The Asheville Christmas Tradition (Carolina Christmas #4)

2. Angie

Christmas had descended upon the Biltmore Estate and, honestly, there were few things in the world more beautiful. From the main entrance, through the eight thousand acres of winding roads, gardens, and a winery, then all the way to the castle of a main house, Biltmore took the holiday very seriously.

As Angie parked in the employee lot, she took a moment to gaze at the enormous structure that was not only America’s largest private home, but also a museum, a significant employer in the area, and a wildly successful tourist attraction. The cream limestone estate with spires and sun-washed windows was stunning all year long, but nothing could equal Christmas.

The house, built and still owned by the Vanderbilt family, was decked, lighted, and sprinkled with holiday enchantment. From the tree-lined entrance to the copper-topped turrets of the centerpiece mansion, every inch of the estate celebrated Christmas, and celebrated hard.

Inside, the sparkle continued with dozens of Christmas trees, thousands of lights, and enough garlands to wrap all of Asheville in green.

The estate looked just like this one year ago when Angie wandered in with a newspaper article she’d found in the attic at the family cabin. In it, she’d learned that her great-grandmother, Angelica Benson, had saved the life of a baby who was part of a family visiting the Vanderbilts in 1924. The baby’s parents had rewarded Angelica’s heroism with land in the mountains, and enough money to build the very cabin where Angie and Brooke lived today.

She’d come seeking information about long-dead relatives…and her life had changed.

A full-time stay-at-home mom, Angie had never used her degree in communications to pursue a career until the day Marjorie Summerall, the head curator at the Biltmore Estate, offered her a volunteer position. She accepted the challenge to help put together an exhibit that included Angie’s great-grandparents’ rich history as beloved staff members for the Vanderbilt family.

That volunteer position had led Angie to a permanent slot as a Junior Curator, which was a very fancy title for a jack of all museum trades. She helped coordinate temporary exhibits and events, conducted tours, stuffed brochures into envelopes, researched art, and lent a hand in whatever capacity was needed.

And plenty was needed. The curator and historian department had a small staff and they were stretched to the nines.

Angie had zero experience but oodles of enthusiasm, and a can-do work ethic. In the past year, she’d said yes to any job, whether it was dragging twenty-pound velvet drapes to a specialty cleaners, brainstorming marketing programs, or helping to set up visiting exhibits that changed every season at the Biltmore.

Heck, she’d sold toys in the gift shop, counted tickets for a summer concert series, and polished a few pieces of silver when no one else was around to do the work.

That eager attitude got her promoted just a few months ago to Associate Staff Curator—or, as Brooke called it, “a Senior Junior Curator”—which meant a tiny bit of a raise, more hours, and some additional responsibilities curating temporary exhibits.

Angie didn’t care what they called her or what she did, as long as she worked in this beautiful place. Here, she was part of the machine that made a Biltmore visit an unforgettable experience for the thousands of guests who came through every year.

And today was no different, she thought as she entered her tiny windowless office in the first-floor business wing. Humble and cramped, she treasured the space and never minded the hours she spent doing whatever her boss—and many others—asked of her.

She’d barely had her coat off that morning when Diana Kauffman, the department’s administrative assistant, stuck her head in the door.

“Don’t get comfy,” Diana said. “Marjorie is calling a staff meeting to start in…” She checked her watch. “Seven minutes.”

“Oh, okay.” Angie stood. “What’s up? Christmas emergency?”

Diana tipped her head and lifted a brow, as if to say she knew but wasn’t saying. And something about that expression told Angie it wasn’t great news.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the other woman said.

Oh, boy. That sounded ominous.

A few minutes later, Angie grabbed a notebook and pen, stopped for coffee in the employee kitchen, then headed to the one and only conference room. There, six or seven of her co-workers had already gathered. They buzzed with curiosity, but no one seemed to know the agenda for today’s impromptu meeting.

At exactly nine, Marjorie Summerall walked in. As always, the sixty-something historian and executive looked completely put together, her silver hair pulled back into a neat bun, her ubiquitous navy blue suit fitting sharply. But her smile, always warm and ready, looked a little…different.

Not shaky, not uncertain, but like she had a secret and couldn’t wait to share it.

She wasted no time, flicking her hand to bring the room to quiet, all of her staff watching and waiting.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” Marjorie started. “So I won’t sugarcoat it. I’m leaving the Biltmore.”

A gasp whipped through the room, but she stopped any questions with a raised hand and a big smile.

“It’s by choice and it’s for a very good reason. I’ve landed a curator’s position at the Getty in L.A.—”

“Whoa!”

