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 planning weddings 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. Flicking on her laptop, she pretended to work as she watched.
The coffee table in front of her started to vibrate with the ringing of her phone, and she reached forward to grab it before it bounced off onto the floor.
Dad.
The word flashed up on the screen, and Carrie heard You can’t do this, again in her head.
She hung up, placing her phone face down on the table again. She was busy. They had an event at the inn that evening. She was, technically, working.
And she really didn’t want to have the same argument with him, all over again.
Feeling vaguely justified in her decision, Carrie turned her attention back to the entrance, just as the front door opened again.
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 fitted 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.
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