by Anita Hughes
At first she’d thought it was exam nerves, but she received an A on her thesis draft and passed all her tests. It was Fletcher. They had been dating for two months and neither of them had expressed their feelings. Should Emma tell Fletcher that she was in love with him? How did he feel about her? They were both going home for Christmas, and she wondered what would happen when they returned.
She hadn’t even known what to get him for Christmas. It would be too embarrassing if she gave him something romantic and he bought her a pair of mittens. She finally settled on a wool scarf embroidered with his initials.
There was a knock on her door and she answered it. Fletcher stood in the hallway, holding a small bunch of tulips.
“You look beautiful,” Fletcher said approvingly. “These are for you. The guy at the florist tried to convince me to buy a Christmas poinsettia, but I told him it would die by the time we got back from winter break.”
“They’re lovely.” She set the flowers on her desk. “You haven’t told me where we’re going for dinner. I didn’t know what to wear.”
“That’s because it’s a surprise,” he said happily. “C’mon. I borrowed Jake’s car and I had to leave it running. It’s almost out of gas and if I turn it off, it might not start.”
“How can we drive without gas?” she asked, grabbing the box with the scarf.
“I told him I’d fill it up.” Fletcher took her hand. “I can’t be choosy. I’m lucky I found a car.”
* * *
Emma sat across from Fletcher at the Village Inn and thought she should be enjoying herself. The tavern was incredibly festive, with a roaring fire and a giant Christmas tree that made the restaurant smell like pine needles.
But the anxious feeling wouldn’t go away. She had to tell Fletcher her feelings, but she should wait until after dinner and they were alone. She finally put down her fork and pushed the wrapped box across the table.
“I hope you like it. Merry Christmas.”
Fletcher opened the box and took out the scarf.
“It’s perfect.” He looked at Emma and his smile seemed slightly awkward. “I don’t have a present for you here.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Emma said quickly. “Dinner and flowers is enough.”
“The tavern is famous for its twelve-hour duck. They stuff it with herbs and spices and roast it for twelve hours.” He pointed at her plate. “But you’ve hardly eaten anything.”
“It’s all delicious,” she assured him. “I guess I studied too hard. I haven’t slept in days,” she said lamely. “Maybe we can take some home.”
“I’ll ask them to box it up.” He nodded. “But I wasn’t planning on going straight back to campus. I wanted to show you something first.”
Fletcher took her hand and led her through the lobby of the inn. They climbed a staircase and he took a room key out of his pocket.
Emma peered inside and caught her breath. The room was all white, with a queen bed and white wool rug and white robes hanging on old-fashioned pegs. There was a white Christmas tree and a stand that held a television.
“I wanted to take you to New York for Christmas, but I couldn’t afford the train fare.” He took her hand. “So I rented Christmas movies set in New York: Miracle on 34th Street, and You’ve Got Mail. And I put together a Christmas CD. Did you know that John Lennon and Yoko wrote ‘So This Is Christmas’ when they spent eight days at the St. Regis in New York?”
“It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done!” Emma noticed the little touches: chocolate Santas on the bedside tables, and a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream. “It must have cost a fortune! Don’t tell me you’re going to be washing dishes over break, I’ll feel terribly guilty.”
“I offered, but they didn’t need a busboy.” He grinned.
“Then how did you pay for it?” Emma asked.
“I sold my signed autograph of Robert De Niro,” he admitted.
“You did what?” She turned around. Robert De Niro was one of Fletcher’s idols. The autograph was his most treasured possession, along with a program of The Producers signed by Matthew Broderick.
“I’ll get his autograph again when he stars in one of my plays.” Fletcher put his arm around her. “Right now nothing is more important than spending one night before Christmas with the girl I love.”
She reached up and kissed him and he kissed her back.
“I’m falling in love with you. I know we’re young and we have so much ahead of us, but all I want is to be together,” he whispered.
“That’s all I want too,” she breathed, and kissed him again.
