Christmas in Quincy (The Edens)

by Devney Perry

  CHRISTMAS IN QUINCY

  Copyright © 2020 by Devney Perry LLC

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-950692-25-5

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editing & Proofreading:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  www.facebook.com/jdproofs

  Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  www.judysproofreading.com

  Contents

  Also by Devney Perry

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Devney Perry

  Jamison Valley Series

  The Coppersmith Farmhouse

  The Clover Chapel

  The Lucky Heart

  The Outpost

  The Bitterroot Inn

  The Candle Palace

  Maysen Jar Series

  The Birthday List

  Letters to Molly

  Lark Cove Series

  Tattered

  Timid

  Tragic

  Tinsel

  Tin Gypsy Series

  Gypsy King

  Riven Knight

  Stone Princess

  Noble Prince

  Runaway Series

  Runaway Road

  Wild Highway

  Quarter Miles

  Forsaken Trail

  Dotted Lines

  Standalones

  Rifts and Refrains

  Chapter 1

  Cleo

  “Welcome to The Eloise Inn,” the young woman behind the reception counter greeted. “Checking in?”

  “Yes. Cleo Hillcrest.” I plopped my Chanel handbag on the counter, slumping into the mahogany tower as I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I made it. My suitcase rested against my calf, much like me, too weary to stand on its own.

  “Let me just pull up your reservation.” The woman typed quickly, the smile on her pretty face soft and sweet. The silver name tag on the lapel of her black blazer caught the warm light from the chandelier above.

  “Thanks, um . . . Eloise? As in the—” My finger twirled in the air, indicating the stately hotel.

  “Yep.” She laughed. “My great, great grandmother, Eloise Eden. The inn was named for her by my great, great grandfather. She was my namesake.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s beautiful. The inn and your name.”

  “Thank you.” Her smile widened. “I take pride in both. I’m the manager here.”

  “Impressive.” It was possible that she just had great genes, or a miracle skin cream, but with her flawless, youthful skin, I’d peg her in her early twenties.

  As Eloise returned to her task, a wood fire crackled in a large hearth on one side of the grand room. The hotel’s lobby was decked out for Christmas, the mantel piled high with pine boughs and ornaments. Above the fireplace, a stone column towered to the rafters and in its center hung a wreath at least three feet in diameter.

  Golden bulbs framed the windows. Inside the door, a fir tree three times the size of my car greeted customers with its woodsy scent and red bows. Tiny boxes, individually wrapped, were staged on a brass platter beside my handbag.

  As far as Christmas escapes went, I’d chosen my destination well. Not that I’d ever escaped Christmas before.

  But this year, Quincy, Montana, was going to be my hideaway.

  “Okay, Ms. Hillcrest.” Eloise looked up from her computer screen with another welcome smile. “I have you here for three nights. Checking out on the twenty-sixth. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.” I nodded, fishing out my wallet for my driver’s license and credit card.

  “Are you visiting someone in Quincy for the holiday?” she asked, swiping my card through the reader.

  “Oh, um . . . no.” Exactly the opposite. I was in Quincy to avoid anything that resembled visiting. It probably seemed strange—it was strange—but since I didn’t have the energy to explain the disaster that was my family at Christmas, I changed the subject. “When I called and made my reservation, I was told that room service would be available each day.”

  “Yes, of course. The menu and meal hours will be in your room’s booklet. And our chef, who happens to be my brother, has something lovely planned for Christmas and Christmas Eve. We’re happy to bring it to your room, but if you’d like to come down, the dining room will be open as well, starting at five and closing at nine.”

  “Perfect.” I took the key card from her outstretched hand and collected my purse.

  “Have you been to Quincy before?” Eloise asked.

  “No, this is my first visit.”

  “Well, if you feel like exploring, we’re in the heart of downtown. There are some lovely restaurants and shops on Main Street, most owned by local families.”

  Much like the hotel. The charm of The Eloise Inn was not something you’d find at a large hotel conglomerate. It had those personal, loving touches that made it perfect for my impromptu escape.

  “Are there any bakeries in town?” While I was here, I might as well do some research.

  “The coffee shop puts out a case of pastries and breakfast sandwiches each morning. If you like chocolate—”

  “Who doesn’t.”

  Eloise laughed. “The chocolate croissant is incredible.”

  “Sold.”

  “Head out the front doors and take a right. It’s the cute green building across the street, three doors down. Eden Coffee.”

  “Eden?” I cocked my head. Wasn’t that her last name?

  “Full disclosure, my sister owns the coffee shop and is the pastry chef, so I’m biased. But she truly is talented. My great, great grandfather founded Quincy. My family has lived here ever since. You can’t throw a rock without hitting an Eden.”

