“I think she would be proud,” she said quietly. “Uncle Leo, too.
Dan reached for his tea glass. “Must be a nice feeling. Knowing your parents are proud of you, I mean.”
She cocked her head, and he wondered if she’d heard more in his offhanded comment than he’d intended to reveal. “Are your parents still living?”
“Yes.” He saw no need to elaborate just then about his father’s rapidly failing health, nor to go into details about his strained relationship with them.
“I’m sure they’re proud of you, too. After you contacted me, I read quite a few of your articles. You have a very nice way with words. It’s obvious that you work hard to bring the venues you’ve visited to life for your readers.”
Her compliment pleased him more than it probably should have. His overachieving, overdemanding parents would beg to disagree with her reference to his hard work, but he was glad to hear her acknowledge that writing travel articles wasn’t quite the fluff job his folks considered it to be. He did work hard at crafting his articles, whether they focused on pretty wedding venues or Southern adventure vacations like white-water rafting or mountain biking. Maybe he preferred to be on a bike or in a kayak rather than talking about rose gardens and Queen Anne gazebos, but he put equal amounts of effort into the stories. He labored as diligently with those articles as he did with the novel he’d wanted to write for a long time, having just been waiting for what seemed like the right time to dedicate himself to completing the project.
Because he wasn’t particularly comfortable discussing his complicated standing with his parents, he was rather relieved when Mary appeared at their table just then to collect their plates. “Did you save room for dessert? We make the best pies in the whole state.”
“They do,” Kinley seconded. “I’m partial to fruit pies, myself, but their cream pies are especially popular with the majority of their customers.”
Dan declined politely. “I’ll try the pie another time. I’m a little full right now.”
“You should come back,” Mary encouraged with a big smile. “It’d be a shame if your article didn’t mention our famous pies.”
“Then I’ll be sure and try a slice or two before I leave the area,” he promised.
Kinley laid her napkin on the table. “I’ll take the check, Mary.”
Mary placed the vinyl folder into Kinley’s open hand. “Did you tell your writer friend about the ghost?”
Ghost? Intrigued, Dan lifted an eyebrow.
Kinley made a little sound that might have been a swallowed protest. That tiny frown was back between her eyebrows. “We haven’t talked about any old legends of the area,” she said lightly. “That’s not really the type of story Dan is here to write.”
Taking Kinley’s payment, Mary winked at Dan. “Ask her to tell you about the bride. There’s still a few folks around here that are fascinated by the old tale. Some even claim to have seen her. If you can’t get the story out of Kinley, come back tomorrow and I’ll tell you while you sample our pies.”
“I’ll tell him about it.” Kinley pushed back her chair. “It’s just a fanciful old story, Dan. I doubt you’ll find it particularly interesting.”
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“I’d like to hear it.” He rose as she did, speaking to Mary on the way out. “The food was delicious. I’ll definitely be back.”
“I’m sure Liza would love to meet you. Bye, now. Y’all have a nice afternoon.”
He recognized the middle-aged couple who entered the cafe as he and Kinley were leaving. They were guests at the inn. Honeymooners, he’d been told. He nodded to them as Kinley greeted them in passing, pausing long enough to recommend the tortilla soup and quesadilla combo. The cafe owner really should reimburse Kinley for her endorsements, he thought with a private smile. She was almost as enthusiastic about the cafe menu as she was the inn’s offerings. He hoped her friend Liza reciprocated the business plugs.
“So about this ghost bride…” he said when they were headed back toward the inn.
Kinley wrinkled her nose. “Like I said, it’s just an old legend. I’m not even sure when it started. Decades ago. Probably someone’s whimsical way of explaining the name of the mountain, since no one seems to know exactly when or why it got the name Bride Mountain. I’ve always suspected it evolved from the name of an early landowner. There are several McBride families found around this part of the country. Or maybe someone built an early house here for his bride and called it that. Or maybe someone thought the morning fog looked like a bridal veil around the top of the mountain. Who knows?”
“The ghost?” he prodded gently, risking another frown.
He got a faint sigh, instead. “Some people claim to have seen the spirit of a woman in bridal white on the mountain, usually on the grounds of the inn. Legend has it that couples who see her are destined to be together in a happily-ever-after union. Part ghost story, part fairy tale, right?”
“Have many people claimed to see the woman in white?”
She appeared to concentrate very hard on where she placed her steps as they trudged up the hill. “Not many. A few over the years.”
“Anyone you know?”
He heard her clear her throat before she answered. “Uncle Leo swore that he and Aunt Helen saw the bride the night he proposed to her in the rose garden behind the inn.”
He found that fascinating. “No kidding.”