The St. James Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  Experience the magical romance of a New York Christmas in this classic tale from #1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs…

  Elaine St. James has it all—a thriving career as an elite Manhattan publicist, A-list best friends and a gorgeous, high-profile boyfriend her parents adore. But when Byron breaks up with her on Christmas Eve, Elaine is faced with the prospect of spending the holidays alone…until the man she loved long ago reappears, much like a ghost from Christmas past.

  Tony Fiore was everything her Upper East Side parents wanted Elaine to avoid—the Italian-American boy from Brooklyn was hardly an ideal match for their perfect socialite daughter. Despite their differences, they always found themselves together on Christmas Eve, ice-skating at Rockefeller Center. Until the year Tony failed to show up, and broke Elaine’s heart. Now, seven years later, on another Christmas Eve, they might finally have a second chance at first love…

  The St. James Affair

  Susan Wiggs

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  ELAINE ST. JAMES hurried along Fifth Avenue, trying to outrun Christmas, but it was gaining on her. She was only a few steps ahead of a troop of apple-cheeked carolers belting out “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and collecting donations from shoppers and tourists. She dodged to avoid a Santa reeling in the crosswalk, his breath smelling of too much holiday cheer too early in the day.

  Although she had a cell phone glued to her ear, Elaine could barely hear Byron, her boyfriend. Still, she’d heard enough to know the news was not good.

  “A bra model?” she yelled into the tiny daisy-decorated phone.

  His response was a garbled remark ending in “Huh?”

  And so she yelled even louder, “You’re dumping me for a bra model?”

  Too late, she realized the heralds had stopped harking, and the stoplight had brought traffic to a halt. Everyone within half a city block had heard her.

  Caught in the glare of dozens of curious looks, Elaine dropped her hand to her side and hitched her purse strap up on her shoulder. Byron’s mosquito-voiced reply squawked faintly from the receiver, but she didn’t want to hear another word. Belying the flames of humiliated color in her cheeks, she held her head high and said to no one in particular, “Whatever.”

  Then she clicked off her Star-Tac, turned on her kitten-heeled boot and headed up the street. Behind her, traffic started up as the light changed. The carolers struck up “Silver Bells,” and the city sidewalks became busy sidewalks again.

  Okay, so it’s Christmas, Elaine told herself, appalled to feel a sudden sting of tears in her eyes. Tears. Not for Byron, she realized. But for yet another dream gone, just like that. It was hard to say goodbye to a dream, hard to close the door on hope.

  Elaine squared her shoulders and soldiered on down the avenue. The fact was, she had enormous reserves of self-discipline. She’d been raised to do what was expected of her, and she was extremely good at it. She just had to get through the day. How hard could that be?

  She tried to get into the spirit of children laughing, people passing. She saw smile after smile and even made a valiant attempt at smiling herself, but it felt more like gritting her teeth.

  Why was Christmas so easy for some people, but so impossible for Elaine? Where had she been when they were passing out Christmas spirit?

  She knew where she’d been—in the chill confines of the right boarding school, the right summer camp, the right college. She’d been so busy training herself to do what was expected of her that she’d forgotten to ask herself what the point of all her efforts was.

  At the next crosswalk, a woman laden with glossy bags and beribboned parcels shoved herself in Elaine’s way like a barge pushing into port. Elaine bit her lip to keep from making some smart remark, but she couldn’t help scowling. She was later than ever for her lunch, and in no mood. Given her current situation, a slight edge of crankiness was justifiable.

  There had been a time, long ago, when the bustle and noise of the season had filled her with a sense of magic. She missed her former self, but had no idea how to revive that breathless, boundless feeling. Clearly Byron was not the answer. Of course, she should have known that from the start, but in spite of all the ways life had disappointed her, deep down, she still had this secret, frisky inner self that wanted to believe in magic.

  Someone had a set of real silver bells. She heard them chiming like a windup alarm clock.

