The Asheville Christmas Tradition (Carolina Christmas #4)

14. Angie

“You picked the perfect spot, Angel.”

Try as she might, Angie could not get used to anyone calling her Angel. So that must be the reason why every time Elliott said her name, she got a little kick out of it.

Or maybe because he always said it while those indescribable sometimes brown-sometimes green-and occasionally gold eyes were leveled on her with a glimmer of delight and a glint of interest.

Or—this had to be it—he was so frequently complimenting her on her work or ideas during the hours they’d worked together preparing for the Magi event.

Whatever it was, when he called her “Angel,” it made her happy.

“Yes,” she agreed, stepping back to the large gallery where tourists were usually gathered in groups, gawking at the three masterpiece tapestries that covered the limestone walls.

It was nearly midnight, since it took hours for the crew to wrap and carry the numerous settees and tables that furnished one-third of George Vanderbilt’s famous tapestry gallery. The massive estate was dim, lit by just essential lamps, and eerily quiet now that the move was complete.

“I know it blocks the Triumph of Faith tapestry,” Angie said as she and Elliott stood side by side and imagined the layout when the painting arrived. “But this site is central and dramatic.”

“You’re right.” He took a few steps closer. “You really have an eye for placement, Angel, and that’s a huge skill in curatorship.”

“Thank you. It made the most sense, considering the painting isn’t that big or…” Her voice trailed off and he turned to her with a question in his eyes.

“Or what?” he asked when she couldn’t come up with something better than what she was thinking.

It wasn’t that big or beautiful .

She didn’t dare admit that to him.

“Well, it’s not that big,” she said. “But very famous,” she added. “So famous.”

His lips tipped up in a smile. “What were you really going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Angel.”

A laugh bubbled up, as it often did with him. “It’s just that it’s an, um, unusual color.”

He pretended to look horrified. “The color? First of all, there are many, and they are muted, earthy, and, sadly, faded by time. I think the tones convey a sense of humility and the theme of worship, which is what the Magi did.”

She stared at him. “Yes, of course,” she finally said.

“But you hate it.”

“I just think it’s very, um, yellow.”

“Yes, the base level is painted with a lead-tin yellow, and brown ochre.” He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Which, let me guess, is not Christmasy enough for you.”

Biting her lip to keep from laughing, she half-nodded, half-shrugged. “Art is subjective.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about da Vinci’s Adoration ? There are many, many paintings that bear the same name.”

“This would be…the yellow one?”

He choked a laugh. “Uh, yes, that would be one way to describe one of Leonardo’s greatest works of art. It’s unfinished. Still stunning in its composition and message, and the work is, well, da Vinci. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, but…” She crinkled her nose. “It’s just not a really happy moment, is it?”

“There’s a baby and a virgin, three wise men?—”

“And some really creepy folks all around.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Yes, there are. They symbolize war and famine and death, with the hope of Jesus in the midst of it all.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way.” She pointed at him. “Good thing I picked a good room or you’d fire me right now, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d be crazy if I did,” he said. “No one knows this place like you do, at least not on the curator staff. Yes, they know art, but there’s a lot more to the Biltmore Estate than art.”

She lifted both fists. “Hallelujah! He sees the light.”

“I’m serious,” he said with a beaming smile. “You’re a valued employee. Maybe more than I am.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d heard him make a veiled comment about his job, but it was the most obvious one he’d ever let slip. Surely that meant he wanted to, or would, talk about it.

“I guess Marjorie left big shoes to fill,” she said, purposely vague.

He huffed out a breath. “It’s not the size of the shoes, it’s the direction I want to walk.” He stared at the spot where The Adoration of the Magi would be placed, quiet for a long time.

“Something you want to share?” she prodded gently.

“Yes, but I’m not sure where to begin or if I should burden you with…things.”

“I love burdens,” she said quickly. “I love things. And I love gossip, so spill.”

He turned to her. “You know what I love?”

“Da Vinci?” she guessed.

“Funny women.”

