The nights are drawing in, the 100 day countdown to Christmas has begun, and we are thrilled to share an exclusive extract from Sunday Times bestselling author Sarah Morgan’s brand new festive read, The Christmas Book Club.
Chapter 1
Hattie
“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was all those things.
“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t help but relax.”
It’s an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes pricked following another night without sleep. The head housekeeper was threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck and it would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hat[1]tie knew that, and she also knew she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him, and firing him would have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to placate him.
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”
“I hope so, but I’m very particular about the room. Can I tell you what I need?”
“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that was always handy. “Go ahead.”
How bad could it be? A woman the week before had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation— answer: no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.
She went above and beyond in her attempts to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.
“I’d like the room to have a mountain view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”
“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The ones at the front face the river.”
She relaxed slightly. So far, so straightforward. “Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s important, don’t you agree?”
Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child, owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all. She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.
“Bedding is important.” She said what was expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.
It was mortifying to remember that her initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, because normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks falling from buildings, did they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t because they didn’t have a sense of humor.
She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did the police follow we’re sorry to have to tell you… with oops, we made a mistake?
After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d thanked them politely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a) half British and b) very much in shock.
When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two of her home[1]made cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who had just shattered her world in one short conversation.
She’d stared at the closed door for a full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a matter of minutes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.
Even though two years had passed, there were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excitement because he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.
I think we should get married…
I think we should start a family…
I think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Vermont…
They’d met in England during their final year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then two things had happened. Brent’s grandmother had died, leaving him a generous sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d lost Brent she’d tried to keep everything going the way he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even feel whole?
She realized that while she’d been indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”
“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen because I do struggle with overheating.”
“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be a problem.”
“And pink.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.” Pink.
“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad and scribbled Help followed by four exclamation marks. She might have written something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you have a particular date in mind?”
“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”
Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.
Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.
“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”
“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”
“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.
“There’s no way of getting a second window?”
“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before you make your choice if that would help.”
By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.
When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.
How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.
She was about to search the internet for pink linen sheets when someone cleared their throat in an exaggerated fashion.
She looked up to find Stephanie, the head housekeeper, glowering at her.
Stephanie had been another of Brent’s appointments. Almost all the staff had been Brent’s choice. Before Brent had recruited her, Stephanie had been head housekeeper at a renowned hotel in Boston. Her credentials are impeccable, he’d said after he’d interviewed Stephanie, and she’s ferociously organized and capable.
Hattie had agreed with the ferocious part. She’d pointed out that Stephanie’s manner had bordered on rude and that she might be difficult to manage, but Brent had dismissed her concerns and assured her that he’d be handling the staff so it wouldn’t be her problem. Except that now she was handling it, and it was her problem. Everything was her problem.
“Do you have a sore throat, Stephanie?” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she was ground down by the woman’s relentlessly negative attitude. Dealing with her was energy sapping. Stephanie had respected Brent—there had been moments when Hattie had wondered whether she’d been feeling something more than respect—and responded to his unbridled enthusiasm for everything, but clearly found Hattie’s more gentle nature nothing but an irritation.
“I have bigger problems than a sore throat. That stupid girl somehow gathered up a red item with the bed linen when she was dealing with the River Room.”
Hattie pretended to be clueless. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Chloe.” Stephanie’s mouth was a tight line. “She’s a disaster. I have lost count of the number of times I have warned her to shake out the linen to make sure guests haven’t left anything in the bed. I warned you not to hire her and I have no idea why you did. And now this has happened.”
Hattie had hired Chloe because she was friendly and enthusiastic, which she believed to be important qualities. An establishment like the Maple Sugar Inn survived on its reputation, and that was only as strong as its staff. Chloe made people feel nurtured and important. Stephanie was more like a Doberman guarding a compound.
“Chloe is warm and helpful and the guests love her. I’m sure she won’t do it again.”
“Brent would never have hired her.”
Stephanie had the grace to flush. “I do realize the last few years have been hard for you, Harriet, and you’re not a natural manager, but you have to be firm with staff. You’re the innkeeper. You’re the one in charge now. Your problem is that you’re too nice. A good manager should be able to fire someone.”
Hattie had no intention of firing Chloe. She was one of the few members of staff who didn’t bring tension into the room with her.
“This is her first job,” Hattie said. “She’s learning. Mistakes happen.”
“This is supposed to be a quality establishment. Quality establishments don’t tolerate mistakes.”
