The Asheville Christmas Tradition (Carolina Christmas #4)

8. Angie

He really wanted to take this exhibit down? Angie studied the restoration of a servants’ quarters that she—and Marjorie—had worked so hard to build last year. Her connection to every item on every shelf, the soft chenille bedspread, even that well-loved and much-read King James Bible that rested on the nightstand, was so strong, she could feel it in her gut.

This was the very room where her great-grandparents lived together until they built the house she and Brooke now called home. She could practically feel their spirits, imagine them discussing some Vanderbilt family gossip, or snuggling in for a good night’s sleep after a hard day’s work as a parlor maid and a footman.

Why would Elliott Quinn undo this display?

But the hall leading here was silent, without any tourists, even during this busy season. Granted, these fourth-floor exhibits weren’t decked out like the rest of the Biltmore for Christmas. Plus, this section of the tour was optional for a higher entrance fee, so many people skipped so they could spend more time on the far more spectacular parts of the estate.

But… no one came up here? She wasn’t aware of that, to be honest.

If it didn’t generate interest or additional revenue, she kind of understood ditching it. Kind of. That way, some obscure artists might have an exhibit here and visitors would likely pay the extra fee.

On a sigh, she pulled out her tablet to start an inventory of every piece in the room so she could recommend an exhibit-dismantling schedule and figure out where in the vast estate they would store the artifacts.

That was her job, like it or not. And she’d better do it well because?—

A text flashed in the corner of her iPad.

Marjorie : How’s it going?

Only training kept Angie from dropping onto the bed with a noisy sigh at the sight of her friend’s name. She stared at the text and considered how to answer, then simply pulled out her phone and tapped Marjorie’s cell number.

“Well, hey there,” the other woman answered with a smile in her voice. “Something tells me that if you’re calling in response to my text, it’s not going well.”

Sliding her tablet in her bag and settling the phone against her ear, Angie walked down the dim hallway toward a window with a wooden bench at the end. She didn’t want one of the few tourists who visited this exhibit to have the experience wrecked by the discovery of a Biltmore staffer chatting on a cell phone, killing the historic vibe completely.

“It’s going,” she said. “But, sadly, I’m up on the fourth floor starting the process of undoing all we did. The additional servants’ quarters displays are coming down.”

Marjorie groaned. “I feared that might happen. It’s in line with what I’ve heard about him.”

Him being Elliott Quinn, Angie imagined. “What have you heard?”

For a moment, Marjorie was quiet, probably deciding how to navigate the fine line of inappropriate gossip with a former employee and giving up helpful information to a friend.

“He’s an art guy,” she said carefully.

“I got that,” Angie said. “I’m not sure he really grasps the essence of the Biltmore.”

Again, Marjorie was quiet, then she said, “No one is sure of that.”

“Really?” Angie sat up. “Then why did they hire him?”

“He’s a catch in the museum world, with excellent credentials,” the other woman said. “Apparently—and you didn’t hear this from me—there were two strong candidates and he won out, but not without a little contention. So, I guess that means he wants to make his mark, one way or the other.”

“By taking down my exhibit,” she said glumly.

“Well, it’s been there for year,” Marjorie reminded her. “And I’m sure you can find some uses for the pieces we had and you donated, including that Bible.”

Angie smiled that Marjorie remembered the details and still cared. “How’s it going at the Getty?”

“It’s …interesting,” she said, sounding far less enthusiastic than Angie expected.

“How so?”

“I wasn’t prepared for the enormous corporate machine I need to navigate or the number of layers just to get something done. I admit to being a bit homesick for the charm of the Biltmore.”

“Come back!” Angie exclaimed.

“Don’t tempt me. But, tell me what’s the issue with your new boss,”

“We got off to a bad start,” Angie admitted. “Turns out he’s the man whose headlight I took out a week or so ago.”

Marjorie gasped. “Oh, dear. That’s unfortunate.”

“And he has to realize that I’m only here because you liked me and my long-dead relatives worked here. I’m about as relevant to the Biltmore as a parlor maid.” She cringed in the direction of Angelica Benson’s old room. “Sorry, Great-grannie.”

“Stop it,” Marjorie chided on a laugh. “Any manager worth his weight recognizes that sometimes enthusiasm and grit beat out fancy degrees.”

“Not sure he’s there with me yet. The only thing he’s asked me to do is to undo what I did last year. Other than that, he hasn’t given me a single new assignment.”

“Then get one,” Marjorie said, with the firm voice of a mentor. “Volunteer, get in his face, find an opportunity for something and ask him to give you the responsibility.”

Angie considered that advice, nodding. “I guess I could.”

“And if you’re smart, you’ll help him keep the job, because I honestly think he’s on a bit of probation, and one major screwup and he’s gone. But, again, you didn’t hear that from me.”