  “Good to know.” I smiled. Five generations and the Edens were probably this town’s royal family. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

  “I’m here if you need others.” She took one of the gift boxes from the tray and handed it over. Then she leaned closer to the counter, stretching her arm as she pointed down the hallway. “Elevator is there. You’re in room four-ten. Take a left when you get off the elevator and your room is at the end of the hallway. Can I have anything sent up?”

  “Champagne.” My mouth watered at the thought of slipping into some pajamas and sipping one or two glasses of bubbly before bed. “The most expensive bottle you have.”

  “I’ll send it right up.”

  “Thank you.” I gave Eloise a nod, then collected my things. A wave of exhaustion ran over my shoulders as I made my way toward the elevator. It was only six o’clock—five in California—but I’d been up since four in the morning and was ready to be done with this day.

  The elevator’s foyer was lined with potted evergreens, each lit by tiny white twinkle lights. Across from the silver doors, a wreath hung above a table adorned with faux gifts. The decorations were charming and traditional. Simple. There was
no mistaking the season, but the tasteful ambience was a far cry from the overwhelming display at my father’s house in Malibu.

  My stepmother, Selene, picked a color theme each year and hired a company to splash it everywhere. When I’d gone over for dinner two weeks ago, the abundance of pink and purple—Selene’s unique pop—had given me a splitting headache. That, and the apple cinnamon potpourri she bought in bulk this time of year.

  All of it was staged for endless parties lasting days before Christmas and well into the new year.

  I just . . . I couldn’t do it. Not this year. I couldn’t stomach the tacky—yet expensive—displays. The endless gifts. The hours of mingling with rich snobs and feigning smiles for pretentious guests. The only reason people spoke to me at those parties was because they thought I could get them an hour on my father’s elusive and jam-packed schedule. Or that by kissing my ass, it would help them earn a promotion.

  When Selene’s magenta invitation for the holiday lineup had graced my mailbox, I’d thrown it in the trash and booked a plane ticket to Montana.

  The elevator doors chimed as they opened and I hauled myself inside the car, inhaling a deep breath of pine and citrus. The mixture was soothing and special, the way Christmas was supposed to smell. There was no music as it whisked me to my floor, and when I stepped out, the same subtle scent carried down the hallway to my room. When I pushed open the door to room 410, I nearly cried.

  It was . . . perfection. Exactly as I’d imagined. Precisely what I’d hoped for.

  Delightful. Quiet. Airy, yet it held a cozy appeal.

  The bedside lamp was on and a black shoebox looped with a red satin ribbon sat on the foot of the bed. The curtains were drawn and beyond the window the night was black except for a faint glow coming from the surrounding businesses and homes in the small town. Unlike the lobby and common areas, the room didn’t have a hint of Christmas flair.

  I propped my suitcase against the wall inside the door, dropped my purse on the bed and untied the ribbon on the box. A pair of plush white slippers greeted me from inside. I pulled them out and ran my fingers over the soft faux fur.

  So this was why they’d asked for my shoe size when I’d called to make the reservation. “Score one for The Eloise Inn.”

  I popped open the top of the box Eloise had given me. Inside was a dainty chocolate truffle. “Score two.”

  I’d stayed at countless five-star hotels in my life, and so far, The Eloise was keeping up. Not to mention the price tag for this weekend escape was a fraction of what I would have spent elsewhere.

  Despite what everyone assumed about me—Cleo Hillcrest, only daughter of tech mogul and billionaire Ray Hillcrest—I wasn’t frivolous with my money. I was paying for this room on my own, with wages I’d earned, not inherited. I’d flown to Quincy on three commercial flights, though I had splurged for first class.

  This trip was the only vacation I’d taken in years and a Christmas gift to myself.

  My phone dinged in my coat pocket and I set the slippers aside to take the call. The bakery’s number flashed on the screen. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Did you make it?” Brynne asked.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, kicking off my heels. “Made it. How did everything go today?”

  “Just fine,” she said. “It was busy with all the people doing their Christmas-Eve Eve pickups. But we had a good day at the till. The display case is nearly empty.”

  “Oh boy.” A pang of guilt hit hard. “Do you think I left enough in the walk-in to get it refilled? You might have to make a new batch of sugar—”

  “Cleo.” She stretched my name as she cut me off. “Don’t worry. I can handle the shop. Come tomorrow morning, the display case will be full. You enjoy the next few days and let me handle it.”

  I sighed, sliding on a slipper. “I’m not doubting you. I’m just . . . I suck at vacations.”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “I know.”

  Brynne had worked at my bakery for three years. She was an incredibly talented pastry chef as well as a wonderful friend. She knew how much Christmas stressed me out, and this vacation to Quincy had been her idea. She’d come here once, stayed in this very hotel and promised me I’d love a few days in the charming town.