“Are you kidding!”

“The Getty? That’s huge!”

She waited until the reaction died down and continued. “Thank you,” she said softly. “It’s a great job. But what makes it really wonderful is that I’ll be near family. As many of you know, my son and his wife, their baby—and Baby Number Two that was just announced—live in Southern California. I simply cannot wait to be near them and am overjoyed to have such a great job when I move.”

Then she let the flurry of questions, congrats, and exclamations of surprise roll through the room, making it very clear this was indeed good news. For her, anyway.

For Angie? That remained to be seen. Still, she reached over to give Marjorie’s hand a squeeze.

“Well done, my friend,” she said, and meant it.

Not only had they become close this past year, but Marjorie had always been Angie’s biggest cheerleader. She’d easily overlooked some very specific requirements to hire, and then promote, Angie. From the day they’d met, Marjorie had nurtured and mentored, helping to foster Angie’s newfound ambition and interest in history, art, and all things Biltmore.

In turn, Angie knew that Marjorie ached to be a “present” grandmother. When her daughter-in-law became pregnant for the second time a few months ago, Marjorie had shed a few tears at their favorite table in the coffee shop, crushed by the thought of another baby growing up without her. Maybe Angie should have figured out that this was in the cards then, but she hadn’t.

Plus, the Getty! What an honor for a well-deserved and talented curator.

But, oh . Where did this leave Angie, who so depended on this strong woman and her support?

“My replacement has been hired by corporate already,” Marjorie said when the chatter died down and the most obvious question was asked. “I don’t know who it is, but I trust that corporate has selected someone with tremendous experience and skill as a curator and a manager.”

A few of the staff members exchanged nervous looks. No surprise, since Marjorie was wildly popular with the people who reported to her. Everyone knew this wouldn’t be an easy transition.

And if these extremely qualified people were concerned about their roles going forward—many with advanced art history degrees and years of experience at museums around the country—then what about the most junior of the group?

Angie got the job on guts, grit, and a distant relative who once worked as a parlor maid, with nary an art degree in sight.

Her stomach churned at the idea of a new boss, but she caught sight of Marjorie’s warm smile and a look that told her not to worry.

But worry she did.

In fact, she worried all morning, so distracted she could barely work, until a knock on her office door broke into her thoughts.

“Marjorie.” She stood and rounded her desk, reaching a hand out. “I know you’re flat-out today, so thank you for stopping by.”

“I have time for a coffee,” she said. “Will you join me? I’m afraid I have meetings all day tomorrow and that’s my last day.”

“Oh.” Angie pressed her hand to her chest, unable to hide her true feelings. “I wish I’d wake up and realize this was a bad dream.”

Marjorie laughed. “You have nothing to fear. Come on. Let’s find our table and talk.”

All the way to the café tucked away in what was once the expansive stables for George Vanderbilt, they talked about her new job at the Getty Museum. In the sunny restaurant, Marjorie got their order while Angie sat at a table by the window, barely seeing the beauty of the grounds and the estate. All she could see was…a pink slip.

“Iced vanilla cream latte,” Marjorie announced as she set a cup in front of Angie. “With a side of optimism and good cheer.”

Angie smiled at her, trying not to be gutted by the loss. “I’m going to miss you more than words can say.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

“And I’m going to be lost,” Angie added. “You teach me something every day, Marjorie.”

“You’ll be fine,” Marjorie assured her. “You’re the great-granddaughter of Angelica Benson.”

Angie tipped her head and gave her best “get real” look. “I’m a divorced housewife with a useless degree in communications and no experience. Please tell me the next curator will look past my severe lack of credentials.”

“You have the most important credential of all,” Marjorie said. “You’re a hard worker who loves this place like her last name is Vanderbilt, not Chambers.”

“Actually, my legal name is Messina, but I liked using my maiden name here because of the connection. With the divorce, I will probably go back to Chambers, but it’s a messy process and with Brooke and— Oh, stop. Why are we talking about my name at our last coffee?”

“Because you are endlessly entertaining, Angie.”

She lifted her cup. “I should be toasting the woman who gave me one of the best years of my life and the most fun job I ever had, despite a woefully thin resume.”

Marjorie laughed and toasted. “You’re an asset to the organization. Whoever replaces me will love you.”

“You really don’t know who it is?”

“I don’t,” she said. “Trust me, I’d tell you. They did not ask for my input, and I don’t have time to train my replacement because the folks at Getty want me, like, yesterday.” She let out a little laugh. “I still can’t believe I got a job there.”

