Christmas in Aspen

Chapter One

Caroline Holt was supposed to be in London, having a hot holiday romance with Brad, an attractive British editor she’d met in the spring at the London Book Fair. Instead, she was driving to upstate New York, to spend Christmas at the family cabin in Hudson, with her younger sister, Daphne.

Caroline had always loved her mother’s cabin, nestled in a forest of pine trees. When she was young, she adored Christmas in the Hudson Valley. The winter walk in town, with the shop windows all lit up and the lampposts decorated with huge red bows. The evenings always ended with hot chocolate and reindeer-shaped cinnamon cookies.

But this year she was dreading the holidays; it had been the worst year of her life. A few months ago, her mother, Anne, died from breast cancer. In November, Jack Barret, the guy she was having a fling with, did not take it well when she’d ended their relationship, and she had to change the locks in her apartment. Jack was an attorney for celebrity book contracts, and he was handsome and confident. But after she told him they couldn’t see each other anymore, he wouldn’t leave her alone.

Anne had been a successful agent at the House of Books, a prestigious New York City literary agency. Caroline’s childhood revolved around books. Once a month, Anne hosted a literary salon at the apartment, and in the summers, authors sometimes stayed at the cabin.

When Caroline landed her first job as an editorial assistant at a publishing house, she couldn’t believe she was being paid to do what she loved. She had grown up around books and had dreamed of a career in publishing for as long as she could remember. And her passion only grew over the years. She adored every aspect of being an editor—from the initial thrill of falling head over heels for a manuscript to removing the dust jacket of the printed book and smelling the spine as if it were a bouquet of flowers.

But for the past several months, she’d felt burned out. She couldn’t get excited enough about the submissions sent to her by agents. She didn’t agree with the marketing team on several strategies, and when one of her authors panicked a few weeks before publication, she was too exhausted to give her usual pep talk to cheer her up.

At first, she attributed it to her mother’s diagnosis, and to inheriting extra books when another editor quit. But then her mother went into remission, and the publisher hired a new editor, and she felt the same. The problem was with her, and she didn’t know how to fix it.

Two days ago, the publisher, Claudia Kennedy, called Caroline into her office. Claudia was in her mid-forties. Her dark hair was worn in a sleek bob, and she wore a beige turtleneck and a red wool sweater.

“Caroline, please sit down.” Claudia motioned to the chair. “Would you like a gingerbread cookie?”

A gift box of Christmas cookies from the New York Times bestselling author Aaron Robertson sat on the desk. Caroline smiled in spite of herself.

“I hate having this talk so close to the holidays, but this can’t wait,” Claudia said when Caroline accepted the cookie. “I think you know what it’s about.”

Claudia had been the publisher for five years. She knew how hard Caroline worked from her editorial-assistant days when they worked together at a different house.

“I don’t know why Greta Egan’s book didn’t do better, it had fantastic word of mouth,” Caroline blurted out. “And I know my edit notes for Samantha Wong took longer to reach her than usual, but she turned in a hundred and fifty thousand words. The book she delivered before that was eighty K.”

“It’s not about one particular book,” Claudia cut in. “You hardly participate at meetings, and lately you’ve been canceling lunches with agents. I got a concerned call from one of your mother’s close friends at the House of Books. You won’t acquire new books unless you’re out there, talking to people. It could help you too.”

Caroline put down the cookie. Every editor was expected to buy a certain number of books per year. This was the first year that Caroline hadn’t come close to reaching her goal.

“I’ve been feeling down, and I didn’t want anyone to see,” she admitted. “I know it will pass.” She put on her most professional smile. “A week at my mother’s cabin will help. Daphne and I are going to spend all day in pajamas, drinking clove tea and reading by the fireplace.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it’s been without Anne, the whole publishing world loved her,” Claudia said kindly. “But I have to think about the company. I can tell your heart isn’t in your work. You haven’t bought any new books since the fall. If you don’t bring something to an acquisition meeting by the end of the winter, I will have to answer to our CEO, who noticed you didn’t have books to present at last season’s sales conference.”

Caroline tried to swallow. No matter how exhausted she felt, she couldn’t imagine having any other job. But where would she find a book, when every manuscript she received left her feeling numb?

“I promise, I’ll find one, I won’t let you down,” Caroline said.

“I want to believe you,” Claudia sighed. “I’ll tell you what. If you prove yourself at the winter sales meeting, we can revisit this in your spring job review.”

Caroline’s breathing relaxed. She stood up. “I know the manuscript is out there, I just need a lucky break. Thank you for the cookie, I should go.”

