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“Cyb, that’s a...great costume.”
Cyb grinned at her from under her perfectly pin-curled hair. “Isn’t it? It belonged to my older sister, you know. She married an American during the war. Moved to Ohio when it was all over.”
“It certainly seems to fit with the theme,” Carrie assured her. “Are many dance nights so...Second World War centric?”
Cyb laughed. “Oh, no. Only the second Monday of every month.”
“Of course.” Because that was totally normal.
“We even have food like they’d have had on the American bases in Britain,” Cyb chattered on. “Jacob did some research for us on the internet and found all sorts of exciting recipes. And Stan runs old movies on the screen at the far end without the sound on. And we play all these wonderful thirties and forties songs to dance to. And–”
“Cyb?” Nate interrupted the monologue from the doorway. “I think Gran’s looking for you in the drawing room. She’s finalizing the song list for this evening.”
Cyb bustled straight off, and Nate came in, apparently unconcerned by the sudden time warp.
“No costume?” Carrie asked, hoping to forestall the inevitable questions about Anna’s visit, and Nate chuckled.
“I should be so lucky. Just wait until Gran gets done with Cyb.”
Carrie noticed the Donut Dugout sign in the corner, and suddenly felt more optimistic about the evening. If she could just distract Nate long enough for him to forget everything she told him about Anna...
Nate opened his mouth to ask something, but shut it again when Izzie appeared in the doorway calling for him. “We’ll talk, later,” he promised before disappearing again, with Izzie babbling something about ticket collection. Carrie sighed with relief. Only another three or four hours to go.
And tickets at least suggested people might be paying to attend the evening, which gave Carrie some comfort. But, since this was an official Avalon Inn event, did that mean she actually had to attend? She’d avoided last week’s, but she supposed she’d have to take part sometime. Except it had been a long day, and she’d been looking forward to a night in with Pusscat…
Moira arrived next, incongruously carrying an iPod. “Finally, despite Stan’s best efforts, the playlist for the evening is ready.”
Carrie watched as she settled the iPod into a dock attached to the speakers on either side of the room. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t have those in 1944.”
Moira shrugged. “Bet the people running the dances wished they did, though. Much easier to look after than a band.”
“True,” Carrie said, wishing more brides were willing to be so pragmatic. It would make her job a lot easier. “It really is looking pretty impressive in here.”
Grinning, Moira said, “Just wait until everybody gets here. Then you’ll see a sight. Speaking of which, time for me to go and get ready.” And with that, she bustled off through the door.
In the end, it was just too tempting. As a compromise, Carrie changed out of her black suit and into a brown cotton pencil skirt and cream blouse, and curled up in one of the leather chairs in the drawing room that provided her with a good view of the lobby. With Pusscat dozing on the chair opposite her, Carrie flicked on her laptop, counted three new emails from Anna’s iPhone since she’d left and got back to work on her schedules.
The dance night attendees arrived in ones and twos, and a rowdy group of four elderly gentlemen in what might have been their original service uniforms except they fit too well. Carrie vaguely remembered that demobbing involved giving them back, anyway.
Each one in turn greeted Izzie on the reception desk with smiles and high spirits, handing over their tickets, or buying them on the spot if necessary. Izzie in turn was cheerful, efficient and obviously beloved by the guests.
Carrie was amazed.
When the clock ticked over to eight o’clock, Carrie closed her laptop and, ignoring Anna’s emailed summary of their new agreement from that morning as it arrived in her inbox, followed the crowds into 1944.
Suddenly, she wanted to know what kept the Seniors so tied to her inn.
* * * *
Nate didn’t know where his gran had found the costume, but he suspected eBay. She’d become quite the computer whiz since Granddad had died. Regardless, she showed up with it, every 40s night, and wouldn’t leave until he put it on. He’d given up the fight by this point.
“Maybe you could ask Carrie if you could do this place up a bit,” Moira suggested, perched on the very edge of the summerhouse sofa. “If you decide to stay.” She was fishing. Gran always did like to know his exact plans, and he had to admit to finding a perverse pleasure in holding out on her.
