The Asheville Christmas Tradition (Carolina Christmas #4)

11. Angie

The work crews were only able to move art and furniture after-hours—after VIP tours and official closing—which was at nine o’clock tonight. That meant that Angie had to wait all day and much of the evening to supervise the dismantling of her favorite exhibit, although, in truth, she didn’t need to be here at all.

Carlos and Company, as she thought of the skilled moving crew, were pros and wouldn’t hurt a thing. She’d had her storage plan approved, had marked and categorized every item in the three-room exhibit, and had taken a few final pictures for her department files…and her family.

Knowing that this was the last time anyone would ever be in the oversized servants’ room, Angie took the liberty of sitting on the edge of the bed and closing her eyes for a moment. She imagined a conversation between Angelica and Garland on their own last night in the room.

They left these sleeping quarters—though not the life of service—to move into the small cabin they’d built on land they’d been gifted by friends of the Vanderbilts. What did they talk about that night, she mused.

Did they read this Bible? She reached for the leatherbound King James version, grazing her fingers over the initials GB—Garland Benson—embossed on the cover.

“Not sure I took you as a Bible reader.”

With a soft gasp, she looked up and did a double-take at the sight of Elliott in the doorway.

Instantly, she stood. “Oh. I was expecting the moving crew.”

“I figured I’d find you up here.”

He was looking for her? At this hour? “Did you need something for the Magi project?” she asked, suddenly worried she’d forgotten a task on the tight and complex timeline.

“No, no, but I enlisted the help of Carlos’s crew moving a few pieces down in the sub and threw my weight around to get it done before this. He’s going to be delayed.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, knowing that most storage was in the sub-basement. “Thank you for letting me know. That wasn’t necessary.”

He angled his head in concession and took a few steps into the room. “I’ve only been in here once, but it’s a fine exhibit. Well thought-out.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “It was my first and, as you know, personal.” Still holding the Bible, she lifted it. “I wasn’t reading. I found this in my attic.”

“You donated it? I didn’t know that.”

“I found it when I was looking for the deed to our cabin,” she told him. “Relatives of the original owners were threatening to take it away, since it is evidently built on a goldmine.”

His eyes widened. “The plot thickens.”

“Not so much. We’re not interested in mining, and I found the deed, and now, as you know, I live there, so the good guys won.” Realizing she was talking too much, she placed the Bible back on the nightstand. “Anyway, I’ll wait for Carlos if you want to head home.”

He gave a nearly imperceptible shrug, as if he didn’t want to leave. Instead, he crossed the room and went to the dresser, where a few old pictures rested and some very simple jewelry that belonged to Angelica.

“My car’s fixed,” he said, surprising her with the topic that had nothing to do with the exhibit.

“I’m so relieved to hear that,” she said. “Did Keith do a good job?”

“He did.” He turned to her. “But no friends-and-family discount.”

“What? That’s not right, because he?—”

“It’s fine. He said something about not being family…or friends.”

“That’s weird,” she murmured, wondering if something had happened with Hannah. “Whatever the cost, my insurance will cover it.”

He held up a hand. “It’s all done, Angel. No worries.”

Angel . Dang, she could get used to that.

“So…did you have any questions about the exhibit?” She couldn’t resist a sly smile. “Change of plans?”

“No, sorry. I know you love this one.”

“I do, but I understand you want space for…art.”

With a soft laugh, he slid his hands into his pockets and regarded her with that look of interest and amusement that always felt just a little…personal. “Why is it so many people are opposed to art in a museum?”

She considered her response and the things that Marjorie had told her about how not everyone wanted to hire him. Was she witnessing a division in the company? And was he in the middle of it—or causing it?

“I’m not opposed to art,” she finally said. “I just love the history of the home more than the valued art pieces. I see them as part of the whole thing.”

He nodded, then smiled. “You just don’t care about art that much.”

She laughed. “My daughter occasionally calls me Saran Wrap because it’s so easy to see through me.”

“Nothing wrong with transparency,” he replied. “So, I’m right?”

She shifted from one foot to the other, really not wanting to step into anything but also wanting to make her point.