Caroline had gone home and canceled her trip to London. Claudia was giving her another chance and she couldn’t spend the holidays browsing in Harrods’ luxury Christmas ornament department or sitting in a pub drinking mulled wine when she needed to discover a new author. Brad was an editor too, he would understand. She texted him that she wasn’t coming, and asked for a rain check for the following year. Then, this afternoon, she loaded her iPad and overnight bag into her car and headed for the cabin. At first, she felt excited about her decision. She and Daphne had barely seen each other since their mother died. They could ski at Mohonk in New Paltz. Stock up on eggnog and waffle mix at Cold Spring General Store. But the closer she got to the cabin, the more she doubted herself. Memories of Anne would be everywhere. At least in London with Brad, she could have distracted herself by listening to him talk about the British publishing industry with that sexy upper-crust accent.

As she pulled up, Daphne flung open the front door. Daphne’s blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore jeans and a cable-knit sweater.

When they were growing up, no one thought they were related. Daphne looked exactly like Anne. They both had blue eyes and that all-American style that looked best in casual clothes. Caroline must have taken after her father. She was too tall, and her hair was wavy, even when she straightened it. Her best feature was her smile. Brad said it reminded him of Julia Roberts in Notting Hill.

“I’m so glad you came.” Daphne hugged her. “I thought you’d be eating plum pudding and drinking Buck’s fizzes at an estate in the English countryside.”

Daphne worked at a public relations company in Boston. Unlike Caroline, she wasn’t interested in a job in the literary world, and she loved to travel. The walls in her apartment were covered with posters of canals in Amsterdam, and churches in Prague.

Caroline told her about her meeting with Claudia.

“I wouldn’t have been good company for Brad,” Caroline sighed. “I’m going to spend the week glued to my iPad.”

“You can spend the week any way you like.” Daphne slipped her arm through Caroline’s. “First, I have a big surprise.”

A man stood near the fireplace in the living room. He had sandy-blond hair and wide shoulders. His eyes were a deep blue and there was a cleft in his chin.

“This is my boyfriend, Luke,” Daphne said. “Luke, this is the sister I’ve been gushing about.”

Daphne hadn’t dated anyone seriously in over a year. And she never had little flings like Caroline. Daphne preferred spending her time visiting travel bookstores and cooking foreign dishes.

“Your boyfriend?” Caroline repeated.

“Not exactly.” Daphne looked as fresh-faced and eager as she had as a little girl. She stuck out her left hand. “Luke isn’t my boyfriend, he’s my fiancé.”

A round, clear diamond sat on a platinum band.

He held out his hand. “Luke Harper. I know this must come as a surprise, and I hate to intrude on your Christmas.” He gave her a winning smile. “But Daphne said you’d be pleased.”

Luke was definitely good-looking and he seemed nice. But engaged! She wondered why Daphne hadn’t told her. It was probably Caroline’s fault. Since Daphne moved to Boston a few months ago, they had barely seen each other. Caroline kept promising to come to Boston to see Daphne’s new apartment, but she never had. And when Daphne suggested she come to New York, Caroline had put her off. She was so weighed down by her own grief over their mother’s death, she couldn’t take on Daphne’s as well. Now she wished she had made the trip to Boston, or had Daphne visit her. Even though she was five years older than Daphne, they had always confided in each other, and she hated that she didn’t know about this important person in her life.

“So, tell me how you met,” Caroline said when they settled on the sofa.

Luke took Daphne’s hand, and she curled her fingers around his.

“It was about two months ago, I came down here for the weekend,” Daphne began. “I was walking Truffles in the woods, and he got free from his collar. Luke brought him back for me.”

“He wouldn’t have gone far,” Luke volunteered. “I’ve never seen a dog so attached to his owner.”

Daphne had always been wonderful with dogs. The few times they had a dog when they were growing up, it always became Daphne’s. Anne was busy at work, and Caroline didn’t have the patience to walk the dog early in the morning. The dog slept curled up on Daphne’s bed, and Daphne tossed a ball with him for hours.

“We talked for a while, then I invited Luke to come over for dinner,” Daphne continued. “I was cooking paella and I always make too much. It’s nicer to have someone to share it with.”

Caroline never invited men to dinner at her apartment. It was one of her rules. Never let a guy see where you live. The most important rule was never to date a guy for more than a month. It was the only way to not get her heart broken, and make sure she always took care of herself.

She and Jack had lasted three weeks. One night, it started raining when they met for dinner after work. She lived close by, so she broke her own rule and invited him to her apartment for pizza instead. If she hadn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to spend the week after she broke up with him pacing up and down in front of her building.

“Daphne is a wonderful cook.” Luke beamed. “I told her if she ever quits the PR firm, she should be the chef at my restaurant.”