“Of course not.” Marjorie was not a gossip and had always done a great job of keeping a wall between the curators of the estate and the more distant corporate executives. Because of that, Angie knew very little about those people, the departments they ran, or how the business was structured. “But…why is he on shaky ground?”

“Oh, you know, corporate warlords, vying for power.”

“But the Biltmore Company is family owned, still run by the Vanderbilts.”

“It is,” Marjorie agreed. “But remember, it’s still a conglomerate of brands. Yes, the estate is the largest and most well-known, but there are numerous businesses under the Biltmore umbrella—hospitality, wine, even home goods. All those little fiefdoms are always jockeying for budget, power, and attention.”

Was Elliott Quinn caught in the middle of that? “So what should I, a lowly associate staff curator, do?”

Marjorie chuckled. “You’re not lowly. But my advice would be to find out his pet project and get on it and while you’re at it? Let him in on the best-kept secret in the art world.”

“That the Biltmore Estate is heaven on earth?”

“Exactly,” Marjorie agreed. “If anyone can make him fall in love, it’s you.”

“Fall in love?” Angie choked. “I mean, he’s good-looking, but?—”

“With the Biltmore!” Marjorie hooted a soft laugh. “Anything else is on your own time, Angie.”

She chuckled as she noticed a small group of tourists entering the hallway. “I better go,” Angie said.

“Okay. Hang in there. Let me know how it goes.”

After they said goodbye, Angie passed the exhibit, glancing in at the group milling about her great-grandparents’ room.

“Yeah, this is boring,” one woman said to another.

“I want to go back to the library and look at those insane trees.”

“And the tapestries,” a third woman added.

Angie hurried down the stairs, feeling her heart drop with each step. Of course, Elliott was right, and the exhibit needed to go, but could she suggest something in its place? And then, could she make whatever it was his pet project and then get involved?

She was still wondering when she got back to the long hall that led to her department.

“Oh, there you are,” Diana called as Angie passed her desk. “Just in time.”

“For what?” Angie asked.

“I sent you an email that Mr. Quinn just called an emergency meeting of curators in the conference room. It starts in ten minutes.”

Emergency meeting…to fire people? She hoped not. But at least this time she wouldn’t be late. And the minute he hinted at a pet project, she’d be the first to volunteer her time. Hopefully, Marjorie was right about that.

Elliott Quinn was beaming as the other staff curators—four in all, counting Angie—came into the conference room at the appointed time. Angie was by far the lowest in seniority and experience among the group. None of these other people would be considered for cutting, she decided.

Elliott wouldn’t look quite so happy if he’d brought them in here to announce mass layoffs and he certainly wouldn’t fire her in front of her colleagues.

So she relaxed, opened a notebook, and made small talk with a co-worker until their fearless leader cleared his throat and opened the meeting.

“I have four words, my friends,” he said with an air of excitement that couldn’t be ignored. “And you’ll never guess what they are.”

“Take this Friday off?” a woman named Pamela joked when he waited a beat.

He didn’t seem thrilled with that answer.

“We got Eva Jospin,” Jason chimed in.

“Even better, but no.” Elliott glanced at Angie, no doubt expecting a guess.

“Um…brand-new latte machine?”

He gave a smile and shook his head. “Forget it, because in a million years, none of you will guess. But you will be happy.” Still standing, he pressed his hands on the table top, leaning in an inch. “ The Adoration of the Magi ,” he said, keeping his voice low, as if saying the words too loud would be more than they could handle.

And it was, based on her colleagues’ response.

“Da Vinci?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“That’s unbelievable!”

“No way!”

Again, he looked at Angie, who hadn’t reacted because she was mentally digging through her minimal knowledge of…da Vinci? What had he called it— The Gift of the Magi ? No, no, that was a short story she’d read in high school. Panic nearly broke her into a cold sweat.

“Amazing,” she managed, sounding far calmer than the rest.

“You don’t even believe me,” he countered, with a half-twinkle in his eyes.

“Well, it is kind of unbelievable,” she said.

Almost as unbelievable as sitting in this room with a bunch of art historians—supposedly one of them—and having no idea what this piece of art actually was.

“I know,” he conceded. “But here’s the deal—I arranged to get it for the MFA before I left, as part of their Christmas event. But I just got a call that there was a glitch in the paperwork and it’s going there after Christmas. So that leaves the Adoration with no home for three weeks this month—until now. It’s coming here.”

She joined in the celebration and high-fives, certain she’d identified his pet project but not sure how to get involved as Marjorie had suggested.

“So, ladies and gents,” Elliott continued when their excitement died down, “we have our work cut out for us. I’m going to need someone to draft an immediate press release and get on the phone with every local media outlet to drum up excitement. Pamela?”

