The Love Trilogy: Room For Love / An A To Z Of Love / Summer Of Love

And so, when the clock ticked over to eight o’clock, Carrie closed her laptop and 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 forties 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 the lawyer’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 onto his Campari and soda and Stan, Nate noticed with a wince, was making his way through the dancers towards 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 doughnuts before him.

When they’d started the forties 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 doughnut mix, which never became available in the UK once the fighting was over, so Jacob had started investigating how to make his own doughnuts from scratch.

Apparently there were considerably more doughnut recipes than anyone had expected. Jacob was still working his way through the first file of printouts.

“Apple and cinnamon doughnuts, lemon and lime doughnuts, vanilla sugar doughnuts 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 colour 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 doughnut, just as Stan’s voice came over the speakers. He was up on the stage, Nate realised, microphone in hand, looking serious and sombre, and with the attention of the entire room.

Nate sighed, and reached for another doughnut. This, undoubtedly, was Stan’s sign. And it just wasn’t ever going to end well.

* * * *

It took Carrie a moment to stop marvelling at the sight of Nate Green in his uniform and tune in to what Stan was actually saying. After all, the way the khaki shirt emphasised the width of Nate’s shoulders was, quite frankly, much more interesting than any speech Stan could make. Possibly more interesting than any speech Winston Churchill might have been making in this weird time warp.

But then Stan said, “I know all of you here knew and loved Nancy Archer,” and Carrie started paying attention.

“She will be sorely missed, and I’m sure, for many of us, nothing will really be the same now that she’s gone.” Stan looked mournfully down on the crowd and, for a moment, Carrie felt a pang as she realised these people probably knew her grandmother better than she ever had. Even Nate looked affected, although the look on his face seemed more apprehensive than grief-stricken.

“But here tonight, we have with us Nancy’s granddaughter, Miss Carrie Archer.” Stan brightened up with these words and gestured to where Carrie stood, doughnut in hand and probably with sugar around her mouth. Out of nowhere, a spotlight came to shine on her, and she tried to wipe at her lips without anyone noticing. Nate handed her a napkin, and she gave him a grateful smile.

“Miss Archer is, I’m sure you’ll all be pleased to hear, the new owner of the Avalon Inn. And in honour of her arrival, our next song will be one of Nancy’s favourites.” Stan signalled to Izzie, who was hovering over the iPod in the corner, and the first strains of The Very Thought of You flooded through the room. “Nate, old boy,” Stan said, with an odd tone in his voice. “Why don’t you take your new boss for a turn around the floor?”

Carrie didn’t think she’d ever seen a man look so unexcited at the prospect of dancing with her. “You don’t have to...” she began, but Bing Crosby’s voice started out of the speakers, smooth and warm, and all Carrie could think of was nights dancing around the attic room with Nancy, and she lost the rest of the words she’d meant to say.

Nate obviously saw her discomfort and took pity on her, because he grabbed her hand and, to the applause of the crowd, led her onto the dance floor.

“I’m a rubbish dancer,” she managed as he wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close.

“Doesn’t matter.” Nate fixed one of her hands on his back, still clasping the other tight, and began to move. “Just sway a bit. They’ll get bored of watching in a moment and join in.”

“I’m sorry.” Bing sang about living in a daydream and she thought, with the heat of Nate’s palms warming her skin through her blouse, that she knew exactly what he meant.

“What for?” Just as Nate had promised, other couples were joining them on the floor, finally. Stan and Cyb took a turn not far from them, and as they passed Stan winked, although Carrie wasn’t sure if it was aimed at her or Nate, or why.

“You having to dance with me.” She should have added all the other things she felt sorry for—Mr Jenkins, the builder, him being stuck at the Avalon at all, thanks to her gran. But she didn’t.

Nate laughed, and several dancers nearby turned to look at them. He moved his head closer to hers, until Carrie could feel his breath against her ear. “Trust me, compared with my usual partners at these things, dancing with you is a real treat.”

He straightened up, and Carrie’s neck felt cold at the absence of his warm breath. At least, that was her excuse for the shiver running up her back when he tugged her close again.

“You didn’t look so pleased when Stan ordered you to take me out for a twirl,” she pointed out. A thought occurred to her. “Or was that because he called me your boss?”

Nate looked perplexed. “You are my boss.”

Carrie shrugged, and promptly lost the rhythm. “I wasn’t sure how happy you were about that. Given, well, everything.”

“Doesn’t bother me, to be honest.” Nate swung them out of the way of a passing couple. “I like having more time to work on my garden. Don’t worry, I’m not planning some sort of coup on the inn.”

“I never thought you were,” Carrie said. She just knew he thought she couldn’t do this on her own. “Then what was bothering you?”

Nate rolled his eyes. “Bloody Stan and his machinations.” Carrie blinked up at him, confused, and he obligingly elaborated. “Cyb heard the offers from the lawyer this morning to buy the inn. Stan wants me to romance you into telling me whether or not you’re planning on selling. I told him I’d just ask you outright, ‘How did it go this morning?’ but apparently Stan wants to play this his way, whether we like it or not.”

“I’m not selling,” Carrie said, choosing to ignore the part about a virtual stranger trying to manipulate her love life. “Not unless I’m forced to.”

“That’s what I told him,” Nate said with a nod.

“Oh?”