“Luke opened a restaurant in Hudson,” Daphne piped up. “It’s on Warren Street in one of those old clapboard houses. There’s even an apartment above, where he lives.”

“But your job is in Boston,” Caroline said to Daphne. “Where will you live?”

“We’ll figure it out.” Daphne waved her hand. “I can work remotely, or we can spend part of our time in Boston. The important thing is that we love each other and want to be together.”

Anne had been one of those fiercely committed New Yorkers and Caroline was the same. It was one thing to be able to escape to the cabin during the summer and on holidays, but she couldn’t imagine living anywhere besides Manhattan.

Daphne cut into her thoughts. “Just think—if Truffles had behaved himself, it never would have happened.”

Luke placed his arm around Daphne. “I’m going to spend my life making you happy.”

Caroline glanced at the diamond ring again. It really was beautiful. Simple and classic and elegant. “When did that happen, and why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was about two weeks ago. I tried to call you,” Daphne said. “Your phone was always off. Then I thought it would be better to surprise you.” She gave a little laugh. “It worked. You should have seen your face when you saw the ring.”

After Jack started stalking her, Caroline got in the habit of turning off her phone. A new wave of guilt washed over her. She should have been there for Daphne. But she had been so consumed with work and the grief over Anne’s death, it had been easier to keep to herself.

“You’ve only known each other a few weeks,” Caroline said. “Was there any reason to…”

“I’m not pregnant,” Daphne assured her. She leaned against the cushions and sighed. “There was no reason to wait. We both knew we wanted to be together forever.”

“Daphne isn’t saying it quite right,” Luke interjected. “I had to convince her that I was serious. I bought out every florist in Hyde Park and had the flowers delivered to the restaurant. Then I arranged for the chef to prepare a special dinner.”

“Five courses with wine pairings from my favorite countries,” Daphne said. “The dessert was a French croquembouche. The ring was perched on top.”

Caroline had tried croquembouche once. It was a pyramid of chocolate pastry balls threaded with caramel and dusted with powdered sugar.

“I had to wipe off the sugar before I slipped it on her finger,” Luke laughed.

“It was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen,” Daphne said. “We’re going to have a croquembouche wedding cake.”

Caroline felt a small twinge, as if she’d gotten a splinter that wouldn’t come out. She wondered if she was jealous. Daphne seemed so happy, as if she’d found the one thing she’d been searching for her whole life.

But she was being silly. Stephen Cross, the first guy she dated after college, or Aiden Gray, who worked out at the same gym, would have proposed to Caroline over the years, if she had let them get close. But she had seen too many friends huddled on their sofas, sobbing into a blanket and going through a box of tissues. There were so many other things in life to care about. Her family and career.

Daphne was twenty-five, she was too young to get married. She wondered if Daphne was reacting to their mother’s death. She had to talk to her. But Daphne could be stubborn; it was another thing she got from Anne.

“I’m going to take a bath and go to bed.” Caroline stood up. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

“It’s only eight.” Daphne frowned. “We’re about to make dinner. We’re going to try out a recipe from the restaurant.”

“I’m not really hungry.” Caroline turned to Luke. “It was so nice meeting you. We will talk a lot more tomorrow.”

The upstairs of the cabin was just two bedrooms and a bathroom. Daphne’s room was downstairs, behind the kitchen. Anne’s bedroom looked exactly the same. The four-poster king-size bed that was too big for the cramped space. Tiffany-blue bedside lamps and a Lucite desk. Cashmere sweaters arranged in shades of the same color in the closet, next to Lilly Pulitzer summer dresses and rows of loafers and Anne’s favorite driving shoes.

Anne worked hard for her money and she had been determined to enjoy it.

Caroline never knew her father. Anne’s relationship with him had been a college romance, in Aix-en-Provence, in France. Anne never talked about him, and Caroline at some point stopped asking. A few years ago, she tried to find him, but there were thousands of Michael Palmers from Detroit. Caroline searched Facebook and LinkedIn but came up with nothing. Eventually, she had to give up.

Anne managed to finish college while raising Caroline, and by the time she met Walter Greene, in the elevator of her new apartment building, she was a rising star at the House of Books literary agency. Walter was ten years older, and he adored her. Anne was thrilled to meet a man who seemed to love Caroline as much as she did, and who didn’t mind that Anne had a career. They got married six weeks later. It was supposed to be Anne’s housewarming party, but it turned into the wedding reception instead.