“You? You’re so qualified!”

“Thank you. It’s a big step up and I’m not a young woman. I don’t expect to be there for more than a few years, but I’ll make the most of them. And, please, don’t worry. You have spirit, you’re well-liked and respected, and you are willing to do whatever your boss needs. Anyone would be thrilled to have you on staff.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, “because this job means the world to me. Brooke and the Biltmore. That’s all that matters.”

Marjorie lifted a brow. “No special man in your life still?”

“Nah.” Angie flipped her hand. “I dated that lawyer, Max Lynch, for a few months after my divorce was final, but…” She shook her head. “It was too soon. I had too much healing to do after Craig. And I think Max has met someone since then. Lucky lady, but the timing was wrong for me.”

“That’s a shame,” Marjorie said. “I remember you brought him to the Renaissance exhibit in May.”

“I brought him to my sister’s wedding that month, too. But that event made me realize that while I liked Max a lot, I simply wasn’t ready.” She shrugged. “I may never be.”

“You have a wonderful daughter and a great job, Angie.”

“I do…until some new lady blows in here and sends me packing.”

“Pffft,” Marjorie scoffed. “The new lady—or gent—should watch their back. You are the real deal. Education is great, but it’s only a piece of paper?—”

“And a brilliant dissertation,” Angie interjected.

“But you have practical knowledge, my friend, not the thesis of light and dark shadows of the Baldacchino for a Baroque Art class.”

Angie groaned. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I don’t know about shadows, except under my eyes. I have no idea what the Balda…keen is, and was Baroque before or after Renaissance? I can never remember.”

Marjorie laughed. “None of that matters when a VIP needs a private tour, or one of the tapestries needs to be cleaned, or some big art exhibit is blowing through North Carolina and needs a home. That’s where you shine, so don’t worry about a thing.”

Angie sat back and smiled, forgetting about herself as she gazed at a woman she treasured.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking a chance on me, for being my friend, and for encouraging me.”

“I believe in you, Angie.” She put her hand on Angie’s, giving it a squeeze. “I am leaving notes in all the employee files and I promise yours will say, ‘Don’t let this one go.’”

With tears in her eyes, Angie clung to that promise and let the conversation turn to Marjorie’s future, which seemed brighter than Angie’s at the moment.

Angie lost most of the day with a different kind of research than she usually conducted. Instead of perusing museum websites for ideas on how to coordinate a Rodin exhibit they were going to host next year, she’d dug into the org charts of those places to find out what kind of experience was truly required for a job like hers.

The answer was simple—a lot more than she had.

Somehow, she’d have to impress the new head curator but she could tell that everyone on the staff felt the same way. Her co-workers were wonderful, all laden with accolades and published papers. You didn’t just waltz in the back door of the Biltmore Estate and get hired in this department.

Except…that’s exactly what Angie had done.

At the end of the day, she called Noelle. If anyone could offer art world advice, it would be her sister who’d worked for Sotheby’s as an art dealer for years and now owned a gallery in Asheville.

“I’ve got a client in here right now,” Noelle said after they greeted each other. “But Jace is on calf duty?—”

“Excuse me?”

“The Robinsons’ cow is in labor and having a bit of a time,” she explained. “Cassie is having dinner with her grandparents, so I’m free after this appointment. How about a drink at the Montford and we can talk? It’s the rooftop at the Hilton.”

A cocktail with her sister at a fabulous bar in downtown Asheville sounded dreamy and exactly what she needed. “I can be there in half an hour,” she told her sister.

“Perfect. I’ll finish with this client and meet you there.”

Angie made the short drive into downtown, groaning a little when she realized how packed the streets were. She circled the block around the hotel that housed the bar, annoyed by a complete lack of parking.

The hotel valet line was a mile long, every lot was full, and her only option was to find something on the street and walk. The frustration of a lousy day crawled up her spine, making her squeeze the steering wheel with stress, searching in vain for a space.

“Oh!” She spotted a car pulling out on the other side of the street, so she hit the accelerator, made the skinniest of U-turns, and cut off another car to get to the space.

“Sorry, sorry!” She gave a quick wave of apology and gauged the size of the spot. It was small, but she could shimmy in with a few tries. She pulled up parallel to the car in front of the spot and whipped back and around and?—

A blaring horn and the sickening crunch of metal and the crash of glass made her let out a soft scream as she jolted to a stop.

What happened? She pivoted in her seat to see the car behind the empty space must have pulled out just as she tried to back in and…

She muttered a curse at the sight of a shattered right front headlight on the other car, which was, naturally , a BMW worth more than she made in six months.