  A moment later, she found herself confronted by an elf holding out a collection jar with a picture of a grinning orphan. Clenching her teeth, she merely stared straight ahead, pretending she hadn’t seen him. If she didn’t make eye contact, she might be able to shake him off. Elaine was pretty successful at avoiding contact. It had kept her safe for years.

  These street singers for charity were bogus, she reminded herself, thinking of the reeling Santa. The donations went into the collectors’ pockets, to be spent later at the pool hall or package store. Falling for that game merely encouraged more panhandlers.

  “Soon it will beeee Christmas day,” sang the elf.

  Duh, thought Elaine, eyeing the swags of plastic greenery and twinkling lights that had infested the city since the day after Halloween. The season seemed to descend earlier every year. Yet every year, Elaine couldn’t help feeling a little secret jolt of excitement. And hope. Maybe this year will be different, she always thought. But nothing ever changed, and she grew more cynical and brittle as time went on.

  “Come on, lady, gimme a break. Bestow a trifle.” The elf rattled the collection jar at her. He had a sing-along songbook and a stick-on name tag that said, “Hi! My Name Is Larry.” He wore a bright red muffler and an unjustifiably cheerful grin.

  The light changed and she joined the surge of pedestrians in the crosswalk, but the persistent caroler kept stalking her.

  “Just a little something for Westside Children’s Charities.” He flashed an official-looking permit.

  It was probably forged, Elaine thought.

  “Do it for the kids, lady.” Jingle bells bobbed from his pointy cap.

  She scowled at him. “Go away.”

  He gave her a puppy-dog look.

  Be strong, she told herself. If she gave in to this one, another would take his place, and the next thing she knew, half the city would be wanting something from her. Pointing her face into the icy wind, she strode on.

  “Away in a Manger” swept through the marauding carolers. The elf bobbed along at her side. “Look,” he said, “it’s not my fault the guy dumped you for some bimbo. Don’t take it out on the kids.”

  Finally she could hold her tongue no longer. “This is not endearing you to me.”

  “Think of the kids, then. There’s magic in giving, don’t you know that?”

  “I don’t believe in magic.” There. Saying so aloud made it as real as the pitted, frozen sidewalk beneath her fashionably clad feet.

  “That won’t keep it from happening. But you have to make a donation. Come on. What’s five bucks to someone wearing thousand-dollar Manolo boots?”

  An elf who knew footwear. This was getting stranger by the moment.

  “Five bucks, and the magic starts happening,” he said. “Guaranteed.”

  “What, I pay you, and you disappear?”

  He winked, and
sent her a gladsome look. “Trust me, you won’t be sorry. Help us out, and the world will start helping you.”

  “What makes you think I need help?”

  “You can’t keep edging your way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance,” he pointed out.

  Great. Not only did he know shoes, he quoted Dickens. I live in a world of fools, thought Elaine.

  “Make it a ten, and I’ll throw in a miracle,” Larry offered.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” As the last threads of her patience unraveled, she reached into her purse, then shoved a twenty at him.

  “Merry Christmas, Elaine,” he called cheerfully.

  “Whatever.”

  Then it struck her that he’d called her by name. She stopped, causing a businessman to slam into her from behind, then walk around her with only the gruffest of apologies. She searched the bustling crowd, but Larry the elf was nowhere in sight. How had he known her name? A lucky guess? No, he’d probably seen something with her name on it when she’d whipped out the twenty.

  Dismissing the incident with a shrug, she continued up the avenue. The herd of carolers brayed, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

  Christmas didn’t mean merriment of any sort to Elaine. It hadn’t for a long time. These days, the holiday meant more meetings to schedule, more events to plan, more clients demanding her time.

  Without Byron, it meant one less gift to buy this afternoon. The only discomfort his defection would create was a pained and awkward explanation to her parents, who had given Byron the St. James stamp of approval. The only fallout would be invisible to the world and felt only by Elaine. And she was getting awfully good at covering up her pain.

