Snowflakes and Mistletoe at the Inglenook Inn

by Helen J Rolfe

  ‘I’ll stick with amateur psychology for my friends I think,’ said Isabella. ‘Have you seen the man since?’

  ‘No. He didn’t come into the lounge this morning. He must’ve had breakfast in his apartment. You know, he called me Cinderella.’

  Isabella nearly spluttered her coffee across the table. When she’d regained her composure she said, ‘I’ll bet that made you angry.’

  Her friend knew her too well. ‘Nobody has called me that since Lachie was on the scene.’

  ‘I suppose you should be grateful he didn’t call you an ugly sister.’ Isabella’s comment did what it was supposed to do and raised a giggle from Darcy. ‘That’s better. Don’t let him get you down. It sounds as though the comments were all made in the heat of the moment. He’s a guest who you won’t get rid of easily so it might be a good idea to make peace with him. Take the tree away, you can’t say fairer than that. And stop cleaning out the fireplace – that should put an end to the Cinderella comments.’ She grinned.

  ‘I love that fireplace. It’s part of the Inn’s character.’

  ‘I know.’ Isabella’s face gave away the fact she had more to say. ‘I’m not sure whether I should tell you this, but I heard from Michelle.’

  ‘How is she?’ Michelle was from high school and Isabella had been on the hockey team with her. But Michelle was also best friends with the enemy. ‘Lachie is engaged. To one of the ugly sisters.’ She attempted to inject a little humour.

  Darcy had never thought she’d mind, but she felt the colour go from her cheeks, a shiver run through her body. Lachie was the only guy she’d ever been remotely serious about and he’d broken her heart. It was hard to let that go.

  Lachie and Darcy had met at school and he’d liked her for ages, asked her out, and within a week – with no arm-twisting from his camp – she’d emerged from her well-established gothic phase and lost the dyed black hair, the black fingernails and thickly applied eyeliner, as well as the tatty black or dark grey clothes, and become a more feminine version of herself. The night she met him at the Shake Shack for burgers he almost looked straight past her and from that day he’d said it was as though someone had waved a magic wand and she’d transformed. He’d called her his Cinderella from that moment on.

  She’d taken the nickname as a compliment and it had been meant that way. They’d enjoyed long summers lazing in his parents’ garden, cosy winters together where they’d ice-skated in Central Park or been to Times Square on New Year’s to watch the ball drop. They’d graduated high school with bright futures, they’d travelled to Toronto and Vancouver together, making plans for the years ahead. Darcy had been in a happy bubble that rose further and further into the sky every day, until it burst one day when she caught Lachie going to second base with someone else. That someone else was Charlotte, one of the attractive twins who had been in their class at school. Isabella had dubbed her one of the ugly sisters, given Lachie’s nickname for Darcy.

  Lachie had said he was sorry, he’d begged for another chance, he’d insisted it wasn’t serious, but when Darcy saw him in a jewellery store a few weeks later just before Christmas buying a beautiful bracelet and it didn’t appear when she ripped the wrapping from her own gift, he admitted he was torn. He didn’t know who he loved. Darcy made it easy for him. She dumped him, on Christmas Day.

  ‘At least he made cheating on me worth his while,’ said Darcy. ‘He obviously was in love with her. I hope they’ll be very happy. I do,’ she insisted.

  ‘It doesn’t make it any nicer for you to hear though.’ Isabella watched her friend with concern and then shook her head. ‘He ruined dating for you. I hope he knows that.’

  ‘And I hope he doesn’t! I don’t want him thinking he has that kind of power.’

  ‘OK, sorry.’