The whole venture was a mistake, Hattie thought wearily. What were you thinking, Brent? “I’ll talk to her. Where is she?”
“In the laundry room, crying. I just hope she’s not blowing her nose in the sheets.”
Maybe they could cry together, Hattie thought as she made her way through the welcoming reception area and past the open door of the library. She gave the well-stocked bookshelves a longing look, wishing she had time to snuggle down in an armchair in front of the flickering log fire and escape for a while. The library was her favorite room and nothing pleased her more than seeing someone curled up on one of the sofas with a book.
Occasionally, she envied her guests, who were pampered and cared for, their every need anticipated, their every wish granted. Her guests did seem happy and most of them booked again, so maybe she wasn’t doing such a bad job as an innkeeper even if she was a terrible people manager. Was she a terrible people manager? Or was it just that she wasn’t good at managing terrible people?
She headed downstairs and found Chloe exactly where Stephanie had said—in the laundry room. Her eyes were red and she scrubbed her face with her hand when she saw Hattie.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe muttered. “She told me I had to change the bed in four minutes, so I was going for speed. I messed up, I know I did, but Mrs. Bowman frowns so much that she makes me nervous and flustered and then I make mistakes.”
Hattie wondered if she should confess that Stephanie Bowman had the same effect on her.
“Don’t worry about it.” She patted the girl on the shoulder. “Everything is fine.”
“No, it isn’t. The bedding is ruined.” Chloe’s face was scarlet. “It’s supposed to be snow-white, and now it’s pink. And not pale pink, but pink. I’m going to try washing it again, but I think the color is stuck fast. It will have to be thrown away.”
“It really doesn’t—” Hattie let her hand drop. “Wait a moment. Did you say pink?”
“Yes. It was a hat. I think it was part of Mr. Graham’s Santa suit. He hired it, and it obviously wasn’t colorfast.” She frowned. “And it’s weird, because I could have sworn I’d packed the whole suit away for them, including the hat. I was very careful, but somehow the hat was mixed up with the laundry so I guess not.”
Hattie blinked. “Santa suit?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Graham from Ohio. They spent two nights in the Cider Suite. He told me that Mrs. Graham’s fantasy was to spend a night with Santa, so he hired a suit to surprise her.”
“It’s November.”
“I don’t think he cared about that. He also bought a festive-themed sex toy, but I didn’t ask for details. I thought it might ruin Christmas for me.”
“Indeed.” Hattie was so fascinated she momentarily forgot how tired she was. “How do you know all this?”
“People talk to me,” Chloe said, “which can sometimes be a little alarming, to be honest, but it does lead to interesting revelations.
“And pink sheets.” Hattie grabbed a box of tissues from the shelf in the laundry room and handed her one. “Stop crying, Chloe. You might just have done me a favor.”
Chloe took the tissue and blew her nose. “I have?”
“Yes. There are guests who would apparently love to sleep in pink sheets. They’re soothing, didn’t you know?”
“No—” The girl looked dazed. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do. Put the pink sheets to one side. Do not throw them away.” Hattie hurried back to the reception desk, where Stephanie was tapping her foot.
Hattie took a deep breath and smiled, hoping to reduce the tension and soften her mood. “All sorted.”
Stephanie paused the foot tapping but didn’t look remotely softened. “You fired her?”
“No, I didn’t fire her. It was a mistake.” Or was it something else entirely? Something Chloe had said niggled in the back of her brain. “Odd, really, because she seemed convinced that she’d packed the red hat away with the rest of the Santa suit Mr. Graham brought with him. She couldn’t figure out how it got mixed up with the rest of the laundry.”
Stephanie’s expression didn’t flicker. “Probably because she’s careless. You’re far too lenient. Brent would have fired her.”
There was no way Brent would have fired Chloe, but he would have found a way to manage Stephanie.
She had a feeling that Stephanie wanted her to fail.
“We’re a team,” Hattie said, “and our job is to support one another.” Fortunately for her, Gwen and Ellen Bishop, two sisters in their eighties who had been regular guests since the inn had opened, chose that moment to wander into reception. Hattie had never been so relieved to see anyone.
“Excuse me, Stephanie. I need to attend to our guests.”
She hurried across to the Bishop sisters and greeted them as if they were a lifeboat in stormy seas. “How was your breakfast?”
“Delicious as usual.” Gwen beamed. “The maple syrup is the best we’ve tasted anywhere. Everything here is just perfect as it always is, and it’s all down to you, dearest Hattie.” If only everyone were so good-natured and easily pleased.
