Christmas in Vermont Read online

  She didn’t even want to think about his ex-wife. Maybe he’d married some stunning British actress, but what would she be doing in Connecticut? It was none of her business; she hadn’t seen Fletcher in eleven years.

  The practical side of her brain knew that driving to New England to spend seven days at the same inn as her first love was a bad idea. But the other side—the one that started each relationship filled with hope, the one that dreamed of a home with a dog and giggling children and a loving husband—packed the suitcase with sweaters and thick tights and headed to the front door.

  Three

  Seven Days Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  THE FIRST THREE HOURS OF the drive, Emma thought of every reason to turn back to New York. She had an overdue library book; she’d promised to volunteer at the local animal shelter; a package was arriving, and she wouldn’t be around to sign for it.

  But the New York Public Library was lenient in their fines over Christmas week, and the last time she volunteered at the animal shelter, she’d almost brought home a sweet mixed-breed beagle. It was only picturing having to walk the dog in the freezing slush that convinced her owning a dog in an apartment was a terrible idea.

  Then she turned onto Route 100 and was reminded of the beauty of winter in Vermont. Every town was more picturesque than the last, with covered bridges and main streets that called out to her to stop for waffles with butter that came in half-scoops.

  The exit to Snowberry had one of those roadside historic markers that told visitors interesting facts about Vermont: home of the first ski tow, birthplace of Norman Rockwell. There was a church nestled in a cluster of fir trees, and a creek that Emma was sure would be gurgling water during the summer but now was a sheet of ice.

  How had Bronwyn talked her into this? Vermont was for couples taking romantic sleigh rides, or for families spending all day on the slopes. Her GPS announced she had reached her destination; it was her last chance to turn around. Emma could spend the next seven days huddled under her bedspread in her apartment, watching Christmas movies, and Bronwyn wouldn’t have to know.

  But Emma didn’t like to lie to her best friend, and she was too tired and hungry to drive all the way home. She turned onto Main Street, and her doubts dissolved like ice cream on a hot apple pie. Every store window was strung with fairy lights, and there was a proper village green blanketed with snow. Christmas music was playing, and Emma counted three antique shops and one of those general stores you only find in Vermont that sold deli meats and toys and party dresses all in one place.

  She scanned the buildings for The Smuggler’s Inn and noticed an iron sign. There was a short driveway and a white clapboard house with green shutters and a red front door. In front was a fir tree decorated with Christmas ornaments, and a porch holding a sled and ice skates. The roof was the best part: it was gray shingled, and perched near the chimney were six life-sized reindeer pulling a sleigh.

  “Do you think it’s too much?” said a woman in her fifties, standing on the steps. Her ash-blond hair was knotted in a bun, and she was wearing an LL Bean sweater and boots. “I’m always worried I’ll scare off the more sophisticated guests,” she said, glancing at Emma’s New York license plate. “My late husband used to put them up when our children were small, and I think he’d like to know that Rudolph and the gang were watching over us.”

  “It’s not something you see on the Upper West Side,” Emma laughed, taking her suitcase out of the trunk. “But it’s perfect for a country inn in Vermont.”

  “I’ve told you that my husband died and accused you of being a typical New Yorker,” the woman said worriedly. “You can tell it’s my first season as an innkeeper.” She held out her hand. “Merry Christmas. I’m Betty Traiser; welcome to The Smuggler’s Inn.

  “When you come back from ice skating or sledding, just throw your things in here,” Betty said as they entered the mudroom. “Breakfast is served in the dining room. I make it myself; I hope you like chocolate muffins. And afternoon tea is available in the parlor. It’s my favorite room of the house.”

  They entered a parlor that looked like it was straight out of the gift catalogs that crowded Emma’s mailbox each December. The fireplace mantel was hung with stockings, and a toy train set wrapped around the base of a Christmas tree. The tree itself touched the ceiling, and every branch was covered with ornaments. Even the sofas had Christmas-themed cushions, and there was a sideboard set with bottles of brandy.

