia returned to their conversation. “So, I believe you were about to confess something to the snow angel?”

  Graham smiled, but the effort didn’t reach deep. Instead, a sense of tribulation scripted subtle frown lines against his brow, along the length of his full, long mouth. He turned his attention to the frozen world around them.

  “I’m at loose ends, and I need to work past it.”

  “How so?” She got the feeling he didn’t confess things often, or to just anyone, so she felt honored, and compelled to tread with the utmost care.

  “I wish I could be more specific.” Graham’s huff of frustration sent a plume of vapor into the air. “Know what I want? I want to start over again. I want to be fresh out of college, the whole world ahead of me. No complications or expectations or dashed dreams.”

  “You liked your younger days.”

  “I did. I studied food and I interned under a head chef named Geoff Cortand at a French bistro called Jacques. When I graduated, I became his sous chef and had the time of my life. I worked my tail off, and I didn’t have a penny to spare, but Geoff was incredible. I learned from the best and felt like I was straight on with God’s plan. That period of my life created a love affair with food that…died.”

  “How did it die?”

  “Lack of sustenance. Lack of proper nourishment. After a few years of living paycheck to paycheck, I started to get itchy and ambitious. I couldn’t make a living where I was, and Geoff wasn’t ready to retire, or turn the reins of his restaurant over to anyone else. I shopped around a little, but I loved that bistro, and the
friends I made, the vibe. I didn’t have seed money to launch my own place.

  “At that point, a producer at KRTN happened to be having dinner at the restaurant. We started talking, and he told me the station might launch a cooking segment on the weekly program Knoxville Living. I wrote it off as a lark, but a couple months later, he returned to Jacques and asked me to do an audition. I was hired a week later, and the money they offered was like an answer to prayer. From there, I figured I’d scrimp and save, and finally be able to live my dream.”

  “A place of your own.”

  Graham nodded, swiping his hands along the bridge rail to banish snow cover from lights of yellow, red, green, blue…

  “Pretty soon, the TV work consumed me, especially when Knoxville Express stepped up with an additional offer to cover restaurant openings and reviews. As success has grown, so has discontent. I’ve become nothing more than an image, trading off on my background in culinary studies and what the media likes to call an ‘easy’ personality.” He ground out a growl. “The trap of comfort and security closed over me so slowly and unexpectedly that I had no way to know I was drowning until it was too late.”

  Lydia had no easy answers, no epiphany to share. Instead of offering platitudes, she rested her hand against his and waited him out for a moment. Graham’s answering squeeze to her fingertips was reassuring.

  “I’m still in the culinary world,” he continued. “But not in the way I imagined. So, I guess, for the foreseeable future I’ll spend my life exploring food and the idea of making it accessible to everyone. If I can’t create my own career as a chef, at least I can find great cooks, great restaurants, and bring them to life. I can help promote them and bring them to a wider view. It’s a good life, and I know it. I’m blessed, and I know it.”

  “But still, you’re unsettled.”

  “I am. And I suppose that’s what happens when you run a divergent, yet parallel path to the life you dreamed of.”

  Silence beat by in time to the downpour of dusty, stilling snow. Communion, she thought. Blessed, precious communion. “Look at it this way. Maybe the struggle you’re facing is the reason God landed you here as you sort things through. Maybe He’s using the inconvenience of car trouble and a snowstorm to slow you down and give you time to focus and plan without distractions or pressure. In the meantime, there’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing, Graham. Your work brings life to restaurants that might otherwise fold, and—”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, that cut-in tells me you’re far from convinced.”

  He skipped a sheepish glance in her direction. “No, you’re right, but…let’s just say I expected…I wanted…more from my life. I’m unfulfilled, and I’m trying to figure out if it’s God talking to me or if what I’m really hearing is the devil of dissatisfaction.” He shrugged; the rise and fall of his shoulders hiked the lines of a long, wool coat. “I’ll stop right there, because I refuse to whine. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She added a smile and handshake to the agreement. They still had a day or two left, and Lydia knew how to be persistent and persuasive.

  “Your turn, Dimples.”

  “Dimples?” Startled by the nickname, Lydia automatically touched gloved fingers to her cheeks.

  Graham’s laugh rang out long and sweet. “I love them.”

  “You’re about the only one.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  Caught off her typically sassy guard, Lydia ducked her head and began to walk, completing their hike across the bridge and leading them into an impressive drift of snow. Man, was it ever going to stop? Casting a swift look at Graham, she had to admit she almost hoped not…

  “Tell me about yourself, Lydia.”

  “Hmm…let me see. Well, I’m an Aquarius. I love long walks along the beach, and hope for world peace, and an end to hunger, and I—”

  Graham’s laughter bellowed. “Thank you, beauty queen finalist. Now, how about the real deal?”

  She giggled, loving the way he caught on to her humor and sparred so easily. “OK, hang on, master chef. You’re about to be bored to tears.”

  “Bring it on. I’m all braced. Except for the snow and ice.” Graham held her arm, offering stability as they traversed a small slope.

  “Ha, ha, funny man.” They rounded toward the inn. “There’s not much to say. I’m a recent graduate of the University of Tennessee with a Bachelor of Science in Information Technology.”