“We’ll give you a bottle to take home, Miss Bishop. I’ll arrange it right now.”
“I’ve told you so many times to call me Gwen, honey.” Gwen patted Hattie’s arm gently. “You’re looking tired. You’re not sleeping?”
“I’m fine,” Hattie lied and Gwen gave her a compassionate look.
“Keep going,” the older woman said softly. “One day at a time, one step at a time. That’s what I used to tell myself when I lost my Bill.”
“I used to tell you that, too,” Ellen said and Gwen nodded.
“You did tell me that. Daily. I wanted to tip my breakfast on your head.”
“It’s what sisters are for.”
Hattie felt a pang of envy. It would have been nice to have a sister, but her mother had died a week after Hattie was born, and her dad had never married again. She and her father had been close and she still felt the loss, never more so than when Brent had been killed. I need you, Dad.
She especially missed him at Christmas. Her dad had always made Christmas special.
“The problem,” Gwen said, “is that people are sympathetic at the beginning, and then they think it’s time for you to move on. They don’t realize that grief never leaves you.”
Hattie nodded. Usually, she saved her tears for when she was alone in the shower or walking the dog, but Gwen’s kindness had loosened the bonds of her restraint and for a moment she was afraid she might howl on the spot. Emotion gathered in her throat and bumped against her self-control.
“That’s true. I still miss my dad,” she confessed, “and he died seven years ago.”
Gwen reached out and squeezed her arm. “The people we love never leave us, not really.”
People said that, but it wasn’t true, was it? Brent had definitely left her. And he’d left her with a ton of problems to handle.
“The weather is looking good for our trip home.” Ellen briskly changed the subject. “But before we leave, we have a little something for that treasure of yours.”
“Delphine,” her sister said as if Hattie had numerous treasures to choose from.
“We’d love to say goodbye to her.”
She pulled herself together.
“She’s reading a book in my office, with Rufus. I’ll find her.” Rufus, their four-year-old Labrador, had been one of Brent’s better ideas. As well as proving himself to be a dedicated and reliable babysitter, he was also a source of unconditional love and affection. Hattie had shed so many tears into his sleek golden coat over the past two years that he barely ever needed a bath.
“Delphi?” Hattie popped her head round the office door and saw her daughter lying on her stomach, carefully turning the pages of her book while Rufus lay next to her protectively. He lifted his head, ever watchful, and thumped his tail on the floor. Delphi looked up, too.
Her face brightened. “Did you know that a T. rex had sixty teeth?”
“I did not know that. You are always teaching me something.”
“Did dinosaurs go to the dentist?”
“No, they didn’t go to the dentist.” She had no idea where Delphi got her obsession with dinosaurs but it made for non-stop entertainment.
Hattie’s heart suddenly felt full.
The child was her whole world. She was lucky and she needed to remember that.
It seemed like only yesterday she’d discovered she was pregnant. Her daughter was growing up so quickly it was scary. “You can tell me more about the dinosaurs later, but right now the Miss Bishops would like to say goodbye to you.”
“They’re leaving? No! I don’t want them to go.” Delphi scrambled to her feet, her skirt sticking to her tights. “I hate it when people leave.”
Hattie felt her chest ache. “Me, too. But they’ll be back in a month. They’re coming for Christmas, remember?” Providing life didn’t have a nasty shock in store for them, like a brick falling from a building onto their heads just as they were walking past.
She had to stop thinking like that.
She was turning into a catastrophist, and she didn’t want her daughter going through life afraid of everything, anticipating disaster at every turn.
Delphi sprinted out of the office and hugged the Miss Bishops tightly.
“Don’t go. I want you to stay forever.”
“Things move on, honey. That’s life.” Gwen stroked Del[1]phi’s hair gently, and Ellen’s eyes grew misty.
“Dear child. We’ll be back soon and in the meantime, we have something for you. A gift.”
The sisters took turns to hug Delphi and then gave her a prettily wrapped package.
“A gift?” Delphi’s eyes widened and she took the package carefully. “But it’s not Christmas yet.
“This isn’t a Christmas gift,” Ellen said. “In fact, it’s hardly a gift at all. It’s a book, and my sister and I think of a book as a necessity rather than a luxury.”
“What’s a necessary?” Delphi stumbled over the word.
“A necessity is something you need,” Gwen said, “like food or water.”
“Sometimes Rufus thinks books are food.” Delphi fiddled with the ribbon. “Can I open it?” She looked at her mother for permission and Hattie smiled.