  She ducked down a side street, mercifully uncongested except for a panhandler in an army surplus jacket and his scruffy dog. They watched her from a stoop next to Fezzywig’s Bar and Grill.

  In her haste, she dropped her handbag and half the contents spilled across the dirty, rock-salted sidewalk. Gritting her teeth in irritation, she squatted down and scooped up the spillage—her cell phone, a tin of breath mints, her Coach leather agenda, a lipstick and assorted other gear—and stood up.

  “Miss, you forgot something.” The panhandler held out a cluster of keys, strung on a ring attached to a silver skate.

  “Thanks.” She grabbed the keys, stuffed them in her bag. She started to walk away, then hesitated and fished a bill from her wallet. Elaine was no pushover when it came to money, but she expected to pay for services rendered. Besides, the panhandler had given her back her silver skate key ring and for that he deserved a reward.

  That key ring had a special purpose for Elaine. She kept it as a reminder of the price of giving her heart.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ELAINE HURRIED under the awning leading to Fezzywig’s, a supertrendy spot that had recently become the hottest in the city. Thanks to Elaine’s publicity firm, the upscale place was currently the favorite midday rendezvous of the twenty-somethings whose names graced the society pages and celebrity columns.

  She dashed inside, and was immediately enveloped by the sleek, dimly lit decor of chrome and leather, the cheerful clink of glassware, and—mercifully—no piped-in Christmas Muzak. Instead, sinuous strains of vintage Coltrane provided a tasteful sound track for the ultrachic crowd. Gratefully, she shrugged out of coat, hat and gloves and handed them to the coat-check girl.

  She ducked into the ladies’ room. Her ivory cashmere slacks and sweater looked fine—particularly with the buttery-soft Manolos, she thought—but her hair and makeup were a disaster. Yet another thing she hated about Christmas—the rough winds, not to mention the brutal cold and the icy streets.

  She fluffed her hair back into a shining blond bob, then took out her compact and went to work, restoring order to her face with practiced strokes. Her mind worked furiously as she performed the damage control.

  So Byron had dumped her. She had to decide the best way to play it. On the one hand, she could assume the role of the wounded party, fragile and in desperate need of support. That would allow her to bask in her friends’ soothing platitudes about how the jerk didn’t deserve her, how he’d never been good enough for her in the first place, how he’d grow old and bitterly regretful, thinking of the opportunity he’d passed up with her.

  Leaning toward the mirror, she used an eyelash comb to de-clump her mascara. On the other hand, she could mask her humiliation and disappointment behind sarcasm, turning Byron Witherspoon into the joke of the day among their crowd. In throwing her over for a grade-A bimbo, he’d certainly given her adequate material.

  Okay, she thought, holstering her lip-gloss wand and pasting on a smile. It’s Christmas Eve. The perfect time for amusement. She’d breeze through this, pretending the loss of her boyfriend was nothing.

  Except she didn’t have to pretend. Her brow puckering a little, she studied her image in the mirror. Not bad, with that tousle-haired, cashmere-sweater, gold-earring thing going on. She hardly looked like a woman scorned.

  Searching her feelings, she discovered she’d suffered no emotional breakdown over this. The only twinge of regret she felt was that losing Byron now meant showing up at her parents’ party dateless tonight. How terribly inconvenient. She’d never hear the end of it.

  She was actually a little disappointed in herself. Where were the pain, the trauma, the weeping and the wailing? The wallowing? Wasn’t this supposed to be a personal train wreck rather than the emotional equivalent of a broken nail? At least if she wept and carried on, even for a few minutes, it would mean that she hadn’t wasted the past six months dating a guy she didn’t care about. But she had no urge to cry and carry on. She felt like getting some work done.