Five Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
Emma watched the lights twinkle on the Christmas tree in the conservatory of The Smuggler’s Inn. How could she have let Bronwyn convince her that some magic twist of fate had brought her to the jewelry store in the East Village? And how could she have believed that a man’s watch would change her life?
She was here now, and The Smuggler’s Inn was so charming. It had been fun going to the Sugar Shack with Lola, and the village itself was one of the prettiest places she had ever seen.
It was Christmas, and she was determined to enjoy herself. She’d only been on one sleigh ride, and she wanted to check out the scented candles at the Snowberry General Store. All she had to do was avoid Fletcher. Emma closed the piano and hoped that it would be easier than it seemed.
Eight
Five Days Before New Year’s Eve
Snowberry, Vermont
FLETCHER SAT IN THE LIBRARY of The Smuggler’s Inn and wondered how he could be happy and miserable at the same time. It had been his idea to spend Christmas in Snowberry. Megan had wanted to lie on a beach in the Bahamas, and Lola had made a list of shows she wanted to see on Broadway. Fletcher had piled them into the car and promised seven days of roasting chestnuts by the fire and trekking through the snow to see live Christmas trees.
But this morning Megan had asked again why she couldn’t play the lead in Father of the Bride. He stood in front of the closet in his boxers and wished they could forget about it and go back to bed. Megan wasn’t like that; she would never use sex to get what she wanted. He tried to tell her that the producers had the final say, but she insisted that he was the director, and if he really believed in her, he could make them see she was right for the role.
She’d kissed him on the cheek and said she was going out for breakfast. He got dressed faster than he thought possible and ran out the door after her. Lola was standing in the hallway and he had to pretend everything was all right.
And everything was all right. It had taken all afternoon and a romantic sleigh ride through the forest for Megan to relax. When they argued, she became like a cat caught in the rain. Her skin was prickly and those almond-shaped green eyes shut him out completely.
He knew Megan loved him; she told him all the time that he was one of the most brilliant people she’d ever met. So how could he blame her for caring about her career? When he was at the Old Vic, he’d had to fight to direct his first play. The executive producer had taken one look at Fletcher in his Colby sweatshirt and said that if that longhaired American kid was going to direct Shakespeare, he would withdraw his money faster than anyone could say Violet Crumble.
Fletcher finally agreed to consider Megan for the part, and the rest of the afternoon was magical. The sleigh drove through a forest carpeted in fresh powder, hung with icicles as bright as diamonds. They held hands under the blanket and listened to the clopping of horse hoofs and Fletcher had that elusive feeling of being exactly where he wanted to be.
Then why now, sipping a brandy before dinner, was there an anxious feeling in his stomach? It was because of Lola. Originally he had signed her up for kids’ club so she could be with other children, but apparently she was the only child staying at the inn. And to make things even more complicated, Emma was in charge of the program! When Betty explained how the woman in charge of kids’ club ha
d come down with the flu and Emma stepped in at the last minute, Fletcher’s skin got clammy. What were the chances of Emma and Lola being thrown together all week?
When they returned to the inn, Lola couldn’t wait to tell him about her afternoon with Emma. She showed him the postcards she was writing to Cammi and her mother and promised to give him a preview of the song she was going to sing at that night’s talent show. Fletcher could hardly tell Lola that she shouldn’t do kids’ club when she was having such a good time.
His phone buzzed and he pressed ACCEPT.
“Fletcher, it’s Graham.” His British accent came over the line. “How is the holiday? Are you and Megan drinking schnapps by the fire, and is Lola making friends with goats?”
“I’m glad you called.” Fletcher put the brandy on the table. “I need to talk to you.”
“Any more imaginary sightings of Emma?” Graham asked cheerfully. “Emma eating hot biscuits at the inn, or Emma snowshoeing outside your window?”
“Emma accompanied Lola at the talent show last night,” Fletcher replied. “Lola sang ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ and Emma played the piano.”