Some blood warmed her cheeks. “Well, be wary of them because we hide all manner of things with humor.”

“That’s the challenge,” he said. “Trying to figure out what you’re hiding.”

“You’re the one hiding something,” she countered. “What are the burdensome things you’re not telling me? The exhibit broke the bank and you can’t give out Christmas bonuses? Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting one.”

He glanced around left and right. “Guess you can’t really sit and talk in this room, huh?”

“We can find somewhere that isn’t a hundred-year-old antique,” she said, sensing he really did want to talk. “Because we’re done and the painting is being delivered tomorrow.”

“Panel,” he corrected. “The work is not technically a painting, but a section of fresco.”

“Oh, I…didn’t know that,” she admitted sheepishly. “And here I go again displaying my ignorance.”

He shook his head. “You’re the opposite of ignorant, Angel. You’re actually the very person this museum is trying to attract—families, mothers, people who can appreciate the home that we’re in more than the museum.”

She smiled, grateful that she’d made that point with her boss.

“But I’m not,” he added. “And I think I’ve made a few decisions in my very short time here that have ruffled more feathers than yours.”

“You haven’t ruffled my feathers,” she said. He’d ruffled…other things. But no feathers. “Who’s ruffled?”

“Your instinct is right. Corporate is very iffy on…this.” He gestured to the space they’d been preparing. “There’s been zero uptick in ticket sales since we announced it, the PR has been lackluster, and I’m afraid the average estate visitor is here at Christmas for the ribbons and lights and not…”

“Not the yellow panel that Leonardo da Vinci never finished,” she supplied.

He laughed softly. “And yes, the budget to rent it broke the bank or at least ate into next year’s bottom line.”

She felt a teeny bit vindicated by the news, but the fact was she liked him too much to gloat.

“I’m sure the exhibit will be a big success,” she said.

“It better be.”

The tone surprised her. “Don’t worry, Elliott. Visitors will pour through this gallery and absolutely love seeing something that came all the way from the Uffizi in Florence.”

He angled his head, looking unconvinced. “If it gets ignored, overlooked, or panned in reviews and the press? I might be looking for another job.”

Wow. It was bad. Marjorie wasn’t kidding.

“Never mind,” he said quickly, swiping his hand as if he could erase what he’d just said. “Not your problem.”

“If you get fired, it is,” she countered. “You just said I’m a valued employee. You think I want to do a song and dance for yet another boss?”

“You’re a good singer and dancer,” he said, holding her gaze. “I bought into the Angel Chambers musical, starting with a…crash in Act I.”

She cringed. “Again, sorry about that.”

He didn’t answer for a minute, then leaned in a little closer. “And speaking of Christmas bonuses…”

Chills tiptoed up her spine, lifting the hairs on the nape of her neck. She had no idea where he was going, but chances were pretty strong right then that she’d follow.

“I should use mine before they yank it away when some influencer goes on social media and says they hated the yellow blob by da Vinci.”

“Use yours? How?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a noisy key chain. “I have the keys to the kingdom—well, the winery, where I have been told I’m allowed to pick any bottle of wine—within reason—for my very own as a Christmas gift. Want to share it with me?”

Her jaw loosened. “Now? The winery’s closed and…” She laughed at his look and the delicious sensation when he reached for her hand. “Of course. Let’s go to the winery.”

Apparently, the keys to the kingdom included a golf cart, parked in the employee lot. Laughing, with jackets open to the cold night air, Angie and Elliott hustled to it, and then rumbled out of the lot and onto the road that meandered through the whole estate.

Tucking her hands into her pockets, she let her body lean into his when he took a tight bend, inhaling crisp air when the moonlight spilled over the woods, then onto the rolling mountains beyond.

“That’s pretty,” he said, shifting his gaze from the dark asphalt ahead of them to the glorious view.

“Like a little piece of the Blue Ridge Parkway,” she agreed.

“Which I haven’t seen yet.”

She turned to him, agape. “And you’ve been here a month?”

