Christmas in Vermont

by Anita Hughes

  But Emma’s life wasn’t a movie, and she was spending the evening with her best friend and her daughters. She slipped the watch back into her purse and followed Bronwyn and the girls into the kitchen to bake cinnamon cookies.

  Two

  Seven Days Before New Year’s Eve

  New York

  IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE MORNING, and Emma was sitting in her living room having a staring match with the space heater. She often did this with things in the apartment the landlord took too long to fix: the showerhead that delivered hot water in a slow trickle, the toaster oven that burned one side of a bagel while leaving the other soft and soggy. Sometimes it worked, and she got one perfectly toasted bagel that she ate with butter and jam before it went on the blink again. Today the space heater’s red light refused to turn on, and she was forced to put on a wool coat and three pairs of socks.

  She didn’t know how to fill the long hours of Christmas Eve until she wouldn’t feel guilty about climbing back in bed with a cup of hot chocolate and whatever was on Netflix. It didn’t help her mood that Scott was posting pictures on Instagram of a Hawaiian sunset with pink skies and blue water you knew was warm just by looking at it. She told herself she wasn’t going to look at social media while her friends were off in Aspen or the Bahamas. But this morning it was too cold to get out of bed, and she left her book in the living room and ended up scrolling through her phone.

  She couldn’t even be mad at Scott for posting pictures of a luau with platters of pineapples and melons. He wasn’t doing it to make her jealous or show her what she was missing. When he was having a bad day at the office, it made him happy to see friends’ photos of rooftop sunsets or juicy burgers accompanied by a foamy beer.

  Bronwyn was right; Scott had been the perfect boyfriend. On Valentine’s Day he had polled Emma’s mother and Bronwyn to find out what kind of chocolates Emma preferred. He instigated “you days” once a month, where they each planned a day of activities the other would enjoy. Emma ran out of ideas after two months, but Scott surprised her with wine tasting in the Hudson Valley and tickets to a photographic retrospective on fifty years in advertising.

  So why had that familiar empty feeling started a month before Christmas? When they’d picked out a Christmas tree for her apartment, Scott told the tree guy that it was their first Christmas together, as if implying there would be many more. At his company’s Christmas party, Scott had kept his hand so firmly on the small of her back, she’d felt like a remote-controlled toy car.

  Other women would have loved that all their milestones as a couple were input into his phone, like the day they’d first met: it had been last January, in the women’s department of Saks. She was returning a sweater her previous boyfriend, Ian, had given her for Christmas, and he was buying a birthday present for his mother. She felt like a heel when she accepted his invitation to coffee: the breakup with Ian had involved angry words and a few slammed doors, and she wasn’t going to start a relationship so soon. But Scott’s clean-cut good looks were the opposite of Ian’s brooding Irish charm, and anyway, she had to believe in love.

  Except it wasn’t love. The sex was consistent and satisfying, and they both were passionate about health care reform. Scott had even said she looked beautiful when she’d had the worst cold in years, but it still wasn’t love.

  Fletcher’s watch sat on the coffee table, and she picked it up. How had the watch ended up in a secondhand jewelry store in the East Village?

  Bronwyn said it was synchronicity, but Emma didn’t believe the watch had skipped over the Atlantic and taken the subway to the East Village to end up in her hands. And Bronwyn’s suggestion of finding Fletcher was a terrible idea. Emma and Fletcher had been together in another lifetime, and they hadn’t seen each other in eleven years.

  Emma picked at a slice of pumpkin bread that would double as lunch as well as breakfast, because she had expected to be in Hawaii and the fridge was empty. The space heater gurgled theatrically, and she remembered when she and Fletcher had first met.

  September, 2007

  Waterville, Maine

  It was fall semester, senior year, and the whole campus was bathed in that multicolored fall light that made the idea of months marked by darkness seem impossible. All the students were taking advantage of the Indian summer and playing Frisbee in front of Williams Library except Emma. Emma was doing the one thing that calmed her nerves before an important paper was due: she was sitting at the piano in her residence hall and playing a medley of 90s pop songs.

