The Asheville Christmas Tradition (Carolina Christmas #4)

5. Angie

An egg baby ?

“What the ever lovin’ heck is an egg baby?” Angie choked the question, checked the time, and tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Brooke—who’d literally just rolled out of bed—to tell her what an egg baby was and why she needed one now.

“It’s an egg that we’re supposed to carry around from now until winter break starts to help us understand the full responsibility of having a child.” She rolled her eyes. “As if a few hours of babysitting one of my cousins wouldn’t do the trick.”

“Seriously.” Angie huffed out a breath. “Whose genius idea was this?”

“A teacher, but I totally forgot I’m supposed to make a little carrier for it and name it and give it a face. By first period. In, um, an hour.”

“Well, good luck with that, Mama,” Angie said brightly, turning toward her bag. “I gotta go because I just checked GPS, and traffic is wretched and today is B-day.”

“I think the expression is D-day,” Brooke said, her worried look increasing.

“B for New Boss. Starts today. Eight o’clock introductory staff meeting, so I?—”

“Mom, please help me at least get the gooey stuff out of the egg without breaking it. I have no idea how to do that.”

“The egg has to be empty…but whole?”

“Yes, that’s the idea. It’s fragile, but not, you know, lethal. I have no idea how to do that.”

“I think you just poke a hole in it and let it drip. Google it.”

“But I have to get dressed and make the carrier for part of the grade today, and I can’t do this. Please, Mom.”

Angie gestured toward the cream silk blouse and gray slacks she’d picked to make a great impression. “No way I’m dealing with eggs in this.”

Brooke snagged a red apron with candy canes all over it, still a tad dusty with flour from cookie-making with the cousins. “This’ll cover you. Help me, Mom. I’m desperate. I need you. This is your egg grand baby.”

Angie groaned and laughed and folded. “Okay, I’ll try. Fast. But only for my grandegg.”

Four eggs, what looked like a gallon of yolk, and a few not-so-Christian words later, Brooke had an empty eggshell, lovingly named ButtPain. Giving the little guy a face and carrier was her daughter’s problem, but the delay had Angie barreling toward the Biltmore with just enough time to sail into the meeting on time.

Until…the highway came to a complete stop.

“What?” She squinted at the unending line of brake lights, calculating how long it would take to get to her exit. Long. Very long.

After a high dose of cortisol and stress, checking the clock forty-seven times, and breaking the speed limit once she got off the highway, she finally blew into the employee lot at exactly two minutes after eight.

Late . How could she be late for this, the most important meeting of her career?

She knew nothing about the new boss, but the rumors had flown since the day Marjorie left. A woman from the Met. A professor from Yale. A guy from somewhere in London. And—her most favorite possibility—someone from within the Biltmore organization.

At least that would give her a fighting chance, because the Vanderbilts, who still technically owned the estate, would most likely value her family connections and proven track record.

Please, please, please let them hire from within .

She tore into the back entrance, now four minutes late. Maybe New Boss would run behind. Maybe the meeting hadn’t started. Without even taking off her coat, she powered down the hall to the corner. Maybe?—

“Oh!” She slammed hard into someone coming around the bend, with coffee splashing everywhere.

“Goodness, Angie! Watch where you’re going!”

She backed up from one of the tour guides with a gasp, feeling the warmth of coffee all over her silk blouse before she had the nerve to look down and see…

Oh.

“Really sorry about that,” the other woman said. “It was really both our faults.”

“It’s okay,” Angie said, plucking at the material that was so wet with coffee, you could almost see the lace of her bra underneath. “I’ll…manage.”

The other woman gave a tight, apologetic smile. “It’ll rinse out.”

“But what do I wear?” she murmured.

“There are extra tour guide smocks in the break room,” she said. “I just saw a few.”

A tour guide smock? For her first meeting with a new boss? With one more glance at a stain the size of a small continent—and so ugly and brown—she gave a quick nod and darted to the break room’s kitchenette.

There, she pulled on a size large smock that made her look like a human version of Brooke’s baby egg, and tore down the hall to the conference room.

The door was closed, so they’d started.

Son of a…

Sucking in a breath, she slowly twisted the knob and tried to slip in unnoticed, but every head turned from the conference table to look up at her.

“Sorry,” she murmured, glancing around for an empty seat.

There was one, in the front, next to a man standing at the head of the table, and?—

No. No. No, it was not possible . This was not happening. Her life could not be this cursed.

“Angel,” the man said with the hint of a wry smile that fell somewhere between amusement and disgust. “I didn’t know you were a tour guide here.”

A tour…oh, the jacket.

“Um, no, I’m not. I just…” With a sigh and a bone-deep desire to scream, run, and possibly hide under the table, she made her way around the room to the only empty chair. There, she sat less than a foot from Elliott John Quinn of Brookline, Massachusetts, owner of one damaged BMW.