“That’s almost as good as the dream I had about Meghan Markle,” Graham chuckled. “She and Prince Harry invited me to Buckingham Palace for afternoon tea.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Fletcher said sharply. “Emma is staying at The Smuggler’s Inn.”
“Your college sweetheart turned up in some tiny town in Vermont that isn’t even on a map?” Graham asked. “I’d say go easy on the brandy, you were never a good drinker.”
“I didn’t want to believe it either,” Fletcher said. “Lola brought her over to the table. Her hair is different, but she looks exactly the same.”
“You’re serious! You don’t think she followed you there?” Graham gasped in surprise. “You haven’t talked to her in a decade.”
“I doubt that. Emma seemed as shocked as I was,” Fletcher said slowly. “It’s more like…”
“Like what?” Graham cut in.
“Some crazy trick of fate, I suppose. I still can’t believe that she’s here. It’s made me think about things. I thought Megan and Lola would get along wonderfully, but they can’t agree on anything,” Fletcher began. “And Megan and I got into an argument about the new play. She wants to play Kay, and I don’t think she’s right for the part.”
“What does that have to do with Emma?” Graham wondered.
“Maybe Emma being here is fate saying I should slow down,” Fletcher said, pondering. “Megan and I have only been together for six months; maybe it’s moving too fast.”
“That doesn’t sound like you; you’ve never been a big believer in fate. Emma being in Vermont is most likely a sign that The Smuggler’s Inn ran a Christmas special in New York Magazine,” Graham countered. “It’s like dining at the Savoy. I know half the people at the American Bar on a Friday night.”
“Odd things keep happening,” Fletcher persisted. “The woman who runs kids’ club got the flu, and Emma took her place at the last minute. Emma and Lola spend every afternoon together,” he said pensively. “It’s like some magic Christmas spell hangs over the whole inn.”
“I thought New Englanders don’t believe in spells—they burned all the witches,” Graham chuckled. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make light of your situation. I know what strong feelings you had for Emma, but that was a decade ago. You have to remember your life before you met Megan. Cassandra left you for an architect in Connecticut, and you had to follow her to America or you’d only see Lola summers and Christmas holidays. And don’t you recall the first month after you arrived in New York? You kept calling me because you were so miserable.”
“I herniated my back moving boxes into my new apartment, and my ninety-two-year-old neighbor brought over chicken soup,” Fletcher said. “Then I was about to get fired because the producer was worried I wasn’t up for the task. I tried to get a taxi to the theater to save my job, but it was pouring rain and the taxis were all taken.” Fletcher remembered the first time he’d seen Megan. “A beautiful blonde carrying a copy of Tennessee Williams’s plays offered to share her cab, and we talked about A Streetcar Named Desire on the drive.”
“If anything was a twist of fate, it was meeting a woman with movie-star looks and a Yale education when you were at the lowest point of your life,” Graham said, finishing Fletcher’s story. “You’re my best friend, and I just want you to be happy. I saw you and Megan together at Thanksgiving and it’s the real thing. Don’t throw it away because a figure from your past magically appeared in Vermont at Christmas.”
“I love Megan, but it’s complicated,” Fletcher worried. “When I’m with Megan, I feel like I’m disappointing Lola.”
“I have an idea. Take them both out for ice cream. No one can be miserable when they’re licking a vanilla ice cream cone.”
“I supposed you’re right,” Fletcher grunted.
“Megan is a gift from the heavens. Please, Fletcher, try to forget about Emma and not complicate your life,” Graham counseled him. “If you slip and hurt your back again, the ninety-two-year-old neighbor with the chicken soup might be dead.”
Fletcher hung up and picked up his brandy. Graham was right; Fletcher had to stop thinking about Emma. He was addressing the problems between Megan and Lola all wrong. He was expecting Megan and Lola to find common ground, but he had to do it for them.