  “I didn’t notice a ring or anything—are you married? Involved?”

  “No, and no. I’m too busy transplanting my life to get involved.”

  “Transplanting your life? Lydia, that’s far from boring.”

  She blushed and tucked her arm through his. “I took a leap of faith a month ago and quit my job in Nashville.”

  “That’s brave. Why’d you do it? Were you unhappy?”

  “No, nothing like that, exactly.” Lydia drifted into the past, into a world of big city life, corporate cultures lived at high-speed with high-stress, especially when it came to IT issues. “I loved the work, but I hated the over-frenzied culture. My mom and her best friend Lizzie have undertaken a huge project to restore Christmas Inn. Lizzie is like family to me. I wanted to help.”

  “Commendable.” They plowed forward through the snow. “Will an IT position at Christmas Inn sustain you over the long term?”

  “Probably not, but I’ve got some money saved. When the network installation and web design are finished, I’ll find a job elsewhere. Maybe here in Hope Creek, maybe a bit further out, in Knoxville or somewhere in that area. I might freelance. Who knows? ”

  “IT is an in-demand field, to be sure, but you’re OK with the uncertainty?”

  Lydia met his gaze straight on, irked a bit by being questioned. “Yes, I am. I’ll be OK. I plan to work hand-in-hand with my family, and with God, to see where this venture leads. I think it’ll be exciting, and refreshing, not to mention a great deal more aligned with who I am and who I want to be. I didn’t like running a corporate rat race.”

  “I’m not asking because I doubt you, Lydia. Just the opposite. I’m amazed. I admire your faith, and your confidence. I could probably learn a lot from you about reaching out in trust. I’ve never experienced that level of courage.”

  Lydia’s heart went soft and warm. “Again—maybe that’s why you’re here. Maybe God’s all over your disquiet. Maybe He’s getting ready to deliver a miracle.”

  His answering smile reached through to her soul. “If only life were that simple and easy.”

  “It can be, Graham. It really can be.”

  3

  Lydia’s mom had arrived at the inn, and she was in a tizzy. A royal, knock-your-socks-off, three-alarm-fire tizzy. No snow storm would keep Beatrice Cutler on the sidelines of her meticulous Victorian a few blocks away if she sniffed any sense of trouble on the brew for her sister, Roberta. Bea Cutler was a buttinski at times, but always with the best and most loving intentions.

  A blessing and a curse to be sure.

  When they walked in, Roberta was in mid-rant. “Yes, Bea, financial restructuring forced us to scale back food service to just a few meals a week, other than the breakfast we offer, but with the storm being what it is, we can’t be expected to provide full-on meal service.”

  “I know, Bertie, especially when David Lewiston’s skills in the kitchen were, shall we say, sadly lacking. Not to mention the…well, issues…he had with intoxication on the job.”

  Roberta harrumphed. Her eyes narrowed and her cheeks flushed in a rare escalation of budding temper. “Intoxication. That’s being more than kind. Plus, he stormed out of the inn in a toddler’s huff when a guest dared to complain about the quality of their meal. He couldn’t run a kitchen. He always riled up the cooks and wait staff. I think, in all honesty, he believed the position was beneath him.”

  “And that’s why we need to figure this out. Food service is part of what’s offered at Christmas Inn. At minimum, breakfast is part o
f the rate that’s charged for renting a room.” A petite, silver-haired fireball, Mom stalked through the office behind reception. Worry cut lines above her brows.

  “Beatrice, calm down. Our guests were fed. Not in typical fashion, I’ll grant you, but all the same—” As ever, Aunt Bertie assumed the role of reason. And she referred to her sister as Beatrice rather than Bea. That meant Bertie’s ire was on the rise and her patience was on the wane.

  “Today’s breakfast was nothing much more than oatmeal, boiled eggs and toast. I know we’re low on supplies, and for the most part folks have understood, but we need to feed our guests or we could be held liable.”

  Lydia stepped into the fray with a gentle laugh, deciding to join the conversation and do what she could to alleviate any further heartache. “Mom, I hardly think our guests will litigate over struggles that occur as the result of a history-making snowstorm.”

  “It’s not about litigation, Lydia, it’s about a moral responsibility.” Mom turned, freezing momentarily, eyes going a touch wide once she spied Graham. “We need to help, and that’s why I’m here. I’m sure Bertie and Lizzie feel a sense of responsibility for the happiness and wellbeing of their guests. I want to step in, but how? What can we do?”

  Mom twisted her fingers while she looked around the lobby and focused on the open area of the adjoining dining room—empty for now but staged—as though a miraculous solution might suddenly materialize and fill each empty spot.

  In the meantime, Lydia took notice of the way Graham eyed the swinging doors that separated the elegant, old-world style dining room from the kitchen proper. Were those wheels she saw chugging and clicking and rolling just above his head?

  “Maybe I can help.” His gaze tagged Lydia. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  “Show you what I’ve got?”

  Lydia’s stare, her bemused question, stirred a low chuckle that rumbled. “Meaning what have you got in the way of kitchen utensils and supplies?”