  “My husband, John, laughed at me when I overdid Christmas, because I grew up in Texas and there wasn’t a snowflake or pine tree in sight,” she said, noticing Emma’s wide-eyed expression. “It’s my first Christmas without him. He was a brain surgeon and died from pancreatic cancer. Everyone said I should sell this house and buy a condo in Palm Beach. Why would I do that? I’d rather live where we used to spend every summer and Christmas. And long ago, I was an actress. I quite like the role of country innkeeper. Who knows, maybe I’ll help start a romance between guests, or save a failing marriage. The Smuggler’s Inn has a romantic history; love is in the house’s bones.”

  “What kind of romantic history?” Emma asked.

  “It was built by a bootlegger for his bride during Prohibition. He was almost caught smuggling gin to Canada, and disappeared. Everyone told her to give up on him, but ten years later he returned and she was waiting for him.” She handed Emma a tray of shortbread. “You’ve just arrived, and there’s so much to see. You should visit Main Street or go ice skating.”

  “I suppose I should explore. I haven’t been in Vermont in years.” Emma nibbled the shortbread. “My best friend Bronwyn made the reservation.”

  “Of course—Bronwyn is the woman who called today!” Betty said excitedly. “You must be Emma. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re here. The woman I hired to run the kids’ club has the flu, and I panicked. One of the key selling points is a kids’ club. Guests want to know they can relax without having to build snowmen or follow their kids down the bunny slope.” She paused. “Then right after I called Bronwyn back, the funniest thing happened.”

  “Something happened?” Emma asked uneasily.

  “A family with three children canceled at the last minute, and another guest called and said her son is spending the week with his father instead. So only one child is signed up for the kids’ club. It’s a shame; the father was counting on his daughter playing with other children,” Betty said, and her tone brightened. “I’m sure you’ll keep her entertained; there’s so much to do in Snowberry.”

  “That’s what Bronwyn said.” Emma nodded. “I forgot how gorgeous Vermont is in the winter. I was supposed to spend the week in Hawaii with my boyfriend, but it didn’t work out.”

  “That sounds like a story in itself.” Betty poured two cups of tea. “I’d love to hear it.”

  “I can’t seem to make a relationship last more than three hundred and sixty-five days,” Emma said. “My friend Bronwyn thought Scott was the one to break the curse, but it didn’t work out.”

  “That’s the thing about love. In the beginning it’s as sparkly and fresh as new snow, but there’s no way of knowing if it’s going to stick,” Betty mused. “True love is magical. It casts a spell that nothing can break.”

  “That sounds like a line from one of Bronwyn’s daughters’ books,” Emma laughed.

  “There’s a lot of wisdom in children’s books.” Betty nodded. “Why did Bronwyn think you should come here?”

  In her exhaustion from driving, she’d forgotten about Fletcher! What if he walked in while her hair was a mess and there were shortbread crumbs on her jeans?

  “A change of scenery,” Emma said quickly. “So I don’t sit around feeling sorry for myself that I’m not sipping mai tais and kayaking at sunset.”

  She couldn’t confide in a stranger that she’d come to possibly reconnect with her first love. Anyway, it wasn’t exactly true. Bronwyn thought she and Fletcher could restart their relat
ionship, but Emma was afraid it was impossible.

  “You’ll love Snowberry. There’s a museum with some of Robert Frost’s poems, and we offer snowshoeing and guided tours to see moose in the forests. And most nights I hold a talent contest for the guests.”

  “A talent contest?” Emma raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s more fun than chess or those stodgy board games other bed and breakfasts offer.” Betty’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t worry, I offer a selection of wines at dinner, so everyone is relaxed.”

  * * *

  Emma squeezed her suitcase into the closet, and couldn’t help feeling gloomy. The room was pretty, with a floral bedspread, but it wasn’t an oceanfront suite with fresh fruits delivered daily and a card announcing the day’s activities: surfing lessons, followed by zip-lining in the jungle.

  What if she couldn’t find anyone to talk to? And looking for moose sounded exciting, but probably meant shivering in rubber boots while longing for a hot chocolate.

  The thought of running into Fletcher was the real reason she was nervous. He was a well-known director and had lived on two continents, while Emma had only changed apartments once since she’d arrived in New York. And while she loved her job, conjuring up ways to sell concealer was hardly as glamorous as attending cast parties with famous actors and actresses.