“My car was in the shop for most of it.”

“Okay, my bad,” she acknowledged, laughing. “We’ll take a drive there soon.”

He tossed her a sideways glance, that amusement glinting again.

“I mean…if you want to and…” She just rolled her eyes and shook her head. “If you haven’t been canned.”

He pulled up to the very back of the winery, a major attraction at the estate, but it looked closed tight for the night. He didn’t seem bothered by that. Feeling adventurous and daring, she climbed out and followed him to a side door even she hadn’t known about.

“This leads to the cellars and a tasting room,” he told her.

“Well, membership certainly has its privileges,” she joked. “I’ve never been to the wine cellar and thought you had to get to the tasting room from the front.”

“Different tasting room,” he told her. “This one is where I closed the deal on my contract,” he said, his voice sounding wistful.

She followed him down a dimly lit hallway and stone stairs, reaching an open door at the end.

He touched the switch to spill a soft golden glow over the room, which was small and furnished only with three high-tops and a few barstools.

“Ah, the speakeasy,” she said, glancing around to see a wine bar along one wall with a bottle-filled rack on the opposite side.

“This room is for Biltmore execs, VIPs, and their guests,” he said, gesturing for her to join him at the wine rack. “It’s run by the honor system. And, as I said, I get a bottle for Christmas, and one for my one-year anniversary.” He leaned closer to her, dipping his head to whisper, “If I make it.”

She almost laughed but his voice was way too serious. “You don’t really think…”

“No, not unless there’s a catastrophe with one of my major projects. Red or white?”

“Definitely red.”

He ran a hand over the wax-covered corks. “These are all Biltmore Estate label and I think every one is excellent. Pinot Noir? Cabernet?”

“I love a good cab or merlot.”

“Perfect.” He pulled out a bottle and blew on the dust. “How about a Biltmore Reserve, 2021? Looks like a nice rich merlot with…” He turned the bottle over to read the notes on the side. “Approachable flavors of raspberry under a warm blanket of pomegranate.” He lifted a brow. “Who writes this stuff?”

She laughed. “Are you sure we can be here? We’re not going to get arrested and then fired?”

“We can be here and no one will arrest us.” He slid the bottle back and chose another. “Ah, full bodied and fruity, with blackberry notes and a lingering finish. I like it.”

“I’ll take it.”

Snagging a corkscrew that hung on the wall, he brought the bottle to a high-top table in the middle of the room and set it down, gesturing for her to sit, then walked behind the bar and found two crystal goblets.

As Angie settled onto a barstool, she said, “This feels very much like something I’d kill my teenage daughter for doing.”

“As you should, but I promise you, we’re allowed to be here and we can drink this wine.” Still standing, he twisted the cork and popped it with the ease of someone extremely adept at uncorking wine.

“Taste?” he asked, hovering the bottle over the glass.

“I’m sure I’ll love it and I won’t pretend to know what I’m doing, but yeah.”

He poured a small amount in the glass, then lifted it and offered it to her. “You know what I like most about you, Angel?”

She reached for the glass, hoping he didn’t notice that the question made her fingers tremble slightly. “I don’t have any idea,” she replied honestly.

“You don’t take yourself too seriously,” he said, then gestured for her to drink. “Go ahead.”

She took the tiniest sip, surprised by the peppery, rich taste on her lips. “Oh…wow. That is not your twelve-dollar twist-off that I buy at the supermarket.”

“No, it is not.”

Before he sat on the other stool, he poured their glasses less than half full, but they were huge goblets, so it was plenty of wine. Then he scooted across from her and lifted his glass in a toast.

“To da Vinci’s yellow blob?” she guessed, making him laugh again.

“I was going to toast to you, an endearing, humble, hilarious, and beautiful woman I am honored to bring to the inner sanctum, as you call it.”

Heat rose to her cheeks. “You had me at endearing.”

“You are, you know.” He dinged her crystal rim with his and took a sip, locking eyes with her, then quickly looking down. “I don’t…I’m not…Sorry to be bold, Angel.”

