The Christmas Book Club, page 1
SARAH MORGAN is an international and Sunday Times bestselling author of several novels, including Snowed in For Christmas, Beach House Summer, The Christmas Escape, The Summer Seekers and One More for Christmas. She has sold over twenty-one million books worldwide.
Sarah lives near London, England with her family and when she isn’t writing or reading, she likes to spend time outdoors hiking or riding her mountain bike.
Join Sarah’s mailing list at sarahmorgan.com for all book news. For more insight into her writing life follow her on Facebook at Facebook/AuthorSarahMorgan and on Instagram at @sarahmorganwrites. Contact Sarah at sarah@sarahmorgan.com
Also by Sarah Morgan
How to Keep a Secret
The Christmas Sisters
One Summer in Paris
A Wedding in December
Family for Beginners
One More for Christmas
The Summer Seekers
The Christmas Escape
Beach House Summer
Snowed in for Christmas
Summer Wedding
From Manhattan with Love
Sleepless in Manhattan
Sunset in Central Park
Miracle on 5th Avenue
New York, Actually
Holiday in the Hamptons
Moonlight Over Manhattan
Puffin Island
First Time in Forever
Some Kind of Wonderful
Christmas Ever After
The O’Neil Brothers
Sleigh Bells in the Snow
Suddenly, Last Summer
Maybe This Christmas
COPYRIGHT
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperCollinsPublishers
Macken House, 39/40 Mayor Street Upper,
Dublin 1, D01 C9W8, Ireland
This edition 2023
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2023
Copyright © Sarah Morgan 2023
Sarah Morgan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781848459205
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2023 ISBN: 9780008930882
Version 2023-10-05
NOTE TO READERS
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9781848459205
To Margaret and Alan, for being wonderful friends.
CONTENTS
Cover
Dear Reader
About the Author
Booklist
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Extract
About the Publisher
ONE
Hattie
“Maple Sugar Inn, how may I help you?” Hattie answered the phone with a smile on her face because she’d discovered that it was impossible to sound defeated, moody or close to tears when you were smiling, and currently she was all those things.
“I’ve been planning a trip to Vermont in winter for years and then I spotted pictures of your inn on social media,” a woman gushed, “and it looks so cozy and welcoming. The type of place you can’t help but relax.”
It’s an illusion, Hattie thought. There was no relaxation to be had here; not for her, at any rate. Her head throbbed and her eyes pricked following another night without sleep. The head housekeeper was threatening to walk out and the executive chef had been late two nights running and she was worried tonight might be the third, which would be a disaster because they were fully booked. Chef Tucker had earned their restaurant that coveted star, and his confit of duck had been known to induce moans of ecstasy from diners, but there were days when Hattie would have traded that star for a chef with a more even temperament. His temper was so hot she sometimes wondered why he bothered switching on the grill. He could have yelled at the duck and it would have been thoroughly singed in the flames of his anger. He was being disrespectful and taking advantage of her. Hattie knew that, and she also knew she should probably fire him but Brent had chosen him, and firing him would have severed another thread from the past. Also, conflict drained her energy and right now she didn’t have enough of that to go around. It was simpler to placate him.
“I’m glad you’re impressed,” she said to the woman on the phone. “Can I make a reservation for you?”
“I hope so, but I’m very particular about the room. Can I tell you what I need?”
“Of course.” Bracing herself for a long and unachievable wish list, Hattie resisted the temptation to smack her forehead onto the desk. Instead, she reached for a pad of paper and pen that was always handy. “Go ahead.”
How bad could it be? A woman the week before had wanted to know if she could bring her pet rat with her on vacation—answer: no!—and a man the week before that had demanded that she turn down the sound of the river that ran outside his bedroom window because it was keeping him awake.
She went above and beyond in her attempts to satisfy the whims of guests but there were limits.
“I’d like the room to have a mountain view,” the woman said. “And a real fire would be a nice extra.”
“All our rooms have real fires,” Hattie said, “and the rooms at the back have wonderful views of the mountains. The ones at the front face the river.”
She relaxed slightly. So far, so straightforward.
“Mountains for me. Also, I’m particular about bedding. After all, we spend a third of our lives asleep so it’s important, don’t you agree?”