“How very kind. Yes, you can. And what do you say to the Miss Bishops?”
“Thank you.” Delphi tugged at the ribbon and tore the paper. “Thank you, thank you.”
“I know you love books, dear,” Gwen said and Ellen nodded.
“Books can take you to a different world.”
A different world would be nice, Hattie thought. She’d like to be in a world that still had Brent in it, and also her dad. And with luck, her alternate world wouldn’t include Stephanie or Chef Tucker or anyone who used shouting as their primary form of communication.
She helped the Bishop sisters with their luggage and when she returned to reception the phone was ringing again. She was about to reach for it when Stephanie stepped in front of her.
“This issue is not resolved. Either Chloe goes, or I go.” Hattie resisted the temptation to say Go! Right now. She couldn’t afford to lose anyone, and besides, firing Stephanie would make her feel disloyal to Brent. She was trying to hold together what he’d started, not let it unravel.
The phone was still ringing, and her insides tightened with stress. If she moved to answer it, Stephanie would think she wasn’t taking her seriously.
“I hope you know how much I value you, Stephanie.” Her palms itched to pick up the phone. “You’re an important part of the Maple Sugar Inn family.” She shuddered. The thought of Stephanie as family was a step too far.
“Then something needs to change or I’m going to have a meltdown.” With that warning, Stephanie stalked away and Hattie stared after her.
I’m going to have a meltdown, too.
She turned to answer the phone but Delphi reached it first. “Maple Sugar Inn, Delphine Maisy Coleman speaking,” she spoke carefully, enunciating every word. “How may I help you?”
She glanced guiltily at her mother. She knew she wasn’t supposed to answer the phone but that didn’t stop her doing it.
“Mrs. Peterson!” A smile spread across her face. “I’ve got books! New books.”
Hattie listened as Delphi told their neighbor about her latest gift, stumbling over the words in her excitement.
“Mommy can’t talk now because she’s having a meltdown.”
Hattie winced. Had she actually said those words aloud? She needed to be more careful, particularly in front of Delphi, who was like a sponge, soaking up everything around her. Everything she overheard was stored away and then repeated at the worst possible moment.
She held out her hand for the phone and Delphi handed it over, slid off the chair and headed back to the office, where Rufus was waiting patiently, his head on his paws.
“Hello, Lynda. How are you?”
“I’m fine, honey, but how are you? We haven’t seen you for a while. Delphi said you were having a meltdown.”
“She misheard. It’s a new dessert we’re trying in the restaurant,” Hattie improvised wildly. “It’s a chocolate pudding filled with melted chocolate. We’re calling it a meltdown.”
“Sounds delicious. I can’t wait to try it. I know I say this all the time, but Delphi is a delight. You’re a wonderful mother, Hattie, and you’re coping so well. Brent would be proud.”
Would he?
Was she coping? She was surviving, but was that the same thing?
She knew she was lucky to have neighbors like the Peter[1]sons. They owned the farm adjacent to the inn and supplied produce to the kitchens, and also the Christmas trees that Hattie used to decorate for the holidays. What had started as a business relationship had turned into a deep friendship.
Lynda had once mentioned how much she would have loved to have a daughter, and Hattie had been tempted to reply, Adopt me, I’m available.
“Hattie?” Lynda’s voice was gentle. “Are you doing okay, honey?”
“Yes. Absolutely. Brilliant.”
“Because if you need help, you know we’re here. Noah can be over there in a flash if there’s something that needs fixing.”
Noah.
She grew tense and her heart pumped a little harder. “He doesn’t need to come over. Everything is good.”
Noah was the Petersons’ son, and he worked the farm with his father.
He’d been a good friend to Hattie, until a few weeks earlier when she’d ruined everything. It had been the night of the Halloween party that the Petersons held every year on their farm for the local community. The children dressed up, there were ghost hunts and spooky experiences, and plenty of sugar-loaded treats.
And there was Noah.
She closed her eyes. She’d promised herself she wasn’t going to think about it again. It was just a kiss; that was all. She’d been having a really bad day, feeling lost and lonely and a little afraid of the future and he’d been there, broad shouldered and solid, kind and, yes—she was going to admit it—sexy. She was a widow—she hated that word so much— and Noah was single, so there really wasn’t an issue except that now she felt embarrassed, and horribly awkward and not at all sure what she’d say when she saw him again.