And the new head curator at the Biltmore Estate.

“I had a run-in with a coffee cup,” she managed to say. “And I…” She fluttered the smock, refusing to look up and meet his gaze. “Covered it up.”

“Another run-in?” He lifted a brow. “You must be an expert at those.”

She gave a tight smile and glanced across the table, meeting a colleague’s very curious gaze.

“Long story,” she stage whispered, then let out a sigh. “I’m sorry for delaying the meeting, Mr. Quinn. Please…” She gave a vague gesture. “Carry on.”

He cleared his throat and got her colleagues’ attention again. “As I was saying, I come here to the Biltmore Estate after many years at the MFA in Boston, with several advanced degrees from a university there—well, in Cambridge—and hope to bring both change and stability to this museum…”

He droned on as Angie’s pulse finally settled into something close to normal.

Then his words started to hit her. The MFA? The Museum of Fine Arts in Boston? A university in Cambridge? Did he mean Harvard ? And… several advanced degrees?

And what kind of change did he want to bring?

She tried to shake off the insecurities, slipping out a notebook and pen, forcing herself to listen to him talk about building traffic through creativity, attracting major exhibits, and programs to launch the Biltmore Estate as an important national art museum.

Nothing about the Vanderbilt family. Not a word about the annual highlights, like Christmas and summer. No connection to the winery, the history, and he couldn’t have cared less how profitable a wedding package could be. No plans to expand the current exhibits like Marjorie had, and not a word about the strong connection to the Asheville community.

The only thing that seemed to excite him was the Monet and a few of the tapestries, making her realize that he saw the place as strictly a museum and not a home. Not only was that a huge difference between him and Marjorie, it was also a disappointment to Angie, who clung to her hundred-year-old familial connection to the place as her only hope of keeping this job.

She forced herself to put that out of her mind and listen to him. He had a vague Boston accent, she noticed, and a slight professorial air that was both intimidating and attractive.

Attractive? Hold them horses there, Angie.

Attractive was the last thing he was. Oh, sure, he was a handsome man by most standards. Probably forty-five or so, maybe older. Dark hair with some silver strands, strong features, that sophisticated beard and glasses he wore to read, but casually removed when he looked around the room. His eyes were brown or…no, no. Kind of green with flecks of dark gold, and they were?—

Directly on her.

“Wouldn’t that be your area, Angel?”

She blinked, frozen, totally busted thinking about the color of his eyes.

Would what be her area? What had Marjorie told him?

“Angie,” she managed, buying time and hoping to figure out what he’d asked her.

He tipped his head in concession and she saw what she could have sworn was a cloud of quick disappointment in his eyes, no matter what color they were.

Disappointed? Because she didn’t go by Angel? Or because he’d have to fire her before the week was over?

“I understand you handled the last two feature exhibitions,” he said. “Something with the…” He gestured toward the ceiling. “The upstairs servants’ quarters? A walk-through tour?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, back on solid ground. “I helped Marjorie, er, Ms. Summerall, your predecessor, curate the pieces that went in the higher-ranking servants’ quarters exhibit on the fourth floor. I have a family connection to the Vanderbilt staff,” she added, sitting up a little with pride. “The parlor maid and a footman were my great-grandparents.”

He drew back a bit. “Huh. That’s…interesting.”

Actually, it was, but she didn’t need any more attention on her at this meeting, so she just nodded and stayed quiet.

“Then you’re the ideal person to help us,” he said.

“Anything you need,” she said quickly, remembering all of Marjorie’s praise for her can-do attitude. “We’re sprucing up that exhibit? That’s a great idea because?—”

“We’re taking it down,” he said dismissively. “We need space for something that showcases real art and will draw more guests in the spring.”

Taking down the exhibit she’d worked so hard to create? For a moment, she was flat-out speechless, but then one of the older curators, Jason Pooley, leaned forward.

“Please tell me we can get Eva Jospin after it leaves Paris,” he said.

Elliott gave a dry snort. “Don’t hold your breath. But I do have a connection at Versailles and there’s a chance on the Frida Kahlo exhibit that’s on tour right now.”

“Yes!” Jason fist pumped. “Finally, some legit art.”

Legit ? What was not legit about the totally accurate recreation of a room used by beloved staff members? With their actual clothes, bedding, and the very Bible they read on the same nightstand they used? She’d donated that Bible after finding it in her attic.

“The Kahlo news is not to leave this room,” Elliott warned. “That exhibit is…a longshot. And Eva Jospin?” He shrugged. “She sculpts in cardboard, but does that thrill people? Not as much as the beauty of Kahlo’s self-portraits.”

The names were a mystery, and Angie felt utterly lost. And more than that, she was frustrated.