“It’s fine,” she said softly. “We’re adults. We can…flirt.”

“Not my style, usually, but you definitely bring something out in me.”

“As long as it’s not a pink slip, we’re good.”

He laughed, but his smile faded.

“You’re not really worried about your job, are you?” she asked.

Looking at the wine, he absently turned the glass, thinking for a few seconds before answering. “This position was definitely a stretch for me, and for the Biltmore.”

“A stretch? You come from the MFA, for heaven’s sake. You’re extremely qualified.”

“Maybe too much so, or at least qualified in another area of the curatory arts, if you will.”

She thought about what Marjorie had said about the various “fiefdoms” within the umbrella company they just called “corporate,” wondering again how he and his position might be caught up in that.

“Surely you have a champion in whoever hired you, right?”

“You’re the daughter of a baseball fan, Angel. You must know that even champions strike out.”

“But you have to swing,” she reminded him, lifting her brows. “You can only hit the ones you swing at, my dad—and probably Babe Ruth or someone famous—used to say.”

He lifted his glass. “To taking that swing with the Magi .”

They toasted and she held his gaze again, very much hoping he didn’t strike out. She liked him—as a boss, and a person.

When he put the glass down, he frowned as she heard a soft vibration. She thought it was her phone, glancing around for her bag.

“It’s mine,” he said, tapping his pocket. “And I definitely don’t want to talk about my job—or yours—tonight. Tell me your hopes and dreams, Angel.”

“Like what do I want to be when I grow up?” she joked.

“I get the feeling you’re in the middle of being it,” he said. “But yes.”

She considered the question seriously. “I believe I want to be…let’s see…an ‘endearing, humble, hilarious, and beautiful woman.’”

He tapped her glass with his again. “Nailed it.”

She laughed, dropping her head back as the wine and his heady compliments made her just a little dizzy.

He leaned in and braced his elbows on the table, ignoring another text, which was something she appreciated.

“You want to know something?” he asked after a moment. “I think it’s fair to say I have more to learn from you than you have from me.”

“To learn? About Biltmore?”

“About how to gracefully and successfully build a new life after the one you had falls apart. And about the Biltmore, especially the powers that be. Also, you might teach me a thing or two about what someone who doesn’t have six degrees in art history is really looking for when they walk into a museum.”

“Wow.” She breathed the word, aware that she, too, had her elbows on the table and both of them were inching closer as if an invisible thread drew them together. “I guess I know more than I realized.”

He didn’t answer, just moved a centimeter closer, the electricity arcing between them.

“Angel,” he said on a gruff whisper.

“Elliott,” she sighed back.

“This is not in your job description. I don’t want to?—”

She closed the space. “Neither is drinking in the inner sanctum. I’m not afraid if you aren’t.”

“Afraid? That’s not…” He exhaled as the vibration hummed again. “And someone doesn’t want me to kiss you.”

“That someone would not be me.”

Smiling, he reached into his pocket. “Let me get rid of…” He froze, staring at the screen. Then he blinked and shook his head.

“Is something wrong?”

“Everything,” he said in a stiff, stilted, strained voice. “Everything’s wrong.”

“What?”

He lowered the phone and leaned back, his broad shoulders sinking with him. “ The Adoration of the Magi isn’t coming tomorrow.”

“Then when?”

“Never. Another museum swooped in, paid a fortune, and…took the exhibit.”

“What?” She practically stood with shock. “They can’t do that! It can’t be legal! We’ll fight this, we’ll fly over there and get it, we’ll?—”

“We’ll lose,” he said softly. “It’s the Louvre and they are tightly connected with the Uffizi…” He shook his head. “It’s a cabal of museums that are much more powerful than…the Biltmore Estate.”

She heard the soft, subtle note of disappointment. Because this museum would never be part of that world, she supposed.

“Oh, Elliott, what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, but”—he lifted his glass—“drink up, because I may not be getting another bonus bottle.”

And she would not be getting that kiss.