Chapter Three
Later that evening, Caroline’s flight started its descent into Aspen airport. She almost wished she had flown into Denver and taken a shuttle the extra four hours instead. Even in the dark, the airstrip looked like it belonged in a toy store, next to the model train sets. But when the plane landed and she entered the terminal, she was glad she’d flown straight to Aspen. The terminal resembled a ski lodge, with timbered walls and a beamed ceiling. A giant Christmas tree had been erected, and everyone was happy and smiling.
It only took a few minutes to drive into town. Caroline kept her face pressed to the Uber’s window. When she caught sight of Main Street—lit up with more lights than she thought possible—she almost forgot why she came. It was the most magical place she’d ever seen.
Aspen trees thick with snow lined the sidewalk, benches were piled with fresh snow. A Christmas tree stood at one end, and at the other there was an ice-skating rink and a pergola with a red sleigh.
It was the lights that took her breath away. Even the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center didn’t make her feel the same way. As if she were gazing through a telescope at thousands of twinkling stars. Gold lights were wrapped around tree trunks, and every branch was strung with gold and silver lights.
The only things brighter than the trees were the shops themselves. Every window was decorated with colored lights. Frosted letters saying MERRY CHRISTMAS and HAPPY HOLIDAYS were sprayed on the glass, and Caroline could see cashmere sweaters and fleece-lined jackets and winter boots. One window had a Victorian dollhouse, another had snowflake-shaped boxes of chocolates.
The Uber dropped her off at a redbrick building tucked between a gift shop and a clothing boutique. She rolled her suitcase up the driveway and entered the lobby.
Inside, the lobby resembled a high-class Western saloon. The walls were paneled and the ceiling was hung with glass chandeliers. Cowhide sofas were arranged around a glass coffee table, and a stone fireplace took up an entire wall. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, and there was a rolltop desk complete with a quill pen.
Caroline gave the man at the front desk her name.
“Welcome to the Aspen Inn, Miss Holt. You called yesterday.” He glanced at his computer. “It must be a Christmas miracle. We hardly ever have rooms available over the holidays.”
“My mother stayed here during the summer, Anne Holt,” Caroline said. “I wonder if I could have the same room.”
The man clicked through his screen.
“Ms. Holt was in the Silver Rush suite on the second floor. I’m afraid that’s not available. We have you in a lovely Copper room with a view of the slopes.”
Caroline wanted to ask him questions. Did her mother have anyone else in the suite? Did she make any special requests or book an activity? Perhaps she asked the hotel kitchen to prepare a picnic for hot-air ballooning, or she reserved a couple’s massage at the hotel spa. But the man kept talking.
“You’re here during the Twelve Days of Aspen celebration. It goes through New Year’s. There are concerts and caroling. The Hotel Jerome next door has a gingerbread-house-making contest for children, and the Silver Circle ice-skating rink offers free ice-skating. Many of the shops give out hot chocolate, and you can reserve a horse and carriage for a romantic moonlit ride through the forest. All the information is on our website.”
Caroline sighed. She didn’t have anyone to share a romantic horse and carriage ride with, and she had never been a good ice-skater. Right now, she was tired and hungry.
“It sounds wonderful,” Caroline said, accepting the room key. “I haven’t eaten in hours. Is there anywhere I could get a burger and a salad?”
She almost never craved red meat. But somehow standing there, with antlers on the walls and a pair of cowboy boots displayed on a side table, she desperately wanted a burger.
The man smiled. “You’re in Aspen, we have over eighty restaurants. Why don’t you start with our own bar and grill. We serve the best Angus beef in town.”
Caroline first wanted to change her clothes. The Western theme continued in her guest room. The bed had a dark wood headboard and there was a striped upholstered armchair. A brass chest took the place of a coffee table. Next to the window was a velvet daybed that would have looked at home in a brothel.
Caroline wondered if her mother’s suite had been furnished in the same way. Anne had loved period furniture. She said it transported you to another time and place, like the pages of a novel.
The hotel restaurant was called the Silver Nickel. It was in the back of the hotel, facing the mountain. Caroline entered through swinging doors. The bar was lined with bottles, and there was a long mirror. Leather booths were scattered around the space, and Caroline caught sight of a kitchen with a brick oven.