Yes, the Biltmore was a museum, but it was so much more than that. The estate had been a home, with children and memories and a deep and beautiful history. Tourists lined up to step into a century-old lifestyle, not stare…wait. Did he say that artist sculpted in cardboard ?

As the meeting came to an end, it was clear some of the curator staff were excited, and some were wary. Angie was just confused, confounded, and petrified she’d be looking for a new job soon.

In fact, she couldn’t wait to get into her office and start a job search, but she knew the polite thing to do was to ask her new boss about his car and try her best to improve her image in his eyes.

She stood as he finished chatting with another staffer, catching his attention. “So, small world, huh?”

He gave her a smile and seemed to relax. “You know what isn’t small?” he said with a tease in his eyes. “The dent in my car.”

She winced. “Did you find a body shop?”

“Only one but they can’t get me in for a month.”

“Oh, I can help,” she said brightly.

“I remember…you know someone who knows someone.”

“I do,” she said. “And I’m seeing one of those someones this evening. It’s my aunt’s stepdaughter and her boyfriend owns a great body shop. I’ll get your car in lickity-split.”

He lifted one brow. “Lickity-split? Is that a Southern expression?”

She heard something in the question—not mocking, not at all. Amusement, definitely. A little curiosity. Maybe he was just a fish out of water.

“I’m not Southern,” she said. “Well, I was born and raised in North Carolina,” she conceded, “but I’ve been living in California until I moved here.”

He nodded. “Great museums out there.”

And she couldn’t remember visiting one. “There are, but nothing like the Biltmore Estate,” she added. “This place is special.”

She saw the slightest flash of doubt in his eyes. “It’s…different.”

“Give it a chance,” she said, and meant it. “There’s nothing else like it in this whole country.”

He studied her, then nodded slowly. “I’ll take the name of your body shop connection,” he finally said. “Otherwise, I’ll be driving with one headlight for a month. Thanks, Angel. Er, Angie. Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Truth was, no one called her that and she liked the way it sounded. “Please call me Angel. I was born on Christmas.”

“Really? Well, we’ll have to have a birthday and Christmas drink sometime.”

She almost drew back. Was he asking her?—

“Mr. Quinn?” Diana poked her head in the room. “There’s a call from Paris.”

“Ah, thank you. I’ll be right there.” He turned to Angie. “The Kahlo exhibit,” he said with a grin and then added a finger to his lips as if to say…tell no one.

About the art…or the fact that he’d asked her for a drink?

He stepped out, leaving their conversation unfinished and Angie more restless and itching to get out of the tour guide’s smock.

The three sisters who loved to gather and catch up on each other’s lives had organically grown to the five ladies—sometimes six, if Bitsy came—who now got together nearly every Wednesday night at rotating homes.

With Caro and Hannah added to the mix, it meant more laughter, more conversation, and more Irish coffee. Tonight, they were at the cabin, spread out around the sofa and chairs in the sunroom, sharing life updates.

After Noelle filled them in on the tree lighting committee drama, Angie wasted no time telling them about the changes at the Biltmore and her bone-deep concerns for her job security. She needed advice and the chance to unload with this trusted group.

“He can’t just fire you for being late and wearing…” Eve scowled. “A tour guide smock? Seriously?”

“That or a coffee stain,” Angie said, glancing down at the memory of the sploosh all over her blouse. “Of all days.”

“So he left the Boston MFA to come here,” Noelle said, after she took a moment to consider all that Angie had shared. “I actually know someone who used to work there and I can ask for info on him. From the MFA to the Biltmore, though. Huh. That’s kind of a…”

“Downgrade?” Angie guessed.

“Not at all,” Noelle said. “But it’s a wholly different curator experience, so maybe that’s what he wanted.”

“Somehow, I didn’t get that impression,” Angie said. “And I don’t know how to handle him.”

“With kid gloves and no more accidents,” Hannah said, looking up from her phone. “Keith says to give the guy his number and he’ll do the body work this week with a friends-and-family discount.”

“Oh, thank you,” Angie said with a sigh. “That might have just saved my job.”

“You will save your own job,” Eve said. “As soon as he sees your work ethic and attitude, you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, if I’m willing to undo the entire exhibit I put together featuring our great-grandparents’ room.” She groaned and dropped her head back, still not over it. “I hate that he blows in and takes apart the one thing that really had my fingerprints on it. For what? Something called…Kahlo?”

Noelle gasped. “No! Frida Kahlo, the Mexican artist? I heard that exhibit is amazing, and what a coup to get it in Asheville.”

“You did not hear that from me.” Angie pointed to her. “I’m sworn to secrecy.”

Caro leaned in and looked at Angie. “I agree that you just have to show him your value to the company, Angie. And get to know him.”

“He did suggest we get a drink…” Her voice trailed off as all four of them stared at her. “I mean, I guess as an ice-breaker.”