“I didn’t come to the Biltmore Estate because there’s a Monet on the floor,” she said. “I came because this was—is, actually—the vibrant, gorgeous, shockingly beautiful home of a family.”

He listened, studying her and seeming to be waiting for her to elaborate.

“Yes, two members of the staff happened to be in my own family tree, but the family that lived here—and still owns it—has touched a chord in my heart. I’m sure you know the fascinating history of the Vanderbilts, but what I think is amazing is how you can experience that just by walking through these halls and rooms. They lived here,” she added, a little breathless. “They had children and issues and parties and quiet conversations. They prayed and they worried and they stared out the window and solved their problems. Yes, they were wealthy, but they were also…a real family. Quite frankly, that’s the true appeal of this place to tourists and guests. Not the art. But the art, I guess, is why you took the job.”

He surprised her by taking a few steps closer and sitting on the edge of the bed where she’d been earlier. “I’d have taken any job to get out of Boston and the MFA.”

The admission threw her. Not only was it unexpected, even the tone was raw and real. “Why?” she asked.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “She was a colleague in the very small world of Boston museums, working with the Institute of Contemporary Art. The town just wasn’t big enough for the both of us.”

“So she won your beloved town in the divorce. Not easy.”

“Not at all,” he agreed. “And to make matters worse, she’s getting married and they’re having the reception at the MFA. Truth was, I just couldn’t get away fast enough.”

“So you took a job at the Biltmore even though it wasn’t exactly…your cup of career tea?”

He lifted a brow. “It could be,” he said. “I can see your perspective but…” He shook his head. “You know, Carlos is going to be an hour or more. I have an idea, if you would be so kind.”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“A tour.”

“A…tour? I have to believe that by now you’ve seen every inch of the place.”

“Not through your eyes,” he replied. “I’d like the family tour, not the art tour. The one that showcases the people, not the stuff.”

She stared at him for a moment, liking a person willing to consider changing their opinion. It really appealed to her.

“I’d love that,” she said, waving around the room they were in. “We can start right here with the lovely secrets of Angelica and Garland Benson, our Bible-reading parlor maid and footman.” She took a step back and pointed at him playfully. “Fun fact? Garland was an expert in the art of mimicry and used to entertain the staff for hours by doing dead-on impersonations of the Vanderbilts and their guests. Once, George Vanderbilt overheard him and Garland was certain he was going to be told to leave immediately, fired for impudence.”

“Was he?”

“No. George loved the imitation so much, he had Garland come up and do a private show in Mrs. Vanderbilt’s secret salon, known as the Louis XV room.” She gestured him out of the room. “Where we are going next.”

Elliott threw her a sideways glance, holding her gaze for a heartbeat or two. “See the lesson in that story?” he asked.

“The lesson?”

“Some people think they’re getting canned and, in truth, they’re trusted more than anyone else.”

She slowed her step. Wait a second. Was he…

Yes, he was . Elliott Quinn was not so subtly giving her the message that her job was safe, and that he trusted her.

That put a smile on her face for the rest of the private tour.

As Angie pulled up to the cabin several hours later, she let out another long breath, trying to center herself after the late evening of touring, laughing, talking, and—she glanced at the box on the passenger seat next to her—surprises.

Everything about Elliott Quinn surprised her, she had to admit, but nothing as much as the look in his eyes when they were both back in the fourth-floor exhibit watching Carlos’s crew gingerly carry hundred-year-old furniture.

He genuinely felt bad about having to dismantle the exhibit, and proved that by…

She slipped the lid of the box wide open to look at the leather Bible he’d given to her, remembering his warm look.

“It belongs in your home, and with your family,” he’d said. “Not in a sub-basement storage facility.”

She’d been touched by the gesture, and had to fight the urge to hug him in gratitude. Because they got along nicely and had gone a long way to building a rapport, but that would be?—

“Mom!” Brooke appeared out of nowhere, yanking open the driver’s side door. “I’ve been so worried about you!”

Angie gasped at the sight of her daughter in the driveway. “Oh! I didn’t see you come out.”

“What about the texts I’ve been sending you? Did you see them?”

She grimaced. “I honestly haven’t picked up my phone since…” Since before she started the “family” version of the tour for Elliott. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s after midnight,” Brooke said. “I was worried.”