  ‘And I’ve had plenty of dates after Lachie, don’t you worry.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Surprisingly enough, Lachie didn’t ruin Christmas for Darcy, but she did revert back to her gothic phase – although it wasn’t the same once Isabella had moved on and grown out of it. But Darcy was so upset, so angry, she couldn’t see the point of conforming, of fitting in, of trying so hard with anything. The breakup with Lachie happened in her early twenties around the same time her auntie had been through a devastating divorce from her uncle and Darcy had seen first-hand want it meant to depend on someone who took themselves out of the equation. It had the power to leave you broken, unable to pick up the pieces, and she’d decided from then on that it would never happen to her. She moved quickly on from her goth phase to a very definite feminist phase, which lasted until well after college, when she finally found her groove and settled into the person she still was today. And the first Christmas without Lachie, she’d decorated the tree, joined in with every festivity, and had been determined to make it the happiest Christmas ever, grateful for what she did have rather than dwelling on what she didn’t.

  ‘He was an ass,’ said Isabella firmly.

  Darcy grinned. ‘He was an ass.’ And so was Myles, the man who had called her Cinderella more recently. He was an ass because he’d made her remember the four years that had been her world with her ex and then the devastating breakup that had left its mark. Darcy knew full well that despite her protestations, the Lachie-effect as it had become known between her and her friends had been like a cloud hovering above her everywhere she went, and she didn’t seem able to escape it. Isabella had always said it would take a special someone to make her move on, but right now, Darcy couldn’t ever see it happening.

  ‘So, back to the man of the moment,’ said Isabella.

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Mr top-floor of course!’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Yes, him. Why do you think he called you Cinderella really? Do you think that’s who he wants you to be? Do you think he wants to be all macho and rescue you from a life of hard work or poverty?’

  ‘Isabella, you’re doing your amateur psychology thingy again. Don’t.’ Her look suggested she had no intention of stopping so Darcy relented. ‘He thinks I’ve fussed around him. He said I wanted to add shine to his world or some other bullshit.’

  ‘Do you? Do you want to add a shine to his world?’ Isabella’s eyebrows did a playful twitch and Darcy couldn’t help but grin. It was light relief compared to thinking about the Lachie-effect.

  ‘Let’s change the subject.’ Darcy warmed her hands on her coffee cup when a chill made right for her as a customer left the café. ‘How are your Christmas plans going? Are you seeing Jake?’ Isabella had been dating Jake for quite a while so Christmas plans were about to get complicated.

  ‘I’m seeing my parents on the day itself, then on Boxing Day I’ll go over to Jake’s house. Next year we said we might try to spend the day together but I’m not sure how either family will take it. Mine like to have me home, his like to have him at their place.’

  ‘You might have to do two Christmas dinners.’

  ‘No chance.’ Isabella pulled a face. ‘It took me most of this year to lose the weight from last year’s Christmas dinner and New Year’s celebrations.’

  ‘I’ll be too busy to worry about that this year.’

  ‘Your mom must be disappointed.’

  ‘She is, but she understands.’

  ‘Is your top guest joining you for Christmas dinner?’

  ‘You can’t move on from him, can you?’ But she smiled when she said it. ‘He did ask me to put his name on the list, but who knows.’ Maybe he’d change his mind after their confrontation.

  ‘Do you want him to?’

  ‘Don’t get any ideas.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘When your voice goes all high-pitched like that, it means you are. But I can tell you now, Myles Cunningham and I have absolutely nothing in common.’

  Isabella stayed quiet and tipped her cup back to get the remains of her coffee before shrugging on her coat, scarf and gloves. ‘Whatever you say.’

/>   Darcy talked to her friend’s retreating back as she buttoned up her own coat and they stepped out onto the busy sidewalk. Her breath made white puffs against the cold as she spoke. ‘All I want from this guest is a bit of politeness and his best behaviour when this editor comes to stay. The last thing I need is media coverage that paints the Inn in a bad light.’

  Myles Cunningham staying at the Inglenook Inn couldn’t have happened at a worse time. This editor worked for a publication with a circulation of thousands and Darcy felt sure she had a nose for a good story. If there was angst between the hotel manager and a guest, it would add a lot of colour to the piece, and Darcy had no intention of letting that happen.

  *

  Darcy didn’t dare spend too much time inside Myles’s apartment later that day for fear of retribution. But once the cleaner had been, it was her job to keep guests comfortable, see to it that all the little touches were added.