  “Excuse me,” a tall guy said as he rushed inside. A scarf was wrapped around his neck, and he was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt. “I’m looking for Aubrey.”

  Aubrey was the only other resident of Alfond Hall who loved the piano. They took turns playing, and there were many nights that Emma and the whole floor went to bed listening to Aubrey’s rendition of Billy Joel songs.

  “Aubrey went home for the weekend. His father had an emergency appendectomy,” Emma said. “He’ll be back on Tuesday.”

  “He couldn’t have left,” the man said, tugging at his scarf. “He didn’t say anything.”

  “It was an emergency,” Emma repeated. “He grabbed a bag and sprinted for the train.”

  “Oh god, oh no.” The man sank onto a lumpy sofa. “He couldn’t have. Not today. Not this weekend.”

  Emma had never seen him before, but she guessed he was a theater major. It was too warm to be wearing a scarf, and he wasn’t lugging around a heavy backpack like other students.

  “I’m afraid he did.” She turned back to the piano. The first draft of her senior thesis was due on Monday, and she still didn’t have a clue what to write. Usually an idea came to her when she was playing, but today all she could think about was bicycling into Waterville for ice cream or shopping at the farmer’s market.

  “You’re very good,” the man said. “Play more of that.”

  Emma finished the chorus of “Fields of Gold” by Sting and started on the theme from Arthur.

  “Where did you learn to play?” he asked.

  “My mother was a piano teacher. She and my father were hoping for a piano prodigy, but I never achieved more than runner-up in the middle school talent contest,” she explained. “I play to relieve stress. Other people run five miles; I play Christopher Cross.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” He glanced at the clock above the brick fireplace. “In exactly six and a half hours?”

  “I’ll be putting the finishing touches on the first draft of the most brilliant senior thesis the English department ever saw,” she sighed. “That is, if I come up with a topic and the first twenty pages in the next six hours and twenty-nine minutes.”

  “Could you possibly do that tomorrow? Please? I’m not above begging if I have to.” He gulped. “I need you at the Strider Theater. Aubrey was supposed to accompany tonight’s play, and there won’t be any show without a pianist.”

  “Why would I do that?” Emma looked up. “I don’t even know your name. And I can’t leave a paper until the day before it’s due. I’ll get writer’s block and end up staying up all night to get it done.”

  “I’m Fletcher, and I’ll write a note to your professor,” he pleaded. “It’s so important. The whole performance depends on it.”

  “Are you saying your grade is more important than mine?” Emma asked. “Everyone says theater students are arrogant, and they’re right. You’re wearing a scarf like some character in a Fitzgerald novel, and you want me to give up a whole evening to be in some silly play.”

  “The scarf is a prop; if I don’t wear it I might forget it. And plays are never stupid. Drama is one of the most noble forms of expression.” He looked at Emma expectantly. “I can’t afford to pay you, but I can get you and a date tickets to The Book of Mormon at the Waterville Opera House. I’ll even throw in pre-theater cocktails. I have coupons for two free drinks.”

  “I don’t have anyone to take,” Emma said, and bit her lip. Was she giving him
that piece of information because he was good-looking in an artsy way with blue eyes and dark, curly hair?

  “There must be some way to convince you,” he pleaded. “I have access to a car. We can drive to Kennebunkport and eat clam chowder at The Clam Shack. I washed dishes there over break, and I get free food.”

  Emma didn’t own a car, and trips to the seashore were as tantalizing as real maple syrup in her morning oatmeal.

  “I don’t have time for that either.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to find someone else.”

  “There is no one else.” He touched her hand. “Please—the cast and the director and the technical crew are depending on it. Not to mention the audience, who will be waiting anxiously when the lights go down.”

  Emma wanted to tell herself she said yes because she couldn’t let down so many people, but she would be lying. She agreed because his fingers against her skin made her feel completely different than she’d ever felt before.

  Seven Days Before New Year’s Eve

  New York

  Fletcher’s watch was smooth in her palm, and she remembered her surprise when she’d arrived at the theater and discovered it was a one-man show. Fletcher was the actor and director and had even set up the lights and clipped on his own microphone. She recalled their drive to Kennebunkport a week later and their first kiss, their mouths sweet and salty from caramel toffees.