  Although it was still early, a good crowd had gathered to fuel themselves for the last day of shopping and tonight’s round of parties. Elaine greeted, waved and air-kissed her way across the room, her practiced smile untroubled by Byron’s betrayal. She loved this crowd of socialites and actors and trendsetters, and they loved her. She was in her element here, in the spotlight as she made her way to meet with her partners, who also happened to be her best friends.

  Yet Elaine had a problem. And it had nothing to do with her recent, very public conversation with Byron.

  She wasn’t sure why it happened, but sometimes, at the least convenient of moments, she felt something a person in her position wasn’t ever supposed to feel. Loneliness.

  It was absurd, given the full, busy life she led, but she couldn’t help it. No matter how much she tried to deny the truth, she often found herself gripped by a sense of futility and the bone-deep ache of emptiness.

  That emptiness was the enemy. She battled it with direct action. Land that account, grab that media spot, get out there in the glitzy world of fashion and entertainment and make a name for yourself. A willful, determined nature had compelled her to turn herself, in just a few short years, into one of the busiest, most influential publicists in the city.

  Bolstering herself with the thought, she strode across the bar to the high-backed booth where her friends waited, nursing Seven-and-Skyy cocktails and chattering at warp speed.

  “There you are, Elaine.” Melanie paddled her hand in the air. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry.” Elaine slid into the horseshoe-shaped booth next to Bobbi, who was not just her best friend, but her very best friend. “I had a lot of calls to make from the office.” She felt mildly annoyed at her partners. Just because it was Christmas, they thought they could take time off and neglect important business. They were supposed to know better. Public relations opportunities didn’t disappear just because the calendar declared a holiday. In fact, that was even more reason to get busy.

  Larry the elf was dead wrong. The magic of the season wasn’t the spirit of giving. It was that Christmas added an extra media hook to their press releases.

  Since it was past noon, she ordered a kir royale, slipped her purse strap off her shoulder and made a conscious effor
t to smile. Jenny P (her last name was Pinkwater but she’d dropped it long ago) looked perfect and polished in Kajal lipstick, black merino and knee-high suede boots. Melanie Benz, affectionately known as Bitchcakes by her adoring clients, laid out her Day Timer and Palm Pilot on the table. She was chopstick-thin. Her white-blond hair was spiked, her eyebrows pared into arches of perpetual surprise. Bobbi, graced with the looks of a supermodel, was a walking billboard for their clients in a T. Gallagher sweater and leather skirt, Chez Moi makeup and a hairstyle by Iago.

  Elaine had handpicked Bobbi, a nobody from a North Carolina mill town looking to break into show business or modeling. Elaine and her partners had other plans. Through the magic of their power over the press, they turned Bobbi into the city’s latest girl-about-town. They gave her the right look, posed her with the right stars and socialites, dropped her name in the right ears. And it had worked. She appeared in all the magazines that mattered—W, Vogue and Quest. Within days, the phone had begun to ring, invitations rolled in. Within weeks, Cosmo was calling to get her take on the best spot-reducing exercise for summer. Bobbi’s launch was a ringing success.

  There was an unexpected bonus in Elaine’s project to create a media darling. As bubbly and refreshing as a split of Moёt, Bobbi had become her best friend and confidant, the sister she’d never had. She was someone to share secrets and dreams with, someone to whom Elaine might even dare to admit that breaking up with Byron didn’t actually hurt, but had frightened her by making her doubt her ability to sustain any sort of relationship.

  No. She wouldn’t go that far. Even her soul sister would not be privy to that fact.

  Tonight Bobbi would play a key part in moving their firm up the food chain. It was going to be her job to beguile the mysterious and ambitious Axel, a hip Swiss parfumier they were trying to lure as a client. Everything important rode on landing this account. Axel would be proof at last to her parents that she was capable of doing something that mattered, of making a life for herself and standing on her own two feet. They’d always believed she was dabbling, their Upper East Side princess, playing at being a publicist to pass the time until she settled down and married someone with the right credentials, someone like Byron Witherspoon.