  Myles had already accused her of fussing but she pushed the name Cinderella from her mind as much as she could and replenished kitchen supplies, ensured there were enough pods for the coffee machine, put a handful of chocolates in a small basket beside the bed, and added a bowl of fresh fruit. She checked the bedroom and the bed had already been made, the pillows lined up as they should be, the velvet runner perfectly straight. She checked the sills. Even if you didn’t open the windows, the Inn had a way of accumulating some of the New York dust that came with living in the hub of a city. She put a fresh soap tablet in the bathroom, changed towels in there and in the kitchen, and tidied the desk by putting the two stray pens into the pot beside a writing pad.

  She wondered when the best time to remove the tree would be and as she picked up her tidy box of cloths, supplies and other implements, she heard a key in the door.

  Her heart thudded inside her chest. This wasn’t going to go down well.

  ‘I was just leaving.’ Head down, she went to move past Myles as he set his briefcase down and hung up his coat.

  ‘I overreacted,’ he said before she got all the way out of the door. ‘I apologise.’

  His voice made her stop in her tracks. She needed to maintain professionalism. It was the only way to keep things civil. ‘It was a presumptuous move on my behalf,’ she explained. ‘So I should apologise to you. I didn’t mean any harm. I will remove the tree at your convenience.’

  ‘Darcy.’ He put a hand on her arm but removed it quickly enough when she looked at it. ‘I’d had a bad day, Christmas isn’t my thing, and I lost it. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Apology accepted, Mr Cunningham.’

  ‘Would you stop calling me that?’

  She said nothing. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ There was his hand again, on her arm, the heat of his skin penetrating the sleeve of her shirt.

  ‘Darcy, please.’

  She met his gaze and nodded that they were OK. She ran through a list of what she’d done in the room, the food supplies she’d left. ‘I can take the tree away now if it suits. I’ll sweep up too. You’ll never know it was there.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He looked like a little lost boy and no longer could she be angry at his comment. Isabella was right. There was more going on than they could ever understand. And what right did she have to the information? None. He was a guest. That was it.

  ‘Well, let me know if you change your mind.’ She turned to leave but spotted one of her business cards she must’ve either dropped or knocked down from the side table by the entrance door. She picked it up and was about to pocket it when he put out a hand to take it from her.

  ‘That’s mine.’ He looked embarrassed, something she hadn’t seen from this usually strong, confident businessman.

  But she’d seen enough on that card to know why his demeanour had changed. It wasn’t a business card for the Inglenook Inn with a silhouetted brownstone and the curly writing and contact details, but a card from an escort agency.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he assured her.

  Tidy box in one hand, she smiled and said, ‘What you do in your own time is your business.’ It certainly wasn’t any of hers.

  ‘Darcy.’ He tried to stop her walking away again but she was too far for him to use the power of touch.

  ‘It’s none of my business. Good day, Mr Cunningham.’

  ‘It’s Myles,’ she heard as she walked away. And she would’ve felt guilty at being so aloof if she hadn’t thought harder about that business card, wondering whether she needed to raise the issue with Sofia. If Myles was bringing women of any type of disrepute back to the Inn, surely that was a disaster for business.

  And that wasn’t the reputation they wanted across Manhattan. Not at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Myles

  In his early twenties Myles had gone to see a counsellor. When he realised his brother had managed to put the past behind him, succeed in his career, get married and raise two very happy children, Myles recognised that he may need some help moving forwards. But the sessions hadn’t lasted. He’d had two, then missed one because of work, then another, and another, and then he’d begun to make excuses not to turn up, until slowly, over the years, his discomfort around his family particularly at this time of the year had become such a big part of him that, now, he had no idea how to move past it.

