Chapter 25
Lauren turned on her phone as they taxied toward the gate.
Her app showed she had one message. She braced herself as she opened the message, then released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
It wasn’t from Mike. The message was from the car service she had hired to take her from Providence to Newport.
They were tracking her flight and knew it had been delayed.
Her driver would be waiting outside of the baggage claim area.
The overhead speaker crackled. “Good evening, everyone. This is your captain speaking. We apologize for the delay. I’m afraid we’ll be waiting a few more moments before we can deplane.
We’re the last arrival tonight, and the ground crew has already gone home.
I know some of you can see the gate from your window, but there’s no one to park us.
The crew member has been contacted and is on his way back.
Sit tight for about thirty more minutes, and we’ll have you on your way. Again, we apologize.”
A collective groan rolled through the cabin.
Lauren leaned forward and peered through the mesh of Pumpkin’s carrier. Her pooch stared back at her with solemn eyes, then slowly rolled onto her side and rested her head on the cushioned mat as if to say, Wake me when it’s over.
Within minutes, the ground crew arrived, and the plane finally pulled up to the gate. Lauren grabbed her carry-on, and she and Pumpkin deplaned. They made quick stops at their respective restrooms before heading toward baggage claim down the nearly deserted concourse.
Jazzy Christmas carols drifted upward from the level below as Lauren stepped onto the escalator, Pumpkin safely tucked back in her carrier. At the bottom, she turned toward the music.
An elderly man with a full shock of white hair sat at a grand piano outside a closed cocktail lounge, playing with expertise and joyful energy. At this late hour, only two people sat in chairs near the piano.
Lauren slowed her pace.
He finished a rousing rendition of “Deck the Halls” with a flourish.
She stopped walking and clapped with gusto, her applause echoing in the sparsely populated space.
The pianist looked up, smiled warmly, and nodded in thanks before sliding into “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” For a fleeting moment, Lauren felt suspended inside a holiday film.
She passed baggage claim without stopping; the airline had already emailed that her suitcase would be delivered to her hotel the next day.
A large man in a heavy parka stood near the exit holding a sign with her name written neatly in bold letters.
“He’s here for us,” Lauren whispered to Pumpkin, relief softening her voice.
The driver spotted her and hurried forward. “Let me take that,” he said, reaching for her carry-on bag and the carrier.
“Do you mind if I let my dog out?” Lauren asked. “She’s been confined a lot the past couple of days.”
“I was about to suggest it,” he said kindly. “Any checked luggage?”
“It didn’t follow me. The airline will deliver it tomorrow.”
“They’re good about that,” he reassured her. “The roads are clear, and there’s not much traffic. We’ll have you in Newport in thirty minutes.”
Lauren freed Pumpkin, and they followed the driver to his SUV. The man chatted easily, asking about her plans, offering restaurant recommendations, and pointing out historic landmarks as they drove.
Gradually, the tension of the prior two days of delays melted away.
“We’re crossing the bridge into Newport,” the driver said. “You’re spending Christmas in one of my favorite places in New England. The people here are wonderful. You’re going to have a fabulous time.” He met her eyes in the rearview mirror.
Lauren smiled back, feeling something inside her soften.
“And here we are.” He turned onto Mary Street and pulled into the circular drive of the 1909 Georgian-style mansion built by Cornelius Vanderbilt’s great-grandson for his mistress.
Lauren gasped. The red brick facade glowed beneath carefully placed uplighting. A bright white portico with round columns stood in elegant contrast to the brick. Above it, VANDERBILT gleamed in gold lettering.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” the driver chuckled.
Lauren stepped out into the crisp night air.
She led Pumpkin to a landscaped berm while she admired the historic building.
The photos on the hotel’s website didn’t do it justice.
This property had it all: symmetry, proportion, and history.
It was the kind of structure that made her designer’s heart quicken.
She and Pumpkin climbed the curved stone steps beneath the portico.
The driver carried her carry-on up behind them and opened one of the double doors.
The brass lion-head knockers gleamed against muted green paint.
Inside, a grand double staircase swept upward along the walls before meeting at an expansive second-floor landing.
Evergreen garlands wrapped in burgundy ribbon draped the banisters.
A towering Christmas tree filled the entry hall, decorated with vintage mercury glass ornaments that shimmered in reflected strings of lights.
A top hat, cocked at a rakish angle, adorned the top of the tree.
Muted conversation and laughter floated from the restaurant and bar to her right. The night clerk at the reception desk to her left greeted her warmly and checked her in with efficient kindness.
Lauren’s head swiveled constantly as he led her to her room, captivated by the muted greens, deep navies, and warm ochres of the sophisticated and welcoming decor.
Layered textures and museum-quality artwork filled every space.
The aesthetic was flawless. She wanted to explore every inch. But, first, she needed sleep.
The clerk opened the door to a room with walls in the same muted green as the hallway.
Her upholstered headboard was a simple navy-and-white windowpane check.
Crisp white bedding lay invitingly beneath a generous down duvet.
Brass accents glowed warmly against the walls.
A small arrangement of fragrant evergreens, holly leaves, red berries, and white roses sat on the armoire that doubled as a coffee station.
Lauren thanked the clerk, tipped him, and closed the door. She hurried to the arrangement and checked the card propped against it.
With compliments from all of us at The Vanderbilt. Please let us know if we can be of help.
Lauren’s shoulders slumped, and she pushed a hank of hair off her forehead. Why did I think the flowers might have been from Mike? I never told him where I was staying. I’m being ridiculous.
She slipped off her shoes, tossed her new coat and scarf onto a chair, and unclipped Pumpkin’s leash. She retrieved the kibble and dog bowl and fed her pup the promised second half of her dinner. Then Lauren washed her face, brushed her teeth, and changed into her own red flannel pajamas.
Pumpkin finished eating and leapt onto the mattress.
Lauren reached for her phone one last time.
She had no messages. And no emails. Nothing from Mike.
Lauren turned back the duvet and slid beneath it.
Pumpkin circled once, then settled against her hip as Lauren’s disappointment flickered.
Then the warmth of the room, the softness of the bed, and the steady rhythm of Pumpkin’s breathing began to dissolve the ache.
She turned her phone face down on the nightstand. And wrapped in crisp white linens, in a mansion glowing with Christmas lights, Lauren finally slept.