Everything on the menu sounded delicious. Cauliflower gratin and braised Brussels sprouts as appetizers. Cheeseburgers with local cheddar cheeses, and sirloin steaks with truffle fries as main courses. She counted fifteen different cocktails. A drink called an Aspen Mule was vodka and ginger beer with golden bitters. Another was a hot toddy and was made with gin and honey and chai tea.
“You have to try the sausage fennel pizza,” a male voice said. “And an Earl Grey old-fashioned. Rye whiskey and Earl Grey syrup stirred in the glass. With a dash of walnut bitters and an orange zest for garnish.”
Caroline thought the voice belonged to the waiter or the bartender, but instead it came from a man sitting at the bar. He was in his early thirties and very handsome. His light brown hair was worn short, and he had hazel eyes. He had the kind of chiseled features that belonged in an ad for men’s cologne, and white, straight teeth. He wore a green sweater over a turtleneck.
“Thank you, but I’m going to have the cheeseburger, and I don’t drink whiskey.”
“You can get a cheeseburger anywhere in Aspen. The hotel chef here worked at a ski resort in the Italian Alps, his pizza is renowned. And the rye whiskey isn’t like other whiskey. This brand is made right here in Aspen. It uses only locally grown grains and potatoes.”
Caroline went back to her menu.
“Thank you for the suggestions, I’ll order the pizza another time.”
“At least try the old-fashioned, you’d be doing me a favor.”
“A favor?” Caroline repeated.
“I own the distillery that makes the rye whiskey. If you like it, you can tell the bartender and they’ll keep stocking it.”
Something about the way he asked was endearing, rather than pushy. It reminded Caroline of when she and Daphne were teenagers. Daphne would ask Caroline to sample a sauce she was making for a spaghetti dinner at school, or brownies she had baked for a new boyfriend.
“All right, I’ll have an old-fashioned,” Caroline conceded.
The man’s eyes danced. “Do you mind if I join you? I’ll order the pizza and you can try a slice. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
She had planned on pulling out her iPad and reading. She’d scrolled through several manuscripts on the plane. A few had well-thought-out plots and interesting characters. But she’d been an editor long enough to know that wasn’t sufficient. A book she acquired had to make her feel like she had discovered new friends when she finished reading it. If the manuscript was really good, she’d go back to the beginning and read it again.
But her eyes were tired, and she didn’t feel like being alone. It was almost Christmas and she was in Aspen.
“If that’s your usual pickup line, it’s not the kind most women go for,” she said with a laugh.
“I almost never pick up women at bars. Especially not bars that sell my whiskey—that would be mixing business with pleasure.” He walked over to her and held out his hand. “Max Carpenter. If you’d like, this time I can make an exception.”
Caroline was used to this type of back-and-forth. It was how many of her flings started. But somehow, this felt different. Max’s smile was wider and more honest than the smiles of most of the men she met, and he wasn’t afraid to say he was worried about his job.
“Caroline Holt. I’m not in the market for romance,” she said evenly. “But you’re welcome to join me.”
Max had been right; the pizza was the best she ever had. Sausage with melted mozzarella cheese, sprinkled with fennel. But the burger was even better. Just one bite of juicy beef on toasted brioche made her wonder why she didn’t eat burgers more often.
“Do you live in Aspen?” she asked.
“I moved here two years ago to get the distillery up and running,” he answered. “I grew up in Santa Barbara but my mother’s family has always owned a house in Aspen. Her ancestor was one of the miners during the silver rush.”
Max told her about the silver rush that brought miners to Aspen a hundred and fifty years earlier. Aspen was called Ute City then and consisted of a mining camp and a few shops. The miners struck silver and the area became the biggest producer of silver in the United States.
“At the turn of the nineteenth century, there was the Great Panic and the mines started running out of silver.” Max sipped his cocktail. “Most of the miners left. My ancestors stayed and the next generation persuaded investors to fund the first ski resort.” He grinned. “I’m trying to create a completely sustainable distillery. You might say I have the pioneering spirit in my blood.”
The ryecorn for Max’s distillery was locally grown. The copper pots used to distill the whiskey were fueled with cooking oil from local restaurants. The spent mash was fed to cows, and the wastewater was recycled and used on the next crop.
Caroline couldn’t help but be impressed.
“I was a biology major in college. When I started the distillery, I was lucky enough to hire a foreman who is an expert in the field,” Max finished. “We’re still in the early stages. If people don’t buy the whiskey, all the time and money will be wasted.”