Caroline was four years old when they got married, and she remembered worrying what it would be like to have a man in the house. But from the beginning, Anne made it clear that being Caroline’s mother was her top priority. A year later when Daphne was born, Caroline welcomed her little sister. It was fun to play with Daphne when she was sweet-smelling after a bath, and to read to her from the Beatrix Potter books on their shared bookshelf.

Anne and Walter had been complete opposites. Anne loved eating at fashionable New York restaurants, attending gallery openings, and traveling. Walter enjoyed fishing and quiet evenings at home, playing board games. But they had been happy. Then, five years ago, Walter died from a brain aneurysm. Anne spent more time at the cabin. Daphne and Caroline drove up on weekends and they’d make Belgian waffles and walk through the woods.

A pile of mail sat on the desk. Daphne must have brought it in from the mailbox. Her mother still received the occasional letter.

There were some Christmas cards and invitations to holiday parties. Toward the bottom was a red envelope. The return address was Santa’s Little Red Mailbox, Main Street, Aspen.

Caroline opened it. It was dated June 30.

My dear Anne,

I just left you at the hotel. I couldn’t help slipping back to the gift shop on Main Street and buying an envelope to put in Santa’s Little Red Mailbox. You were so charmed by the tradition and I admit, it sounds endearing. People write letters to their loved ones and buy special envelopes at the gift shop. After they finish the letter, the sender drops the envelope in Santa’s Little Red Mailbox. The Aspen post office delivers the mail to the address on the envelope, but the return address is Santa’s workshop in the North Pole. That’s one of the things I love about you. You’re a romantic at heart.

We’ve been together in Aspen a short time, but it feels like we’ve been here forever.

What I’ve learned more than anything is that I want to be together. I can’t imagine having anyone in my life who is more beautiful, more accomplished, and kinder than you.

Last night you asked what I wished for. The answer is to welcome the new year with you, here in Aspen where we’ve been so happy. I’ll be waiting in front of Santa’s Little Red Mailbox at seven p.m. on New Year’s Eve.

With all my love,

Caroline wondered why the letter wasn’t signed. Perhaps this man was afraid Anne would see him writing the letter. He had slipped it into his pocket and hurried down to the mailbox.

She turned over the cheery red envelope. The stamps had pictures of Santa Claus and Mrs. Claus. There was a lump in Caroline’s throat. Her mother should have been here to receive it.

Anne had been so excited about the trip to Aspen last June. It was the annual Aspen writers’ conference and writers and editors attended from all over the world. In the past, she had served on various panels, and she had worried that she would be too sick to attend this time. When the doctor finally gave her approval, Anne practically glowed with anticipation.

Afterward, Anne never said much about it. Now Caroline understood why. Anne hated to lie, and she would have had to mention that she was there with a man. But why had she kept him a secret? And did he know that she had cancer, or had that been a secret too?

What if he waited for Anne at the Little Red Mailbox on New Year’s Eve and she never showed up? Caroline had to find out who he was. Then she could contact him and tell him.

She opened her mother’s computer and clicked on her credit card statements. There it was, in June. Fourteen nights at the Aspen Inn, 66 Main Street, Aspen.

The photos on the hotel’s website looked lovely. Guest rooms with beamed ceilings and roaring fireplaces. A restaurant called the Silver Nickel, with pictures of cozy booths, and smiling couples drinking colorful cocktails.

Caroline tapped the number into her phone.

“I’m calling about a reservation last June,” Caroline said when the concierge answered. “The name was Anne Holt.”

Caroline told the man what she needed.

“I’m sorry,” the man replied. “We can’t give out information about our guests.”

“Please, it’s terribly important,” Caroline urged. “My mother is dead; I need to find out who she was staying with.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could help you.” The man was apologetic. “We must maintain our guests’ privacy, I’m sure you understand.”

Caroline hung up. An empty feeling settled over her. He would never know why her mother didn’t come, and Caroline would never meet the man who had been in love with her. At that moment, nothing seemed more important. Here was her chance to get a window into her mother’s thoughts a few months before her death. Had she been in love with this man? Who was he? Had he made her feel vibrant and alive, even for a short time?

Suddenly she had an idea. She did a quick search on the computer. Then she took out her credit card and entered her information.

She’d go to Aspen and wait for the man in front of Santa’s Little Red Mailbox. It wouldn’t bring her mother back, but it would be something. And she could read manuscripts on the plane.

The flights might book up if she didn’t reserve her ticket, but she couldn’t go to Aspen without discussing it with her sister. It was their first Christmas since their mother died, and Caroline didn’t want to do anything without Daphne’s approval.

Outside the bedroom window, the stars reflected on the tips of pine trees, like the brightest Christmas lights. Perhaps there were a few miracles still out there, and perhaps Christmas wouldn’t be a complete disaster.