  Her phone buzzed and Bronwyn’s number popped up.

  “Merry Christmas. What are you doing?” Bronwyn asked when Emma picked up.

  Emma debated telling the truth: she was eating two-day-old pumpkin bread, having a battle of wills with the space heater, and reminiscing about Fletcher. But that would prompt Bronwyn to say she shouldn’t have broken up with Scott or she’d be swimming with dolphins, so instead she told a little white lie.

  “Working on copy for the Lancôme account. You can’t imagine how difficult lipstick ads can be. All the good adjectives are overused: full-bodied, plump, luscious.”

  “You shouldn’t work on Christmas Eve, it’s unhealthy,” Bronwyn rejoined. “I need you to come over. It’s an emergency with the girls.”

  “The ‘we’re in the ER because Sarah got my wedding ring stuck on her thumb’ kind of emergency?” Emma asked warily. “Or, the girls can’t agree on which Disney DVD to watch and you have to cast the deciding vote?”

  “It doesn’t matter what kind. You’re their godmother, and I need you,” Bronwyn huffed. “Call an Uber and I’ll pay when you get here.”

  Bronwyn’s apartment had central heating that worked and her leftovers contained turkey and some vegetables instead of just flour and sugar.

  “Fine, I’m coming.” Emma gave the space heater a triumphant glance and walked to the closet for her boots.

  * * *

  “Merry Christmas, Miss Logan,” Owen said when she entered Bronwyn’s building. “You look lovely today.”

  “Merry Christmas. Can I hire you to trail after me and say that?” Emma joked. “It’s too cold in my apartment to change, so I just layer on more clothes.”

  “If I was thirty years younger and twenty pounds lighter, I’d trail after you at no charge.” Owen sucked in his gut. “I delivered cinnamon rolls to Mrs. Tucker’s apartment—there are a couple of extras for you.”

  “Thank you, Owen.” Emma headed to the elevator and the circulated air warmed her shoulders. “I knew I came to the right place.”

  * * *

  “You ordered cinnamon rolls,” Emma said to Bronwyn as they entered the playroom. The floor was harder to find than it had been yesterday, with a fort consisting of pink blankets stretched over Trixie’s puppy gates. “I thought you and the girls were going to bake.”

  “Sarah thought waiting for the cookies to come out of the oven was the perfect time to paint the counter with nail polish, so we gave up.” She pointed to the two sets of stocking feet peeking out from the fort. “They’re giving Trixie a pretend bath in the doggie beauty salon.”

  “You said it was an emergency.” Emma removed a doll’s hairbrush from the sofa and sat down.

  “It is.” Bronwyn handed her an envelope. “This is for you.”

  Emma opened the envelope and a sheet of computer paper fell out. There was a photo of an inn with snow-covered turrets perched on the edge of a village square. There was a skating rink and a Christmas tree lit with multicolored lights.

  “What kind of emergency involves a bed and breakfast in Vermont?” Emma read the description of The Smuggler’s Inn in Snowberry, Vermont.

  “The kind where you have a reservation starting this evening, and it will take you four hours to drive there,” Bronwyn answered as a yelping sound came from the fort. “It’s your Christmas present. Eight nights at a charming inn nestled at the base of Vermont’s Green Mountains. With only one little catch.”

  “You already gave me a Christmas present,” Emma reminded her. “And what do you mean, one little catch?”

  “A beach caftan and matching tote bag aren’t going to come in handy in New York,” Bronwyn said. “Trust me, you need to get away. Even I’m thinking of taking the girls somewhere. Sarah gave Trixie a haircut—she only used plastic scissors, but now Trixie has bangs.”

  “It’s really nice of you to think of me, but I don’t mind staying home,” Emma said. “I have work to catch up on, and there’s half a dozen Netflix series I’ve been meaning to watch.”

  “There’s so much to do in Snowberry,” Bronwyn read from the computer paper. “You can go sled dog racing, and there’s a sugarhouse and antique stores and Fletcher.”