First he had to show Lola how much he loved her. He finished the brandy, and was suddenly in a much better mood. Sometimes it was difficult to see your own life clearly; you needed a kick in the right direction.
Lola was sitting cross-legged on her bed when he knocked on the door. She was wearing one of Cassandra’s creations, a blue dress with a floral hem, and white tights.
“I thought you’d be practicing for the talent show,” he said, poking his head in.
“Betty canceled the talent show.” Lola looked up from her postcard. “She had some kind of emergency.”
“That’s too bad, but it opens the night to possibilities.” Fletcher perched on the bed. “How about we eat somewhere special? The Goose Duck Inn has a Christmas tree that’s ten feet tall.”
“Every restaurant Megan chooses serves spinach salad or some weird liver.” Lola wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather stay here and make peanut butter sandwiches.”
“Megan didn’t choose it, I did,” Fletcher offered. “I read in the guidebook they have the best maple walnut cake and their stuffing comes with extra gravy. But we can go anywhere you like.”
“Megan thinks gravy is a waste of calories,” Lola said suspiciously.
“Then she can ask for hers on the side,” Fletcher suggested.
“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make me feel better because there wasn’t room in the sleigh,” Lola replied. “I don’t mind about Megan. Cammi says if her father doesn’t remarry he’ll get old and only have their dog for company. We don’t even have a dog, so you’d be all alone.”
“I’m only thirty-four; that’s a long way off,” Fletcher laughed. “You’re my favorite dining companion, and I want to go somewhere you enjoy.”
“It is Christmas, and maple walnut cake sounds yummy.” Lola brightened. “Can we visit the village square afterward? They hold a concert every night, and maybe they’ll let me sing.”
“Most little girls would be more interested in watching Christmas movies,” Fletcher said, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Most girls haven’t decided on a career on Broadway.” Lola put away the postcards. “I have to perform all the time if I want to be a star by the time I’m fourteen.”
* * *
The Goose Duck Inn was a white clapboard house with a gray-shingled roof and a plaque that said it was established in 1890. The interior was quintessential Vermont: a lobby with a roaring fire, Norman Rockwell prints on the walls, and the scent of pine trees and candle wax.
The maître d’ led them to a table that was set
with porcelain plates and gleaming silverware. The Christmas tree took up a whole corner, and every branch was decorated with ornaments. Waiters carried silver bread baskets, and the brick fireplace was hung with stockings.
Megan looked gorgeous in an emerald-green dress and gold earrings. Her face was artfully made up, with the sheer arrogance of youth: a touch of blush to accentuate her cheekbones, and red lipstick. Lola wore a plaid coat over a matching dress and green stockings.
“I’m the luckiest guy, to have such beautiful dinner dates.” Fletcher was in a good mood: the wine selection was excellent, and everyone liked something on the menu. Megan ordered the mushroom Wellington, Lola was excited about the burger with Belgian fries, and Fletcher was having pork chops in an apple bourbon sauce.
“We should make reservations here for New Year’s Eve,” he suggested. “They’re serving duckling and a choice of maple crème brûlée or salted caramel ice cream for dessert.”
“I’m having a wonderful time, but I thought we could go back to New York a day early,” Megan said, looking up from her salad. “We received an invitation to Jordan Roth’s New Year’s Eve party. It’s the party of the season, and it would be the perfect place to announce I’m going to play Kay. Everyone will be there.”
Jordan Roth was the wunderkind producer responsible for The Book of Mormon and half the hit shows on Broadway. But Fletcher had promised Lola they would celebrate New Year’s Eve in Vermont.
Fletcher was about to answer when something familiar caught his eye. The blood drained from his cheeks and he picked up his wine glass.
Emma was sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant. Her face was half-hidden by the menu, but it was definitely her. She was wearing a white sweater and talking to the waiter.
“Dad.” Lola turned and followed his gaze. “It’s Emma! She’s all alone, I should ask her to join us.”