They talked about publishing and Caroline’s love of books. She didn’t tell him the things that were troubling her. Her mother’s death, the constant feeling of career burnout, Claudia’s ultimatum about whether she’d keep her job. And now her new worries: Daphne’s engagement to Luke, and finding the sender of the letter from Santa’s Little Red Mailbox.
It was getting late. A few diners were finishing their desserts.
“My mother is hosting an open house tomorrow night, you should come,” Max suggested.
Max was good-looking, and she admired how passionate he was about the distillery. But if she wanted a fling she would be in London with Brad.
She shook her head. “I’m not in Aspen long enough to date.”
He took a pen from his pocket and wrote an address and phone number on a napkin.
“Who said anything about a date? My parents own one of the Queen Anne houses on Walnut Street. It’s beautifully lit, almost everyone in Aspen stops by.”
“I’ll think about it.” She tucked the napkin in her purse.
Max stood up and held out his hand.
“Even if you don’t come, I’m glad we met.” His smile was as bright as the lights wrapped around the bar. “It’s not often I get to spend the evening with an attractive woman and drink my whiskey at the same time.”
Caroline went up to her room and texted Daphne that she had arrived. By the time she had taken a bath, she was too tired to read another manuscript. But for some reason, she was wide awake.
She remembered the letters she found in her mother’s study. She dug them out of her suitcase and read the next one.
Dear Anne,
It was so kind of you to invite me to Thanksgiving with your family. I almost said yes—a proper Thanksgiving in one of those wonderful, prewar Fifth Avenue apartments with a doorman! It reminds me of the dinners I attended during the short and glorious period of my success. I’ll have to tell you about those dinners someday. Being invited into the homes of my publisher and other writers. I’d slip into their libraries and spend the whole party drooling over the books. Then I’d walk back to my apartment, drunk with the knowledge that my little book sat on the same shelves.
But I couldn’t intrude on your family, and I don’t mind spending Thanksgiving alone. It will give me time to work. Writing is tricky. Sometimes I write as fast as a racehorse in the last lap of the Kentucky Derby, other times I feel like a workhorse one step away from the glue factory.
But I’m not writing these letters to complain, only to explain why I disappeared. It all started with Laura Carter, the writer of the Women’s World Monthly column that ran for a few years in the 1970s. The column was hugely successful. It was called How an Upper East Side Society Girl Escaped to a Maple Syrup Farm in Vermont.
I was twenty-eight and my first two novels had been published. The reviews of my books were glowing, and I was compared to the best feminist writers of the day—women who wrote about their career goals instead of men and heartbreak. But I was still broke financially, so I kept my job as a copy editor at Women’s World Monthly.
One day in December, the lifestyle editor, Margaret Baker, called me into her office. We started at the magazine at the same time. Now Margaret occupied a corner office on the seventh floor with her own secretary.
“I hope you invited me here to share some of your Christmas loot,” I said to Margaret, eyeing the plates of cookies on the sideboard. There were two wrapped fruit loaves, and a bottle of champagne with a silver ribbon.
Margaret followed my gaze. “Harry sent the champagne to make up for all the times he’s been away this year. I don’t know why I stay with him, he even missed my birthday,” she sighed. “If he doesn’t propose soon, we’re finished.”
Margaret was involved in a long romance with a travel editor. She’d been trying to get him to propose for ages, but he kept running off to exotic locations.
“At least it’s expensive champagne.” I picked up the bottle. “I didn’t know travel editors made that much money.”
“They don’t, they get free gifts like the rest of us,” Margaret said. “You should see the kinds of presents I receive. One reader sent me an eggbeater, as if I spend all my time in the kitchen. I doubt any of the male editors received hammers or screwdrivers.”
I hid my smile. Margaret was one of those 1970s women who wore slacks all the time, because wearing a dress was “giving in.” She subscribed to men’s magazines like Esquire and GQ, and she had taught herself to change a tire so she wasn’t dependent on a man.
“I wouldn’t mind taking the fruit loaf,” I said. “I can’t afford to fly home this year, and I have to cook my own Christmas dinner.”
“Two bestselling books and you still can’t treat yourself to an airline ticket.” Margaret frowned. “I wonder if the male authors on the list have the same kind of problems.”
“It’s the New York Times list, it doesn’t mean anything financially.” I shrugged. “The only authors who make money are the ones whose books sell at supermarkets and airports. My publisher thinks my books are too literary to be released in paperback.”