“Are you sure?” Noelle asked.

“Was he asking you out?” Eve pressed.

“Is he cute?” Hannah chimed in.

“Actually, he’s pretty easy on the eyes, but…” She looked from one to the other. “Stop it.”

None of them said a word, but a few fought smiles.

“What could possibly give you the impression I would ever think about him that way?” she asked on an uncomfortable laugh.

“The fact that we haven’t talked about anything or anyone else for an hour,” Noelle said softly.

“And you’ve mentioned the color—actually, colors —of his eyes three times.” Eve made a face and pretended to sip her coffee.

Angie rolled her eyes, utterly disinterested in her boss, but she had talked about him a lot.

“Then, by all means, change the subject,” she replied, waving toward Hannah. “What’s happening in your life?”

“Me? Oh, the fun never stops. The kids have winter break fever, I can’t seem to get into the Christmas spirit for love or money, but the last field trip of the semester is a trip to the Christmas tree farm.”

“Cassie told me she loved that field trip last year when she was in your class,” Noelle said. “Plus, Harry Fletcher is on my tree lighting committee. Make sure no one steals our twenty-foot Douglas fir or Edna Covington will make my life a living nightmare.”

“Will do,” Hannah promised with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

“But what’s up with you, Hannah?” Caro asked, zeroing in on her sister. “You’re always so happy at this time of year. Every time of year, to be honest.”

Hannah shrugged. “It’s just…you know, the life of a single second-grade teacher.”

“Single?” Caro narrowed her eyes. “I’d hardly call you that.”

“Well, you’d hardly call me married,” she quipped, stopping any other comments dead in their tracks. In the uncomfortable silence, she laughed. “But that’s the path I’ve chosen, right? Keith the Non-committer.”

No one said a word, then Hannah held up her hands. “Not too much advice at once, ladies.”

“Do you want advice?” Noelle asked gently.

“I don’t know. Do I?” She gave a sad smile. “I know what everyone thinks. I’m a pushover for Keith, who refuses to get married because he doesn’t believe in the institution and I should give him an ultimatum or walk.”

“You should be happy and comfortable,” Eve said.

“You should listen to your heart,” Noelle added.

“You should not get married for the wrong reasons,” Angie said. “But remember, I’m the jaded divorced one of the group.”

“What you should do, my dearest sister…” Caroline reached over and took Hannah’s hand. “Is place a high value on yourself and what you want from life.”

Hannah winced at that, probably because it came from the woman in the room who loved and knew her the best.

“It’s complicated,” she finally admitted on a whisper. “I love him—at least I…yeah. I do. But I do feel like I’m settling for less than I deserve and want.”

“What does he say when you tell him that?” Eve asked.

“That we should live together and before you even respond, my answer is no. I…can’t.”

“Dad could ultimately accept that,” Caro said, clearly knowing exactly what was stopping Hannah. “You know he wants you to be happy.”

“But Mom…” She gave a tight, teary smile. “If she were here? She wouldn’t like it at all. I’m not sure she’d like Keith, but she wouldn’t approve of living together and I don’t want to…dishonor her. Does that make sense?”

Eve, Noelle, and Angie exchanged knowing looks, nodding and whispering, “Yes.”

“The power of a parent is strong, even from the grave,” Angie said softly, thinking of many decisions she’d made in life because she thought it would be what her parents would have wanted.

“All I can say is that things are coming to a head with Keith and I’m trying to figure out what to do.” She picked up her Irish coffee, staring at the remnants of whipped cream on top. “One of these days, the answer will be clear.”

They all agreed and let the conversation shift to Eve and Caroline, who commiserated about the challenges of being baby-moms again.

“It’s not easy,” Eve said. “Nothing about being a parent is easy.”

“No kidding!” Suddenly, Brooke came bounding into the sunroom, holding out her hands, the cracked shell of an egg baby in her palms. “I accidentally dropped my phone on ButtPain and she’s done for! I have to make another one and give her the same face or I’m doomed.”

“I know how to make a perfect egg baby!” Eve announced, popping to her feet.

“Of course she does,” Angie joked. “Why didn’t I call you the other morning? I wouldn’t have been late and put my career in jeopardy.”

“Just get me one of Aunt Bitsy’s old knitting needles,” Eve called as the women walked into the kitchen to watch the master at work.

Next to her, Noelle put her arm around Angie and squeezed. “You’ll be fine,” she whispered. “Just do your job and it’ll all work out.”

She glanced at her sister. “Should I have a drink with him?”

“Sure. Just don’t go any further than that.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she said, but even as she said the words, she realized that deep, deep down? She was still thinking about those green and gold eyes.

Oh, Angie. There is dumb and there is really dumb . That thought was really, really dumb.

Which didn’t exactly make it go away.