Hattie felt a twinge of envy. She definitely didn’t spend a third of her life asleep. With having a young child, owning an inn and grieving the loss of her husband, she barely slept at all. She dreamed of sleep but sadly, usually when she was awake.
“Bedding is important.” She said what was expected of her, which was what she’d been doing since the police had knocked on her door two years earlier to tell her that her beloved Brent had been killed instantly in a freak accident. A brick had fallen from a building as he’d been walking past on his way to the bank and struck him on the head.
It was mortifying to remember that her initial reaction had been to laugh—she’d been convinced it was a joke, because normal people didn’t get killed by random bricks falling from buildings, did they?—but then she’d realized they weren’t laughing and it probably wasn’t because they didn’t have a sense of humor.
She’d asked them if they were sure he was dead, and then had to apologize for questioning them because of course they were sure. How often did the police follow we’re sorry to have to tell you… with oops, we made a mistake?
After they’d repeated the bad news, she’d thanked them politely. Then she’d made them a cup of tea because she was a) half British and b) very much in shock.
When they’d drunk their tea and eaten two of her home-made cinnamon cookies, she’d shown them out as if they were treasured guests who had honored her with their presence, and not people who had just shattered her world in one short conversation.
She’d stared at the closed door for a full five minutes after they’d left while she’d tried to process it. In a matter of minutes her life had utterly changed, the future she’d planned with Brent stolen, her hopes crushed.
Even though two years had passed, there were still days when it felt unreal. Days when she still expected Brent to walk through the door with that bouncing stride of his, full of excitement because he’d had one of his brilliant ideas that he couldn’t wait to share with her.
I think we should get married…
I think we should sta
I think we should buy that historic inn we saw on our trip to Vermont…
They’d met in England during their final year of college and from the first moment she’d been swept away on the tide of Brent’s enthusiasm. After graduating, they’d both taken jobs in London but then two things had happened. Brent’s grandmother had died, leaving him a generous sum of money, and they’d taken a trip to Vermont. They’d fallen in love with the place, and now here she was, a widow at the age of twenty-eight, raising their five-year-old child and managing the historic inn. Alone. Since she’d lost Brent she’d tried to keep everything going the way he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t proving easy. She worried that she wasn’t able to do this on her own. She worried that she was going to lose the inn. Most of all she worried that she wasn’t going to be enough for their daughter. Now Brent was gone she had to be two people—how could she be two people when most days she didn’t even feel whole?
She realized that while she’d been indulging in a moment of maudlin self-pity, the woman on the phone was still talking. “I’m sorry, could you say that again?”
“I’d like the bedsheets to be linen because I do struggle with overheating.”
“We have linen bedding, so that won’t be a problem.”
“And pink.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like the linen to be pink. I find I sleep better. White is too glaring and drab colors depress me.”
Pink.
“I’ll make a note.” She grabbed a notepad and scribbled Help followed by four exclamation marks. She might have written something ruder, but her daughter was a remarkably good reader and was given to demonstrating that skill wherever and whenever she could, so Hattie had learned to be mindful of what she wrote and left lying around. “Did you have a particular date in mind?”
“Christmas. It’s the best time, isn’t it?”
Not for me, Hattie thought, as she checked the room occupancy. The first Christmas after Brent had died had been hideous, and last year hadn’t been much better. She’d wanted to burrow under the covers until it was all over, but instead, she’d been expected to inject festive joy into other people’s lives. And now it was the end of November again and Christmas was just weeks away.
Still, providing she didn’t lose any more staff, she’d no doubt find a way to muddle through. She’d survived it twice, and she’d survive it a third time.
“You’re in luck. We do still have a few rooms available, including one double facing the mountains. Would you like me to reserve that for you?”
“Is it a corner room? I do like more than one window.”
“It’s not a corner room, and there is only one window in this particular room, but it has wonderful views and a covered balcony.”
“There’s no way of getting a second window?”
“Sadly not.” What was she supposed to do? Knock a hole through the wall? “But I can send you a video of the room before you make your choice if that would help.”
By the time she’d taken the woman’s email address, put a hold on the room for twenty-four hours and answered the rest of her questions, half an hour had passed.
When the woman finally ended the call, Hattie sighed. Christmas promised to be a nightmare. She made a note under the reservation. Pink sheets. Linen.