“On it,” she said.

“And Jason, would you be my liaison with the Uffizi in Italy? They have mountains of customs forms and admin that needs to be handled—correctly, this time—to add us to the list of guest museums. And, of course, you can manage all the Biltmore issues, communicating with PR and the tour staff. We’ll need you to write up an exhaustive description of the work, including its history, and get that on the audio tour. Oh, and programs.”

“Done and done and done,” Jason said, gobbling up all the good assignments, as he so often did. “I’m a huge fan of the Uffizi myself.”

Of course he was, since he was the original teacher’s pet.

“Louisa?” Elliott looked at the other woman. “We’ll need to prepare a space for?—”

She held up a hand. “Mr. Quinn, my vacation starts Wednesday and I’m out until next year.”

“Oh.” He drew back, obviously not expecting—or liking—that. “Then we?—”

“I’ll handle it,” Angie said before he could finish. “I know exactly how to set up a temporary exhibit.”

“But this is The Adoration of the Magi ,” he said, as if she didn’t quite grasp what he was talking about.

Okay, she didn’t. Was it a sculpture? Painting? Tapestry? A Nativity scene from Leonardo da Vinci’s front yard? Why didn’t she know this?

Her whole body tensed with a flash of anger, entirely aimed at herself. She had to fake it and if she got caught…she might as well pack her bags and print her resume.

“We can make a special area in the tapestry room,” she said with remarkable calm for a woman who literally had no idea what she was talking about.

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. “That is perfect,” he finally said. “The painting can go directly in front of the center tapestry, which will be great for traffic and viewing, plus a place of honor. Absolutely perfect.”

She literally had to keep herself from collapsing with relief.

“But it will take some feats of logistics?—”

“Not a problem,” she interjected quickly. “Feats of logistics are my specialty.”

“Good. Then we’re set.” He lifted his hand to dismiss them all. “Time is of the essence, so, please, everyone should make this project your highest priority and plan on daily updates and a very active and busy workflow. I realize this is the holidays, but having a da Vinci in-house will put this place on the map.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d used the expression, which irked, because not only was the Biltmore Estate on the map, it was the crown jewel of Asheville. But not to Mr. Boston.

The others left on a cloud of genuine excitement, clearly thrilled about the new arrival. Angie couldn’t wait to book it to her office and search The Adoration of the Magi , so she could?—

“Angel?”

She turned, still not accustomed to anyone using her given name—or how much she liked it. “Yes?”

“Can I see you in my office for a moment?” he asked.

Oh, no. That couldn’t be good.

“Of course,” she said, tempted to ask what it was about. But she resisted the urge and gave him a minute to gather his pen and paper, round the table, and hold the door open for her.

As she passed by him, she stole a look into his eyes, trying to determine if she was headed to the chopping block, but all she got was a whiff of musky cologne and that twinkle again.

He wasn’t firing her, was he? Or asking for that drink? Maybe it was a test to see how much she really knew about The Adoration of the Magi.

Whatever it was, she followed him into the only spacious, windowed office in the department. There, she slipped into the guest chair while he stayed outside, talking quietly to Diana at her desk.

Angie sat across from a sizeable mahogany desk, marveling that the office had such a different feel than when Marjorie worked there.

For one thing, he’d replaced Marjorie’s light oak parsons table with a heavy mahogany and very manly desk.

The family woman kept pictures of her grandchildren in one corner, a gold antique clock in another, and more than a few files open and spread across the surface.

Elliott had no personal pictures, but a very expensive pen holder and a glass paperweight with the skyline of a city, which she presumed was Boston. No files were open, though two folders were squared on one side. The only personal item in the whole office was a baseball in an acrylic box, of all things, sitting on the windowsill.

It seemed so odd for such an art lover that she couldn’t help walking over to it, peering at the blue ink on top. Autographed? She picked up the box and gasped as she made out the signature.

“Drop it and you can pack up and leave,” Elliott said, enough humor in his voice that she instantly knew he was kidding. Kind of.

“Yaz?” she asked, holding the box with reverence. “You have a baseball autographed by Carl Yastrzemski?”

“I do, and he gave it to me himself just last year after an event at the MFA. You a fan?”

“Not really, but my dad was. He loved baseball—like crazy loved—and he had a few favorite players. Yaz was one.” She set it down gently and went back to her seat.

“Was he a Red Sox fan?” Elliott asked.

“Just all baseball,” she said, glancing at the paperweight. “Are you homesick for Boston?”

His eyes flickered a bit, probably at the personal nature of the question, or maybe because she’d hit a target.

“I’m getting used to it here,” he said.

“Still living in a hotel?”