“I think she’s got bigger things to worry about at the moment. As you told me.” And despite his reluctance to fall in with Stan’s plan, Nate knew he’d have to find out how much worse the situation had become since Anna’s visit that morning.
Nate sighed, straightened the collar of his ‘authentic replica American army shirt, circa 1944’ and tried to make his hair stay flat. If it wasn’t tidy enough to appease Gran, he knew from past experience she would come after him with a comb and some Brylcreem. He’d really like to try and avoid a side-parting tonight.
“Besides,” he added, coming out of the bedroom, “I like it this way. It’s homey.”
“It’s a mess.” Moira narrowed her eyes at him. “As is your hair. Come here, I brought my comb.”
Nate sighed, but followed instructions and went to sit on the sofa. There was, he reflected as a slick of Brylcreem hit his scalp, something humiliating about being styled by your grandmother. Especially at the age of thirty.
By the time Moira had finished fussing and they had walked up to the inn, the party was in full swing. The Andrews sisters crooned from the speakers, Walt attempted to dance while still holding on to his Campari and soda and Stan, Nate noticed with a wince, was making his way through the dancers toward them.
Gran, coward that she was, gave a little wave to nobody and said, “Oh, Nate, I think I see...” before disappearing off without even a complete excuse.
Stan reached him and swung an arm up to somewhere approximating Nate’s shoulders. Given that Stan was a full head shorter than him, Nate figured that was quite an achievement in itself. “Nate, my boy. I’ve got it all set up for you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Nate said, hoping he really didn’t. He could guess, but none of his speculations were particularly comforting. Stan opened his mouth again, and Nate jumped in with, “I don’t want to know what you mean.”
Stan gave a sage nod and dropped his arm. “Plausible deniability. I understand. Good move.” He inched even closer and lowered his voice to a grumbly whisper. “Let’s just say, you’ll know when it’s time, right?” He gave a meaningful look over at Jacob’s Donut Dugout, and Nate saw Carrie already there and, judging by her outfit, almost in the spirit of things. She was even wearing red lipstick.
She looked good in red lipstick.
Stan poked him in the ribs and disappeared in the direction of the stage. Deciding to ignore the sense of foreboding in his stomach, Nate headed for the food and hoped for the best.
“What exciting new recipes have we got today, Jacob?” Nate smiled at Carrie in what he hoped was a friendly but neutral manner, just in case Stan was still watching, and turned his attention to the trays of donuts before him.
When they’d started the 40s nights, Jacob had been excited to learn from his culinary research that, during the war, Donut Dugouts had been set up for the visiting American soldiers. Apparently they used a special donut mix, which never became available in the UK once the fighting was over, so Jacob had started investigating how to make his own donuts from scratch.
Apparently there were considerably more donut recipes than anyone had expected. Jacob was still working his way through the first file of printouts.
“Apple and cinnamon donuts, lemon and lime donuts, vanilla sugar donuts and plain ones for Stan
,” Jacob told him, pointing at each in turn.
“I can recommend the vanilla,” Carrie added through a mouthful of crumbs.
Nate chanced a look over at her, and had to smile at the way sugar stuck to her lipstick and her auburn hair floated over the shoulders of her creamy blouse. “You look nice,” he said, without really meaning to. And at least she didn’t look like someone who’d just been told she had to sell her home. That was something. “I like the lipstick.”
Carrie blushed a rosy pink, and the color clashed with both her lipstick and her hair, which somehow just made Nate smile even more. “Izzie ambushed me. Said it was compulsory.”
“It should be.”
Carrie glanced away, taking another bite of her donut, just as Stan’s voice came over the speakers. He was up on the stage, Nate realized, microphone in hand, looking serious and somber, and with the attention of the entire room.
Nate sighed, and reached for another donut. This, undoubtedly, was Stan’s sign. And it just wasn’t ever going to end well.
* * * *