Worst of all she felt guilty. She’d loved Brent. She still loved Brent. She’d always love Brent. But she’d kissed Noah, and that single, earth-shattering, mind-blowing kiss had been the best thing that had happened to her in the past two years, and also the most confusing.
“Don’t send Noah. Nothing needs fixing, Lynda.” Except her. She definitely needed fixing. Why had she kissed Noah? She could blame the dark or being spooked by the ghost noises the kids made in the forest, or the glass of “witches’ brew” that had turned out to be a great deal more potent than she’d imagined and guaranteed to knock the most hardened witch right off her broomstick. But mostly she blamed herself. “Are you calling for a reason?”
“Yes. Noah wanted to know if you’ve decided on your Christmas tree order for this year. He’ll want to reserve the best for you.”
The fact that he hadn’t called himself told her he regretted their encounter as much as she did.
“I need to have a think, Lynda, but I’ll email Noah soon.”
“Email?” Lynda sounded mildly bemused. “You could just tell him in person, honey.”
She could, but that would mean actually looking him in the eye and she wasn’t ready for that. She was pretty sure he wasn’t, either. She knew little about his relationship history. He’d lived in Boston after he graduated and had worked for a digital marketing company. Seeing how comfortable he was working outdoors, she struggled to imagine him in a glass-fronted office staring at a screen, but apparently that was what he’d done until his father had crashed one of the tractors and narrowly escaped with his life. Noah had returned home and he’d worked the farm with his parents ever since, spending any free time he had converting one of the barns into a home for himself.
“He’s busy, and I’m busy and I could call obviously, but email might be easier.” Also less awkward for both of them.
Lynda paused. “Whatever is best for you, of course. When you decide, just let us know. And you and Delphi should come up here that first weekend in December like you did last year. We’ll be doing sled rides and snowshoeing. The two of you could help me make some of the wreaths and garlands and then you can head out into the forest with Noah and pick a special tree for your own living room. I’d love to see you, and it would be fun for Delphi. Remember when she used to call Noah ‘the Christmas tree man’?”
“I do. She still thinks of him that way.” Maybe she could somehow arrange for Delphi and Noah to choose a tree together and she could help Lynda in the kitchen.
“The Maple Sugar Inn is always a picture at Christmas. I know it’s a busy time, so you’re to promise me you’ll reach out if you need anything.”
“I will.” Hattie was touched by Lynda’s kindness. “Thank you.”
“It has been tough for you, I know. Life has pulled the rug out from under your feet, that’s for sure, but there’s some comfort in knowing that you’re living your dream.”
No, Hattie thought, she wasn’t living her dream. She was living Brent’s dream, and it wasn’t the same thing. But she couldn’t possibly tell anyone that. This place had meant everything to Brent, and all of their savings had gone into making it what it was today. In the beginning she’d had a few ideas of her own, but Brent hadn’t thought they would work so they’d followed his plan. She was the caretaker of his dreams and the pressure was crushing.
What if she messed it all up? She loved the guests and enjoyed making their stay special but managing the staff was killing her.
Perhaps that was why she’d kissed Noah. For a brief time she’d wanted to throw off the weight of life and feel young, and light and lost in the moment instead of weighed down by responsibility and anxiety for the future.
She was twenty-eight, and most of the time she felt a hundred.
Having assured Lynda again that she absolutely did not need help, she ended the call and felt Delphi’s arms wrap around her legs.
“Mommy, are you sad?”
Hattie pulled herself together. “I’m not sad. This isn’t my sad face. It’s my thoughtful face.”
“Are you thinking about Christmas? I think about Christmas a lot.”
“Yes, I was absolutely thinking about Christmas.” Not Noah, or the seductive pressure of his mouth, or that fleeting moment when she’d felt that maybe, just maybe, life might be good again one day if she could just hold on. “Can’t wait.”
“Can we get a tree tomorrow?” Delphi gazed up at her hopefully and she stroked her daughter’s hair, feeling those soft curls tickle her palm.
“Not yet, honey. We have to wait until the first week of December, otherwise the tree will be—” She paused. Dead wasn’t her favorite word right now “—tired. It will be tired by the time Christmas Day comes.”
And the tree wasn’t the only one who would be tired.
As the Bishop sisters would say—that’s life.
She needed a miracle, but those were thin on the ground so she was willing to settle for a chef who didn’t have anger-management issues, a housekeeper who didn’t have a permanent sense-of-humor failure, and friendly guests.
The Christmas Book Club by Sarah Morgan is out on October 26th.