  The FaceTime icon on her laptop blinked, and she pressed ACCEPT.

  “You made it!” Bronwyn appeared on the screen. She was sitting in the living room, wearing a dress and knee-high boots. “I saw the weather report and was afraid you might get stuck on the road.”

  “You’re fibbing.” Emma sank onto the bed. It was nice to see a familiar face, even if only on a computer. “The skies are completely clear. You’re FaceTiming me because you thought I might be hiding out in my apartment.”

  “The thought had occurred to me,” Bronwyn admitted. “Driving four hours to Vermont to meet your old college flame is pretty brave.”

  “I must have been on a sugar and caffeine rush when I agreed,” Emma sighed. “It was eleven years ago; this is all a terrible mistake.”

  “It’s destiny, and destiny doesn’t make mistakes,” Bronwyn chided her. “Tell me about the inn. Is it as charming as in the brochure?”

  Emma told her about Betty and the talent show, and how Main Street had been so festive when she arrived.

  “The only thing is, a couple of families canceled, and there’s only one child signed up for kids’ club. I’m going to have to entertain her by myself.”

  “That will be even easier—you can do whatever you like. It all sounds heavenly,” Bronwyn said. “I’m green with envy. This is only the second day of our staycation, and already I’m calling Carlton just to hear a voice that isn’t high pitched and begging me to change channels.”

  “Why are you dressed up?” Emma asked. “You vowed to stay in sweats all week.”

  “Carlton saw Trixie’s new bangs on Skype and suggested I take the girls out for afternoon tea,” Bronwyn admitted. “He made reservations at the Plaza, and asked his cousin to meet us so I could get a pedicure at the hotel afterward. He’s a good husband; sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky.”

  “You’re both lucky,” Emma said. “But it’s not going to happen for me. I’ll spend seven days getting fat from eating maple syrup, and then I’ll go back to New York. I’ll meet a cute Latin musician who seems like a good catch because he’ll have a healthy glow in January. We’ll get three hundred and sixty-four days of spicy dinners and great sex until next Christmas, when I realize I can’t spend the holidays in Brazil with a dozen nieces and nephews I’ve never met. I’m thirty-three years old and I’ll always be alone.”

  “You keep forgetting Fletcher’s watch,” Bronwyn persisted. “All those failed romances were keeping the way clear so you would be available when you and Fletcher reconnected.”

  “You make my life sound like a driveway that needs shoveling,” Emma said, laughing, but she did feel better.

  Maybe Bronwyn was right about Fletcher; Snowberry was so pretty. Outside the window the sky was turning a milky pink, and she heard the sounds of boots crunching in the snow. It wouldn’t hurt to put on a warm coat and explore the village.

  “I have to go. Carlton called a taxi, and it’s waiting downstairs.” Bronwyn sighed happily. “For the next three hours I will not wipe a single smudge mark or worry about slipping on Cinderella’s plastic slipper. Trust me, you’re in the right place. Just let synchronicity do its work.”

  * * *

  The first place Emma entered was The Cider Mill, where there was an actual cider vat in the back. Emma was tempted to settle down in one of the comfy beanbags, but the guy behind the counter kept insisting she try a donut fresh from the oven, and Emma knew donuts and apple cider hardly constituted a healthy snack.

  She reluctantly pulled herself away and explored the Snowberry General Store, where kitchen utensils were on display next to a case of pocketknives. She couldn’t believe it was open on Christmas Eve, but the owner said it was one of the busiest days of the year. Upstairs there were Icelandic wool sweaters and rabbit-fur hats. Emma made her excuses to the guy behind the counter and hurried out the door. How could anyone wear a dead rabbit on her head?

  Now she ambled down the snowy sidewalk and the empty feeling returned. It was all right for Bronwyn to talk about synchronicity. Bronwyn was gliding through her thirties with a successful dermatology practice and preschool Christmas concerts and Friday date nights with the guy she loved. Meanwhile Emma’s life was like the donuts at The Cider Mill. It was missing a center. Without that special person to share things with, the ups and downs were becoming hollow.