“Well, my car’s in the body shop…” He lifted a brow. “And I hate that rental, so I haven’t driven around to look for a home. Haven’t driven anywhere at all, other than town and here.”

She smiled. “But Keith took you right away at his body shop?”

“He did,” he acknowledged. “And gave me a discount, so thank you for being friend or family. Which is it?”

“Kind of both, but I promise my insurance will cover whatever it costs.” She shifted in her seat, regarding him. “Is that why”—she gestured vaguely—“I’ve been called to the principal’s office?”

He laughed. “No, not at all. I just…” He let out a sigh and opened one of the files on the desk. “I’ve looked at your personnel information and I was just wondering…”

“How the heck I got this job,” she finished for him, anxious to have the truth out and quit worrying about it.

He looked surprised, then eased into a smile. “I admit, it crossed my mind that your background is different from some of the other curators.” He tapped a page in the file. “But then Marjorie spoke so highly of you,” he said as he fluttered a piece of paper, making her wonder what was on it. “I really don’t see relevant experience, so I wondered if you could enlighten me. So I can put you on the right projects,” he added.

She nodded, feeling another adrenaline rush of relief at not being fired.

“My degree is in communications,” she started, having practiced this conversation a few times in front of the mirror. “But I have taken some art history classes.”

Not enough to know what The Adoration of the Magi was, she added silently.

“I also bring a skill set that allows me to…” Her voice faded out as she looked at him, then smiled, dropping back in the chair in surrender.

No. She wasn’t going to try to be something she wasn’t. She’d be honest and let the ol’ chips fall where they may.

“I’ve basically been a stay-at-home mom for sixteen years,” she admitted. “I stumbled into this place by accident after discovering a familial connection.”

“The parlor maid and the footman were your great-grandparents.”

“Yes. And that got me in the door last Christmas. Marjorie was in the middle of planning that fourth-floor exhibit—the one you hate, and for good reason, I suppose—and so short-staffed that she let me volunteer. And then…”

“You stayed.”

“Well, it was a little more complicated than that,” she said. “I discovered my husband was cheating on me, my teenage daughter followed me here while I was on vacation, and then I found out our family cabin was going to be taken away, so I had to fight for it and…” She caught her breath and laughed. “Yeah, Marjorie really liked me and offered me a job.”

“Well, that’s quite a…”

“Non-resume,” she supplied.

“Story,” he finished.

“Except it’s true and I hope my lack of credentials doesn’t go against me.”

“On the contrary,” he said slowly. “I have, uh, also been through a divorce, so if nothing else, I can empathize.”

She nodded. “Sorry.”

He let out a breath and turned the paperweight. “Also…infidelity. Hers, not mine.”

“Ouch,” she whispered. “It’s awful.”

“It sure is,” he agreed, then looked up. “And I felt I had to leave Boston, which is a place I love very much.”

“And come to a small town in the mountains that you don’t love at all,” she surmised.

“Is it that obvious?”

She lifted a shoulder, silent.

He winced. “I’m sorry. I want to like the place, but I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well, begin by looking around the Biltmore Estate,” she said without hesitating. “This place is heaven on earth. The views will steal your soul and just wait until spring and summer. And, oh, my gosh, the autumn leaves. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

He looked skeptical.

“Okay, okay, I guess New England can hold its own in the fall, but this place is magical.”

He inched forward. “Maybe you could…”

She held her breath, not sure what he was about to ask her.

“Help me see the beauty of it all,” he finished.

“I’d love to,” she replied. “As soon as we finish getting ready for the uh… Gift of the Magi.”

He laughed, and she nearly cringed at her error.

“It’s a gift, all right,” he said, letting her off the hook, intentionally or not. “And I will personally help with the placement and preparation, which you so enthusiastically volunteered for.”

“Because I might not have an advanced degree in art history, but I know every worker on staff, how to get the tapestries safely moved and stored if we have to, and how to set up a temporary exhibit, which has an enormous amount of moving parts. The whole thing takes a different skill set, and I happen to have it, I promise.”

“You have that and much more, Angel,” he said with a warm look. “I look forward to working with you on this.”

She stood slowly, feeling that that was the end of the meeting. “Same, Mr. Quinn.”

“Call me Elliott, please. Since I, uh, can’t seem to call you what everyone else does.”

She smiled. “It’s fine. I, um, I kinda like it.”

She went back to her office with a bounce in her step, diving right onto her computer to research Leonardo da Vinci’s The Adoration of the Magi .

And then she stared at the single ugliest mess of a mustard-yellow blotchy painting she’d ever seen.

Seriously, Leo? You couldn’t do better?

Chuckling, she texted Marjorie and thanked her for the advice. Today , she told her friend, was a win .

Then she went back to the painting and tried to find something she liked about it.