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“Let me get you checked in so you can freshen up before cocktails and dinner,” Maren said.
***
An hour later, after she had made introductions in the parlor so that everyone knew each other, Maren stood at the back of the long parlor, where she filled a tray with martini glasses and poured a nearly clear liquid into each glass.
Alec Sullivan hadn’t yet arrived for cocktail hour and another couple expected to stay this weekend hadn’t arrived yet.
“This is my version of a clementine martini,” she said to the room in general. “I stole the recipe from a restaurant in Philly. Apparently the place is so famous that more than one death row inmate requested his last meal be served from there. Anyway, it has to stew for forty days—the clementine vodka over a fresh, skinned pineapple—and you get this smooth, gorgeous martini. I promise you’ll never want a different drink.”
“So, it’s kind of anI would die for youdrink?” Emily proposed with a grin.
“Ba dum bump,” offered Dan, making the drumbeat sound normally used to mark a punchline.
Rachel threw Dan a stony look while an appreciative giggle burst from Maren.
It was too soon to know if Rachel were naturally grumpy and Dan could do nothing right, or if this displeased look was aimed specifically at him for making conversation and having fun with another woman, particularly a very pretty one, such as was Emily. Reminding herself as she was sometimes forced to do,you’ll likely never see her again after this weekend, Marenignored the bizarre interplay between the couple. steering the conversation towards the surrounding area.
She loved Willowbrook and she took great joy in sharing its rich history and intriguing anecdotes with anyone who would listen.
“For any of you who aren’t familiar with Willowbrook, it was originally settled by a group of industrious pioneers in the mid-19th century,” she said as she made her way from guest to guest, offering a tray of prepared martinis. “In its infancy, it thrived on fishing and timber industries, with a lot of people settling just inland to farm.” She took the last glass for herself and settled into the huge winged-back chair in front of the fireplace. “I kind of feel like a librarian getting ready for story time,” she quipped, with a roomful of eyes on her. “As I mentioned to Emily, during Prohibition in the 1920s, Willowbrook gained notoriety as a hotspot for smuggling operations. Its proximity to the Canadian border and expansive shoreline made it an ideal location for clandestine activities. Local legends speak of secret tunnels connecting lakeside houses, allowing residents to discreetly move contraband during the dark nights. The Morning Glory Inn and her owners at the time, Mr. and Mrs. Stirling Hollister, appear to have partaken of some of those activities.”
“Heprobably did,” Mrs. Adamczyk chimed in. “Mrs. Hollister likely remained blissfully unaware.”
“Or maybe not,” Emily suggested. “Maybe she knew what her husband was doing but didn’t mind, so long as it kept her in this nice house and in fancy clothes.”
“We might never know,” Maren advised. “But there is some great information and old photos at the Willowbrook Heritage Society. That entity was born after the Great Fire of 1937, which swept through the town, leaving a significant portion in ashes.The Morning Glory Inn, which at that time was simply known as the Hollister House, was untouched by the fire.”
Several gazes left her and moved to the front doorway, where stood Alec Sullivan, looking almost annoyingly handsome. He'd changed clothes, and now wore jeans and a button down shirt of baby blue that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean frame.
Their eyes met, and Maren's heart skipped a beat.
“Missed the history lesson, did I?” He quipped, striding casually into the parlor.
At best his tone could have been compared to one of polite disinterest. At best.
Maren wasn’t sure if he was simply tossing out a throwaway opening line, or if he was actually mocking her. Either way, she didn't appreciate his flippancy and felt her cheeks warm, flustered and annoyed to have been affected by him at all.
Standing, she collected the empty tray from the chairside table and asked Alec if he would like a martini or something else to drink.
“You definitely want the martini,” coached Emily’s husband, Mark.
“Martini it is, then,” Alec agreed, crossing the room, following Maren to the bar.
“Has anyone actually heard from Jasmine today?” Mrs. Adamczyk asked the room in general. “I’ve texted her three times and she hasn’t answered.”
“I know she had a busy day, picking up her gown from Mimi’s,” Maren said over her shoulder as she filled the silver bar shaker with the pre-made drink and ice, entirely too aware of Alec’s close proximity now, standing next to her, seeming to check out her bar set-up. “I’m sure there are a lot of last minute details that needed attention today.”
“And we’re having the rehearsal dinner here tomorrow?” Mrs. Adamczyk continued. “That makes no sense, certainlybecause neither Emily or Rachel are actually in the wedding. Why didn’t they book the Harbor View?”
“Jasmine wanted her out of town guests to be included,” Maren said, as that had been part of Jasmine’s reasoning when she’d asked Maren if she could comfortably accommodate twenty-two for dinner. “I’m rather hoping after tonight’s dinner, you might be happy to know you’ll have another meal here tomorrow.” She strained the drink into a clean glass and handed it to Alec.
“One might think,” Alec said quietly to Maren, “that there were plenty of issues to take with this wedding aside from the venue and schedule.”
“Meaning?” Maren asked, arching a brow.
“The speed at which it came about.”
“Oh, yes. You did mention you had reservations about the quality of their relationship.”