“Aww. That’s sweet. But you’re the kid and I’m the mom. All is well.” She gathered the box and handed it to Brooke. “Don’t drop that, please. It’s a hundred-year-old Bible.”

“The one you found in the attic and donated?”

“Elliott gave it back to our family,” she said, grabbing her bag and climbing out. “Oh, Brooke, I made such progress with him tonight.”

Brooke eyed her with suspicion. “What does that mean?”

“It means my job feels so much safer,” she said, navigating the steps up to the front door. “I don’t think he’s going to fire me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She let out a soft laugh, thinking of how they’d actually joked about it a few times. “On the contrary, I think he wants me to be his eyes and ears in the department. He really opened up about his life and career. His job, although he didn’t come right out and say this, isn’t that secure. Oh, and he had a terrible divorce—almost as bad as mine. We both?—”

“You told him about Dad?”

“Sure. And about moving here.” She opened the front door, surprised to see a fire roaring. “You’ve been up waiting for me?”

“You didn’t answer my texts. I was, to quote a mother I know, ‘waiting for that call from the hospital.’”

Angie snorted at the words she’d said plenty of times when Brooke was out past curfew.

“I’m so sorry, honey.” She dropped her things on the entryway table and let out a happy sigh, looking around the cabin. “I’d love some tea. Join me. Or is it way too late for you?”

Brooke was still looking at her oddly.

“What’s wrong?” Angie asked.

“You’re all flushed. Your eyes are bright. You look…different.”

“It’s late and?—”

“You’re crushing on this guy,” Brooke announced as if the very idea had just landed in her head. Where it did not belong.

“Brooke, he’s my boss.”

“I know.” She took a step back and narrowed her eyes. “But you are definitely interested.”

“No, I’m…” She made a face. “I don’t want to be.” She laughed. “See why you call me Saran Wrap?”

“As if we have any control over crushes,” Brooke said with wisdom beyond her years. “I’ll make the tea. And then you will spill some because I want to know everything.”

“Deal. Maybe.” Angie plopped onto the big sectional in front of the fireplace, dropping her head back. “There isn’t much tea to spill.”

“Oh, please. Start with what you’ve been doing with the guy all night.”

“Touring. And talking. And laughing. And…” Angie squeezed her eyes shut.

“Crushing?” Brooke guessed.

“Ugh. Maybe a little.” She put her feet up and let out a groan. “Maybe more than a little. I had no idea he was so…nice and funny.”

A few minutes later, Brooke handed her a steaming cup of Sleepytime tea and snuggled under a blanket on the sofa next to her. “Okay, tell me every gory detail and leave out nothing, no matter how inconsequential.”

“There’s nothing to?—”

“Mom.”

Angie blew on the tea, considering what to share and what it meant. “Nothing?—”

“ Mom .”

“ Nothing is going to happen with a man I work for,” she finished. “It would only put my job in more jeopardy and you know I don’t have the qualifications expected for that position.”

“You just said you feel safer than ever,” Brooke countered.

“I do feel like he took the time to get to know me and appreciate whatever it is I bring to the job.”

“And your pretty laugh, sweet smile, gorgeous hair, and inimitable wit,” Brooke added. “Also a bangin’ bod for forty.”

“Forty-one in a few weeks,” Angie reminded her. “Do you really see me that way?”

“Everyone does, Mom,” she said. “You’re all that and a bag of chips. Why do you not recognize that?”

Probably because her husband annihilated her self-confidence, but Angie hated to say anything negative about Craig. While their relationship was strained and their marriage was over, he was still Brooke’s father.

“I don’t know how people see me, but…” She tested the tea for heat with a baby sip. “This guy is very…”

“Attractive.”

“Well, yeah. I mean, he’s not a smoke show, as you would say?—”

Brooke snorted on her first sip of tea.

“But he’s good-looking and surprisingly warm and very smart. But not the uber-intellectual, uptight guy I thought he was. He really opened up to my way of thinking about the estate.” She stared into the fire and remembered how his eyes lit up when they slipped through the secret chamber in the library as she explained how the Vanderbilt children used the passageway for epic games of hide and seek. “I think he caught the vision.”