  There was an ice skating rink, and Emma was tempted to rent some skates. She used to love skating. But three years ago she’d dated a professional ice hockey player named Dane, and since then she’d felt uncoordinated on ice. Tonight the rink was filled with people having fun, and none of them seemed to worry about their form.

  She exchanged her boots for a pair of skates and cautiously edged onto the ice. Music blared from a loudspeaker, and she smelled warm pretzels from a kiosk next to the rink.

  A girl of about ten was skating by herself. For some reason, Emma couldn’t take her eyes off her. It wasn’t that she was that good; there were other little girls showing off with twirls and jumps. It was more that she was enjoying herself. Her hair was a halo of reddish ringlets, and she wore a fantastic coat: as if the wild pattern had been designed by a child, but it was made of the finest wool.

  A man and a woman joined her, and Emma looked away. She wasn’t going to become one of those single women who glanced longingly at every couple and wondered if she would ever be part of a family.

  But there was something familiar about the little scene, and she dragged her eyes back to the group. The man was wearing a leather jacket, and the woman was young, with the kind of white-blond hair seen on women exiting expensive hair salons in Manhattan.

  The man looked up and Emma gasped. He seemed even taller than she remembered, and his dark hair was cut short, but it was Fletcher! How could Fletcher have a daughter? And who was the stunning blonde? If that was his ex-wife, it seemed like a very friendly divorce.

  Emma wished she had never let Bronwyn talk her into coming to Vermont. What if Fletcher had seen her? A man in his late thirties was tying his skates, and she skated up to him.

  “Would you skate with me?” she asked.

  “You want me to skate with you?” He straightened up.

  “Yes, please.” She nodded. “I haven’t been on skates in years, and I’m afraid to skate alone.”

  “I suppose so.” He shrugged and put out his hand. “I’m Luke; it’s a pleasure to meet you. I just drove up from Boston. Where are you from?”

  “I’m Emma,” she said, but she was too nervous to answer his question. She ducked behind him until Fletcher was blocked from view. She was dying to take another look: did Fletcher still have that dimple, and was there a weddin
g ring on his finger? But she was afraid if she poked her head out, he might see her.

  “Are you here for the whole Christmas week?” the man was asking. “There’s a bar on Main Street that serves delicious hot toddies.”

  The little group skated toward her, and Emma panicked. No matter which direction she took, Fletcher could run into her. The entrance to the rink lay ahead of her, and there was only one thing she could do. She turned to Luke and gave him her warmest smile.

  “Perhaps another time,” she said, nodding. “I really have to go.”

  “I don’t have your phone number!” he called after her.

  Emma didn’t even turn and wave. She felt incredibly rude; perhaps she’d see Luke again and could explain. Right now the only thing that mattered was untying the skates and getting as far away as possible.

  * * *

  Emma opened the door of her room and stripped off her coat. Of all the ways to almost run into Fletcher, she’d done it when he was with one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen and a girl in a fabulous wool coat, while Emma was floundering on the ice.

  How could Bronwyn not have discovered Fletcher had a daughter? Emma couldn’t help but wonder what she was like. Had she inherited Fletcher’s kindness and love of the theater?

  And could the blond woman be her mother? She seemed too young, and her stomach was flat in her skintight pants.

  It was almost dinnertime, but Emma was too embarrassed to go downstairs for Christmas Eve dinner. She was going to drink the tea Betty had left on a tray and do some work.

  She could always get up early and drive back to New York. Staying at the same Vermont inn as Fletcher didn’t seem like a wonderful stroke of fate that would change her life forever. It seemed like the most terrible mistake.

  Four

  Seven Days Before New Year’s Eve

  Snowberry, Vermont

  FLETCHER SAT IN THE LIBRARY of The Smuggler’s Inn and flipped through the guestbook. His excuse for leaving the guestroom was that he had to put through a business call to New York, but that had been a little white lie. He couldn’t tell his fiancée, Megan, the real reason; he could hardly admit it to himself. He could have sworn he’d seen Emma on the skating rink.