  After Darcy left him to it and dismissed any plea that the escort-agency card wasn’t what she thought it was, he put the business card on the side table and slumped onto the sofa, staring into the tree. It still had the strong scent of pine, its branches a verdant green, ornaments that had been carefully chosen and were coordinated in silver, white, and a blue that reminded him of Darcy because it was the same colour as her eyes. Those eyes that appeared to trust him one minute and the next, had no idea where he was coming from. But really, he couldn’t expect anything else, could he?

  He’d given up on his idea of asking Darcy if she had a friend he could take to the Christmas party, because after their run-in he felt sure what her reaction would’ve been. So he’d thought of an alternative plan, and the escort agency sounded both legitimate and respectable. It wasn’t a seedy, pay-for-a-full-service type thing, it was a fee-charging, reputable place where he could find someone to take to the party with no strings attached.

  When he pulled himself together, Myles did what he did best and lost himself in work. He’d had client meetings all morning and here he could get much more done. There were no interruptions in the corridor as he went to get a coffee, nobody running things by him when they needed a push to get going on a project. He cocooned himself in his work frame of mind, fielding calls, juggling paperwork, and by early evening he’d made progress. But his stomach told him who was boss and when it gave an almighty growl he knew it was time to get away from his desk.

  He changed into jeans and a jumper – or sweater as he had to get used to saying in the USA – and he grabbed a jacket after checking the weather app on his phone. The temperature had plummeted about ten degrees since lunchtime and he whistled. It was going to be his first winter here and he suspected they’d see snow before too long.

  He picked up his keys and momentarily paused at the escort card lurking beneath. Should he make the call now? Get it over with? He wondered how it worked. Did you get assigned someone depending on your budget? Did you ask for a certain type of women, view mugshots?

  Laughing to himself, he left his apartment and ventured down the stairs. This was alien to him, but he needed to keep his boss happy. He was already settling into life in Manhattan, a life that ran at an even faster pace than in London. But it was an addictive pace, a mayhem that made sense to him, or maybe it was the way he was wired.

  When he reached the foot of the stairs in the entrance-floor hallway he adjusted the garland on the bannister that had tried to wind its way loose, so it was tucked in neatly, and paused before he went into the lounge and leaned against the door jamb before he could be seen. Never mind the twinkling lights, the wreaths, the holly and the pine-scented tree
that stretched all the way up to the ceiling. The fire was crackling away in the hearth; seeing it relaxed him instantly – he could leave the world behind as he peered into those orange flames – and already he felt a desire creep up on him to request a drink and sit on the sofa by the window.

  ‘We don’t have anyone booked into the apartment at all after Mr Cunningham leaves.’

  At the sound of his name on Darcy’s lips, Myles hovered, still unseen.

  ‘The other apartments are at partial capacity but it’s patchy. We need to do something to really get the Inglenook Inn out in the open. I don’t want you to worry though, I’ve been following up on advertising possibilities, the website is coming up in every possible search engine, and with every guest and every review our reputation builds that little bit more. I promise you, Sofia, I’m doing the best I can.’

  It pained him that he’d snapped at her, called her Cinderella, moaned about the touch of niceness she’d tried to add. He could tell she was worried and he wouldn’t mind betting his sniping had made things worse.

  He went out of the brownstone quietly. He turned up the collar of his jacket as the cold bit at the tips of his ears. There was a fine layer of frost glistening in the passing tail lights of vehicles. It lingered on car wing mirrors, the tops of lamp-posts where the glow gave away all the city’s secrets, on the stoops of the brownstones standing in a row, reminding you to be careful making your way down to street level.

  Myles walked from the Inn to Washington Square Park. He followed the streets past New York University. He passed restaurant after restaurant, eager owners more than happy to jostle him inside, but each time held up a hand as though he was on a tight timeframe and had someone to meet. He passed a diner, a shop that looked as though it sold junk although he was sure they’d claim it was hardware or bric-a-brac. He finally turned left as he reached Canal Street and, battling the crowds, made his way along until he saw something he wanted. Not in the mood for a sit-down meal, especially not alone, he found a Chinese restaurant serving classic dim sum that he could take away after he’d finished a big bowl of wonton soup that warmed him right through.