Why was her life a mess today?

For a few seconds, she stayed perfectly still, letting the adrenaline dump and her heart hammer into her ribs. Turning to face forward, she closed her eyes and wished she was a praying woman like her aunt, because right that minute, she needed help from above.

When she opened her eyes and glanced in the rearview mirror, she saw a man slowly getting out of the BMW’s driver’s side, a scowl on his face as he pulled on a wool overcoat.

He looked to be in his mid-forties, with close-cropped dark hair and one of those neatly trimmed beards that didn’t hide the fury and disgust in his expression.

Was it her fault? Probably. Definitely. She hadn’t looked to see if the car behind the open spot was even occupied, let alone leaving.

“Dang it!” She opened her door and took one deep breath, hoping Mr. BMW had a heart and felt bad for a woman who’d had a terrible day that had just gotten worse.

He barely threw her a glance as she walked around the back, seeing that the five-year-old GMC Terrain she’d bought to navigate the winters in Asheville was barely scratched. But the Beamer’s headlight and front bumper were as crushed as her soul.

“I’m really sorry,” she said, not bothering to try and persuade the guy to share the blame. This one was on her. “I just?—”

“Didn’t look,” he said, sparing her a glance. “You never even saw my lights were on and I was pulling out.”

She hadn’t. “I wanted the parking spot,” she admitted. “I was focused on…” Her voice trailed off in shame as he stepped away, crouching down to examine the damage.

“I have insurance,” she added weakly when he didn’t say anything.

“Good.”

“I’ll do whatever I can…”

“Try looking before you whip backwards into a parking spot.”

“That’s how you parallel park,” she said.

He took a breath like he was going to say something else, then swallowed it. “Let’s just…” He looked side to side, realizing that some traffic was backed up trying to get around them. “I’ll pull back, you take the spot, and we can exchange info. And I want to call my insurance company.”

At least he was reasonable.

After pulling into the spot—and cringing at the broken glass crunching under her tires—she texted Noelle with shaking fingers. Then she let Brooke know what happened, and finally got her registration and insurance card from the glove box.

When she climbed out, the man was on the phone, so she lingered on the sidewalk while he talked, presumably to his insurance agent. Or maybe his wife, since he looked like the type who had a classy and sophisticated woman at home, waiting for her successful and— okay, be real, Angie —kinda handsome husband to come home.

He finished the call and joined her on the sidewalk, tapping his screen.

“I need a picture of your license, registration, and proof of insurance,” he told her.

She produced all three and he snapped photos with his phone.

“And do I get yours?”

“Of course.” He reached for his wallet and flipped it open, showing a Massachusetts license.

“Oh, you’re visiting,” she said on a sigh. “I’m sorry to give you such a bad impression of Asheville.”

Dark eyes shuttered as he shook his head, clearly not interested in small talk.

“I’m staying here.” He jutted his chin toward the Hilton where she was headed. “But give me your number. You’ll be hearing from my insurance agent.”

They exchanged numbers, his frustration palpable the whole time, though, to be fair, he wasn’t rude.

“I had a really bad day,” she said softly after they finished. “My boss quit and my job’s on shaky ground and…and…” She looked up at him, not seeing even a glimmer of sympathy. “Anyway, bad day.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t drive when you’re that upset…” He glanced at the phone screen. “Angel Messina.” The slightest smile threatened as he said her name and she braced for a joke about how she was anything but an angel.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” she agreed with a defeated smile. “And I’m sorry again for the inconvenience during your trip here. I, um, know someone who owns a body shop, by the way. My stepcousin’s boyfriend?” She wrinkled her nose. “I think that’s what she is. Her father is married to my aunt. Anyway, her boyfriend…”

He held up a hand as if he didn’t need the complicated recommendation, then took a step back. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it. Could have been worse, I suppose.”

She stayed where she was as he walked toward the side entrance to the hotel, then disappeared inside.

Maybe it could have been worse, she thought as she looked at her own phone screen. How?

Well…she supposed that…she squinted at the tiny image of his license. Elliott John Quinn of Brookline, Massachusetts could have been a complete jerk and made her feel terrible.

He wasn’t, but somehow that made her feel even worse.

As she headed toward the same entrance he’d taken, her phone vibrated with a text from her sister.

Noelle: Still with client at gallery! Sorry about the car! Want to reschedule?

She typed one word in response: Yes .

All she wanted to do was go home and take a hot bath to wash off this utter stinkfest of a day.