“How about the feels? Did he catch them, too?”

Angie laughed before her smile faded. “Romance would really, really complicate my job.”

“It would also really, really spice up your life.”

“My life is plenty spicy.” At Brooke’s look, she added, “I like my life just as it is.”

“Sure. Boring and lonely. That’s great, Mom.”

“I’m not lonely! I can’t even stay out until midnight without my seventeen-year-old daughter pounding the floorboards and sending a million texts. How’s the egg baby?”

“Four texts and I didn’t pound anything,” Brooke said. “Even ButtPain. But Mom, the most important thing you said in that sentence was seventeen . This time next year I’ll be in college, coming home for Christmas break. You don’t want to be alone.”

Angie turned to study her beautiful daughter, reaching over to brush back a few dark strands that had escaped from a sloppy bun to fall like wisps around her achingly beautiful face.

“I have family and a job,” she said. “And I don’t care if you go to the moon, we’re going to talk and text all the time every day.”

Brooke rolled her eyes. “Says the woman who didn’t answer my million texts.”

“Sorry about that.” Angie took another sip of her tea. “Anyway, tonight was fun, I feel good about my job, and as far as Elliott, there’s nothing to?—”

“Text him.”

She almost spilled the tea—literally this time. “What? Now? Are you crazy?”

“He’s still up if you are, and you can keep it super professional but…why not send him to bed thinking about you?”

Angie blinked. “Why would I do that?”

“Mom, don’t be lame. You like the guy. If you want to know where you stand, send him a nice text. Nothing gooey. Nothing personal. Just something that lets him know he’s on your mind, too.”

And he was, Angie hated to admit. He was all over her mind. “I don’t know, Brooke.”

But her daughter was already up and digging through Angie’s purse to get her phone. “Let’s just draft something.”

“Don’t send it!”

“I won’t. Is this him? E Quinn? What? No heart-eyes?”

Angie chuckled. “When did you say you’re leaving again?”

“Please.” She plopped on the sofa. “You love me.”

“So much,” Angie whispered, reaching for her daughter’s hand. At the break in her voice, Brooke looked up. “Really, Brookie.” They both smiled at the childhood nickname. “We’ve come so far here at our cabin in the mountains. I have great sisters and good friends, but no one—absolutely no one —gets me quite like you do. I do love you, more than I can say. And more every day as you grow up into a woman.”

Brooke’s expression softened. “And I worry about you when you’re out past curfew,” she teased. “Also, I love you just as much, Angel.”

“Angel,” she sighed. “That’s what Elliott calls me.”

“Oh, boy.” Brooke handed her the phone. “You better text him.”

“And say what?”

“Something warm and professional and funny and sweet and completely like the Angel you are.”

Angie sucked in a breath and typed…

Hey, Elliott. Just want to thank you for the opportunity to let you see the Biltmore Estate through my eyes. Thank you for the Bible and for the opportunity to work on the da Vinci project with you. It’s going to be great!

“How’s this?” She handed the phone to Brooke.

She read it and nodded. “Perfect.” And moved her thumb. “Sent.”

“What?” Angie practically leaped off the sofa. “You sent it? I wasn’t ready! I didn’t give permission! I have to edit it and get the message right. That was wrong, Brooke!”

Her daughter laughed. “So much for, ‘I love you, Brookie.’”

“I do, but it was?—”

“Oh…” She stared at the phone. “He texted back. Lightning fast, too.”

“What?” She lunged for the phone, but Brooke held it away, laughing so hard her eyes were bright. “Let me see it, Brooke!”

After a second, Brooke released the phone to Angie, whose heart was pounding way too hard as she read, with her daughter leaning in to see it, too.

Loved every minute, Angel. Looking forward to more.

“Oh, that’s…” Angie didn’t know what it was.

“That, my friend, is man-speak for, ‘I caught feels, Angel .’” Brooke’s grin shifted into a giggle as she rubbed her hands together in anticipation. “Oh, wow, this is going to be fun.”

Angie read the eight words again and again. And one more time just to let them sink in.

Yep, it would be fun. Scary as all get out, and dangerous to her heart and career. But fun.