The Lie That Stole Christmas (Winterridge #1)
1. Ashley
Chapter one
Ashley
Ashley Wetherby pulled her coat tight as she stepped out of her office building onto Madison Avenue, the December wind cutting through the double-breasted cashmere.
Christmas lights spilled from lavish window displays, and crowds of people paused to snap pictures with their phones.
After three client meetings and hours spent debating color palettes and marble finishes for a new project, all Ashley wanted was to get uptown to her apartment, pour a glass of wine, and drown the world out.
She didn’t want to deck the halls or drink Christmas-themed cocktails in a bar that had more ornaments hanging from the ceiling than the holiday section of a department store.
It was bad enough that the streets were filled with elaborate Christmas trees that rivaled the trees at Winterridge, her grandparents’ estate.
Technically, her grandfather’s estate since Grandma Lily passed away eight years ago.
A familiar lump formed in her throat at the thought of the woman she loved more than anyone.
She swallowed it, a sting burning the back of her eyes.
She wanted to blame it on the blistering cold, but the anniversary of Grandma Lily’s passing was fast approaching, along with the holiday that hadn’t felt the same since.
Nothing had been the same since.
Ashley ignored the flash of memories of that awful day and continued toward the subway, dropping a twenty into the red Salvation Army kettle.
“Merry Christmas, Ma’am,” the man said, tipping his head in her direction.
She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, so she offered a smile instead. She shifted her bag on her shoulder and continued weaving around tourists.
Across the street, the Ralph Lauren Mansion glowed beneath a cascade of white lights, and red velvet bows wrapped around its railings like couture candy canes.
Something that felt oddly like Christmas spirit spread through her. Maybe it was time to forget the past and let the holidays mean something good again.
The thought had barely settled before her phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She slipped it out and glanced at the unfamiliar number on the screen, though she recognized the area code.
It had been a long time since she had received a call from Connecticut.
She tugged off one glove and tapped the screen. She paused for a second, then brought the phone to her ear. “Hello.”
“Miss Ashley.”
Her heart stuttered at the familiar British accent. “Mr. Hawthorne?”
“I regret to inform you that Mr. Wetherby has passed.”
A deep gasp rendered her speechless. Her hand shook as too many emotions slammed into her.
It had been eight years since she had seen her grandfather.
Since that dreadful day that splintered the entire Wetherby family tree, turning it into a pile of kindling before Grandpa lit the match that burned it all down.
“When? How?” In thirteen days, it would be Christmas. In ten days, the anniversary of Grandma Lily’s death and now…
“All will be explained on the morrow here at Winterridge.”
“I can’t—” she started.
“Miss Ashley,” Mr. Hawthorne gently interrupted. “It would greatly honor your grandfather’s memory if you returned.”
She swallowed hard, the Christmas lights of Madison Avenue blurring around her as she fought her tears.
She’d told herself she would never set foot on that estate again.
She’d tried her hardest to forget a life that once brought her so much joy, but now only brought despair and a reminder that family and love were nothing more than chaos and heartbreak.
Images flickered behind her eyes: the grand staircase wrapped in thick green garland, the scent of cinnamon and pine wafting through the halls of the estate, and Grandpa’s booming laugh bouncing off the old wood-paneled walls.
A fresh wave of grief slammed into her, tangled with disbelief and a sliver of anger she wished she didn’t carry with her. She didn’t owe that place a damn thing. Yet the idea of Winterridge without her grandfather felt impossible, like the end of a story that concluded without a proper ending.
But her grandfather was dead, and Winterridge would be forever changed.
So many questions danced around in her head.
Who would handle the estate? Would the same staff be there?
Ms. Porter had been there like a permanent fixture since 1984.
What would happen to her? Her entire life was Winterridge.
What about Mr. Hawthorne and Wendell, assuming he was still there?
He had been there since the very beginning, five years earlier than Ms. Porter, to be exact.
He was the best groundskeeper in the country, Grandma Lily would say.
His rose bushes were award-winning; his topiaries were shaped into elegant reindeer each Christmas before being wrapped for the season.
“What about the arrangements?” she managed as she swiped a finger under her eyelid.
“Everything will be handled,” he assured her.
“And the rest of the family.”
“Have been contacted and will arrive in the morning.”
A silence fell between them, the rushing noises of the city fading in and out around her. She could almost hear Grandma Lily’s soft, elegant voice telling her that forgiveness and Christmas belonged together.
“Miss Ashley,” Mr. Hawthorne said, “Winterridge has missed you.”
Her eyes squeezed shut as her chest tightened. I can’t. Too many ghosts. Literally.
But even though memories of that dreadful day flashed in her mind, the words slipped out. “I’ll be there.”
“Very good. Safe travels.”
The line clicked, leaving her in the middle of the glittering lights of a New York City Christmas, breath misting in the cold air, her pulse thundering with dread, and something or someone else she refused to acknowledge.
So much for forgetting the past.