  “Okay. Call me if you need anything.” All I had planned for the next three days was burrowing deep into this pillow-top mattress and watching as many Hallmark movies as I could.

  “Unless the building floods or burns down, I’m not calling you,” Brynne said. “Have fun. Sleep. Relax.”

  I slid on the other slipper and scooted deeper into the bed. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Did you at least miss me a little bit today?” Searching for compliments wasn’t a good color on me, but in my defense, I’d had a really long day.

  “When I had a guy yell at me because he ordered a chocolate cream pie but wanted apple, yeah, I missed you. And when I burned my hand on the oven because I was in a hurry, I missed you a lot. You make the best ice packs. But today was a good day. And tomorrow will be a good day. I like that I can run this place alone. It’s a challenge but I’m up for it, so thanks for trusting me with this opportunity.”

  Oh, she was good. Now I felt guilty for not leaving her in charge of the bakery sooner. “You’re the best. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas. See you later this week.”

  I tossed the phone aside and glanced around the room. Coming here, leaving California, was like stepping into another world. Outside, the snow was falling, blanketing everything in a fluffy layer. It would be easy to stay for days and days, relaxing inside this room and pretending the outside world didn’t exist. But three days, that’s all I had. I’d missed today at the bakery and wouldn’t be there for Christmas Eve. We were closed on Christmas Day and my flight home was first thing the following morning. Three workdays was not a long break, but Brynne had been right.

  I hadn’t taken a vacation since I’d opened Crumbs five years ago. Mostly because I hadn’t had anyone to run the shop before Brynne, and even with her, I liked being tied to my confections and creations.

  Crumbs wasn’t just my job, it was my passion.

  I stripped off my coat, tossing it to the floor, and scooted into the pillows. The king-sized sleigh bed was a rich mahogany. The cream comforter was thick enough to swallow me whole—I planned on letting it. The pillows were fluffy and abundant. A television rested on a wide chest of drawers across from the bed.

  This room was bliss. It was classy and there wasn’t a bit that seemed hotel generic, even the furniture. When I’d called to make my reservation, the clerk—maybe it had been Eloise herself—had told me that I’d snagged the last room. Even though the inn was full, there wasn’t a noise beyond the door, likely because of the thick carpet in the hallway.

  The artwork on the wall over my shoulder was a black and white photograph of Quincy from 1950, according to the date in the corner. It looked similar to the town I’d arrived in, though it had been nearly dark when the plane’s wheels had touched down. Still, there was something peaceful about knowing that the town hadn’t changed all that much, decade after decade.

  I pushed myself up and off the bed, moaning with pleasure as my feet sank into the thick soles of the slippers. Then I picked up my coat, walking to the closet to hang it on a wooden hanger.

  My plan for the evening was to unpack while I waited for my champagne. Then I’d have a glass, peruse the room service menu and order dinner. Then I’d have another glass and a bath followed by more glasses until the bottle was empty.

  There’d be no need for a predawn alarm tomorrow, and maybe if I drank enough, I’d sleep through my body’s alarm too.

  I carried my suitcase across the room to the drawers and flopped it on the carpet, opening it slowly. The instant the zipper was free, the clothes inside exploded, spilling onto the carpet like they’d been holding their breath during the trip and could finally exhale.

  Want a chocolat
e soufflé or croquembouche? I could whip those up without breaking a sweat. Pack light for a three-day trip? Sorry, wrong girl.

  I carefully refolded pajama pants and tank tops before placing them in a drawer. The two pairs of jeans I’d brought plus a black dress—because Christmas dinner might demand a dress—were hung in the closet. And my collection of panties and bras, extra in case of emergency, were safely stowed in another drawer. I took my toiletry case to the bathroom and was about to zip the empty suitcase closed when my phone dinged again. I swiped it off the bed and my heart dropped.

  Dad.

  “Damn it.”

  I scrunched up my nose, pacing in front of the door. Should I answer? Decline? The only reason he was calling was because I hadn’t shown up at the party tonight. He couldn’t know that I’d left California for the holiday, right? I’d left hours ago. But if one of his minion-spies had been trailing me, he would have known this morning that I’d left the state.

  Last year, when I’d threatened to disown him if he didn’t call off his hounds, Dad had agreed to no more bodyguards. Without them cataloging my every move, there was no way he could know I was in Montana.

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Ugh.” I hit the green circle. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Cleo.”

  Oh boy, he was mad. Shit. He said my name in that quiet, ominous tone I’d only heard twice in my life, once after I’d flunked math my junior year and once when I’d gotten caught making out with the neighbor boy in the pool house.

  “I’m sorry for missing your party tonight.”

  “Are you sick?” he asked.

  “No.”

  There was noise in the background, idle chatter and the clinking of glasses, but Dad remained silent.