How would Brent handle it? It was a question she asked herself a million times a day and she allowed herself to glance at one of the two photographs she kept on the desk. This one was of Brent swinging their daughter high in the air. Both were laughing. Sometimes, she’d discovered, remembering the best of times sustained you through the worst.
She was about to search the internet for pink linen sheets when someone cleared their throat in an exaggerated fashion.
She looked up to find Stephanie, the head housekeeper, glowering at her.
Stephanie had been another of Brent’s appointments. Almost all the staff had been Brent’s choice. Before Brent had recruited her, Stephanie had been head housekeeper at a renowned hotel in Boston. Her credentials are impeccable, he’d said after he’d interviewed Stephanie, and she’s ferociously organized and capable.
Hattie had agreed with the ferocious part. She’d pointed out that Stephanie’s manner had bordered on rude and that she might be difficult to manage, but Brent had dismissed her concerns and assured her that he’d be handling the staff so it wouldn’t be her problem. Except that now she was handling it, and it was her problem. Everything was her problem.
“Do you have a sore throat, Stephanie?” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she was ground down by the woman’s relentlessly negative attitude. Dealing with her was energy sapping. Stephanie had respected Brent—there had been moments when Hattie had wondered whether she’d been feeling something more than respect—and responded to his unbridled enthusiasm for everything, but clearly found Hattie’s more gentle nature nothing but an irritation.
“I have bigger problems than a sore throat. That stupid girl somehow gathered up a red item with the bed linen when she was dealing with the River Room.”
Hattie pretended to be clueless. “I’m not sure who you mean.”
“Chloe.” Stephanie’s mouth was a tight line. “She’s a disaster. I have lost count of the number of times I have warned her to shake out the linen to make sure guests haven’t left anything in the bed. I warned you not to hire her and I have no idea why you did. And now this has happened.”
Hattie had hired Chloe because she was friendly and enthusiastic, which she believed to be important qualities. An establishment like the Maple Sugar Inn survived on its reputation, and that was only as strong as its staff. Chloe made people feel nurtured and important. Stephanie was more like a Doberman guarding a compound.
“Chloe is warm and helpful and the guests love her. I’m sure she won’t do it again.”
“Brent would never have hired her.”
Hattie felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. “Brent isn’t here.”
Stephanie had the grace to flush. “I do realize the last few years have been hard for you, Harriet, and you’re not a natural manager, but you have to be firm with staff. You’re the innkeeper. You’re the one in charge now. Your problem is that you’re too nice. A good manager should be able to fire someone.”
Hattie had no intention of firing Chloe. She was one of the few members of staff who didn’t bring tension into the room with her.
“This is her first job,” Hattie said. “She’s learning. Mistakes happen.”
“This is supposed to be a quality establishment. Quality establishments don’t tolerate mistakes.”
The whole venture was a mistake, Hattie thought wearily. What were you thinking, Brent? “I’ll talk to her. Where is she?”
“In the laundry room, crying. I just hope she’s not blowing her nose in the sheets.”
Maybe they could cry together, Hattie thought as she made her way through the welcoming reception area and past the open door of the library. She gave the well-stocked bookshelves a longing look, wishing she had time to snuggle down in an armchair in front of the flickering log fire and escape for a while. The library was her favorite room and nothing pleased her more than seeing someone curled up on one of the sofas with a book.
Occasionally, she envied her guests, who were pampered and cared for, their every need anticipated, their every wish granted. Her guests did seem happy and most of them booked again, so maybe she wasn’t doing such a bad job as an innkeeper even if she was a terrible people manager. Was she a terrible people manager? Or was it just that she wasn’t good at managing terrible people?
She headed downstairs and found Chloe exactly where Stephanie had said—in the laundry room.
Her eyes were red and she scrubbed her face with her hand when she saw Hattie.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe muttered. “She told me I had to change the bed in four minutes, so I was going for speed. I messed up, I know I did, but Mrs. Bowman frowns so much that she makes me nervous and flustered and then I make mistakes.”
Hattie wondered if she should confess that Stephanie Bowman had the same effect on her.
“Don’t worry about it.” She patted the girl on the shoulder. “Everything is fine.”
“No, it isn’t. The bedding is ruined.” Chloe’s face was scarlet. “It’s supposed to be snow-white, and now it’s pink. And not pale pink, but pink. I’m going to try washing it again, but I think the color is stuck fast. It will have to be thrown away.”