  “What did you say?” Emma gasped. Her cheeks paled and she snatched at the paper.

  “You didn’t want to look up Fletcher on social media, but you didn’t say I couldn’t.” Bronwyn took out her phone. “He spent ten years at the Old Vic in London directing actors like Jude Law and Emma Roberts. He moved to New York last summer, and he’s directing a play on Broadway,” Bronwyn finished in a rush. “He has an ex-wife in Connecticut and according to Facebook, he’s spending the week between Christmas and New Year’s at The Smuggler’s Inn in Snowberry, Vermont.”

  For a moment Bronwyn’s apartment, with its crown molding and Oriental rugs, receded like a landscape outside a train window. Emma was standing on the Colby Green clutching her diploma and searching the throng of graduating seniors for Fletcher. When she spotted him, wearing his father’s tie and talking animatedly to the drama professor, her heart was brighter than the May sun and all she wanted was to wrap her arms around him.

  “So you have to go,” Bronwyn said, interrupting her thoughts. “It’s synchronicity. It could change your whole future.”

  “That’s very generous, but it’s out of the question.” Emma’s heart pounded. “I have to work on the Lancôme campaign. And I’m planning to use the gift voucher for the Red Door spa my parents sent for Christmas.”

  “You don’t like massages, they make you fidgety.” Bronwyn picked up a hair ribbon that had been tossed out of the fort. “And the inn has a library—perfect for guests to curl up with a book or catch up on paperwork.”

  “I’m still not going,” Emma said. “What if I do see Fletcher? How do I explain bumping into him in the middle of Vermont?”

  “The same way you told me about finding his watch in the East Village. It’s a crazy coincidence,” Bronwyn said. “You have nothing to lose. At worst, you’ll enjoy a week in the maple syrup capital of New England. And you might come home with the guy who will break the three-hundred-and-sixty-five-day curse.”

  “You still haven’t told me what the catch is,” Emma said, feeling her resolve wavering.

  “Well, the funniest thing happened. When I called to make the reservation, the innkeeper said The Smuggler’s Inn was fully booked,” Bronwyn replied. “So I called every bed and breakfast in Snowberry, but they were all full. I was going to give up, when the owner of The Smuggler’s Inn called me back.”

  “What did she say?” E
mma couldn’t help being curious.

  “The woman who runs her kids’ club came down with the flu. If you’d be willing to pitch in for a few hours every day, the lodging and food would be free.”

  “You want me to run the kids’ club?” Emma asked incredulously.

  “You’re amazing with children—Sarah and Liv love being with you,” Bronwyn returned. “And don’t you see? If there was any doubt that you were supposed to spend Christmas week at the same inn in Vermont as Fletcher, this proves it was meant to be. What are the chances the only room in Snowberry became available at the exact time you want to go?”

  “This is your idea,” Emma grunted. “I didn’t want anything.”

  “Only because you’re my best friend and I want you to be happy,” Bronwyn said. “Fate is working in your favor, and you can’t ignore it.”

  “You’re not going to take no for an answer,” Emma said, sighing.

  “Of course not; I’m a mother,” Bronwyn agreed. “It’s the only word I hear from when I come home from work until bedtime.”

  There were more yelping sounds and the fort collapsed. Sarah emerged, holding a dog as big as she was, and Liv climbed into Bronwyn’s lap.

  “Thank you; it’s a wonderful gift. All right, I’ll go.” Emma nodded. “But first Owen promised me a cinnamon roll. It’s a long drive, and I haven’t had lunch.”

  * * *

  Emma stood on a chair and pulled down the suitcase in her closet. It was supposed to be filled with sundresses and bikinis, with an Aloha Airlines sticker on the canvas. Was she really going to stuff it with long underwear and throw it in her trunk? And would her car even make it to Vermont?

  Fletcher! Working and living in New York. She closed her eyes and tried to conjure him up. Would his blue eyes still give her that melting feeling, like looking into a candle? And would he still have the flat stomach he got from cross-country skiing, or would it have gone soft from years spent in the theater?