“What if I told you that you didn’t have to spend Christmas in New York,” Margaret said. “Instead, you’d have a free week at a maple syrup farm in Vermont, with a fully stocked fridge and a traditional Christmas dinner. Stuffed Cornish hens, mashed potatoes, and pecan pie.”
Margaret handed me a copy of Women’s World Monthly. There was a photo of a farmhouse with a white picket fence. The living room had a huge fireplace and beamed ceiling. There was a kitchen with an old-fashioned stove, and a bedroom with a four-poster bed and a quilted comforter.
“This is Laura Carter’s column.”
Laura Carter was a thirty-year-old former New York socialite. A couple of years earlier she had left behind the nightclubs and dinner parties in Manhattan and moved to Vermont. She wrote a wildly successful column about living on a farm. She collected firewood to heat the farmhouse, and sold maple syrup from a roadside stall.
“Those are the only photos of the farmhouse, we’ve never had a photographer up there before,” Margaret said.
“What does it have to do with me?” I asked.
“Archie had the brilliant idea to hold a nationwide contest inviting readers to share their perfect Christmas getaway. The winner will spend Christmas week with Laura at the cabin.”
Archie owned Women’s World Monthly and a few other magazines. I’d only met him once, at a company Christmas party. He liked to believe he was very involved, even though he spent most of his time playing golf and eating at his private clubs.
“The thing is, Laura Carter is actually Betty Shapiro and she’s a seventy-year-old retiree living in Florida,” Margaret continued. “I was hoping you could pretend to be Laura Carter for the week.”
I was horrified. For one thing, I was a terrible liar. I could never pretend to be someone I wasn’t. And I was from New Jersey. I’d never lived in the country. I didn’t know what to do with firewood. The only time I’d used a match was to light a cigarette.
Margaret piled on the compliments. I could hold a conversation with anyone. I was a feminist, I could do anything if I set my mind to it.
“What if the winner recognizes me?” I asked.
“There might be a few photos of you in the style section of The New York Times but you’re hardly a celebrity. Your photo isn’t even on your book jackets.”
That had been a decision made by my agent and publisher. I was attractive—light brown hair, brown eyes, curves in the right places. They didn’t want my looks to overshadow my books’ message. I agreed with them. I wanted my words to speak for themselves.
“I’ll pay you five hundred dollars, from my own petty cash. You can never tell anyone,” Margaret warned. “Even Archie thinks Laura Carter is a young socialite from the Upper East Side.”
I asked how Margaret could hide the truth from the publisher. She explained that Betty had been a friend of Margaret’s mother’s and the column was meant to be a one-time thing. It became so popular that Betty was able to sell her studio apartment and move to a luxurious retirement community in Florida. Betty didn’t want the column to end and neither did Women’s World Monthly.
“All you have to do is spend one week with the contest winner. Then Betty can go back to telling readers how to watch for bears in Vermont, from her screened-in porch in Palm Beach.”
Five hundred dollars would pay off my charge cards, and allow me to buy a new winter coat. There was another reason I wanted to get away. I had just broken up with my fiancé, Teddy, and I didn’t want to spend my first Christmas without him in New York.
“All right, I’ll do it,” I agreed. “But you have to make sure no photographers show up.”
“Scout’s honor.” She wrote out a check and handed it to me. “One more thing: your fiancé has to be there. Laura Carter got engaged in her last column.”
“What did you say?” My mouth dropped open.
Apparently, Laura’s boyfriend had recently proposed. It was a very romantic proposal. He served Laura a candlelit dinner. The diamond ring was hidden in the maple pudding they ate for dessert.
“What’s her fiancé’s name?”
“That’s the thing. Laura has kept it secret. Her fiancé is supposed to be very private. So Teddy can just be himself.”
I was already holding the check. The promise of staying warm all winter was too good to pass up. I had the subway trip home to figure out how I was going to ask the man whose suits I had tossed out the window of my building to join me for Christmas in Vermont.
Authors have an old trick. Always finish the day’s writing in the middle of a character’s dilemma. Then the next day, it’s easier to pick up where one left off. So, I’ll stop here and go back to rewriting the first chapter of my new book. I promise, I’m making progress. It’s like building a house. It doesn’t have any walls yet, or even a roof, but I’ve laid the first bricks.
Regards,
Nina
Caroline placed the letter back on the stack of papers. Outside the window a soft snow was falling. The hotel room was bright and warm. She turned off the lights and crawled under the covers.