A Miracle at Macy’s
LYNN MARIE HULSMAN
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HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
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www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Lynn Marie Hulsman 2015
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Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Lynn Marie Hulsman 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.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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written permission of HarperCollins.
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © September 2015 ISBN: 9780008164331
Version 2015-10-16
Praise for Lynn Marie Hulsman
‘A fabulous read…just magical’
Becca’s Books
‘A lovely, funny and sexy modern “upstairs, downstairs” story. Prepare yourself for a Christmas like you’ve never seen before’
M’s Bookshelf
‘A classy, witty story with lots of laughs, a few tears and most importantly heartfelt romance’
Jane Hunt Writer Book Reviews
‘One of my favourite romantic comedies’
Reviewed the Book
‘Christmas at Thornton Hall easily makes it onto my list of my most favourite reads of 2013’
Cosmochicklitan
‘A good debut novel that I really enjoyed’
Chick Lit Chloe
For Rosie and Wolfie, the best presents I ever got.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Lynn Marie Hulsman
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Bonus Material
Lynn Marie’s Holiday Delights
Summer at Castle Stone
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Also by Lynn Marie Hulsman …
Lynn Marie Hulsman
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
They say dogs are man’s best friend and that a woman’s not a woman until she’s a wife. Wrong! I’m here to tell you that the most natural match in the world is a girl and her dog…end of.
Take me and Hudson, for example. We couldn’t be happier. Ever since the magical day I found him wet and skinny, huddled in the back of a Macy’s shopping bag. You know the one. With the big red star on it? Since the day I saved him, we’ve been each other’s family. Well, that’s not the whole story. I mean, the family part is. But if I were to be honest, I’d have to admit that he saved me as much as I saved him. Maybe more.
“Harf! Harf, harf!”
“Quiet, Huddie,” I scold, as he comes tearing into the kitchen, claws skittering over the polished wood floor, launched from his cozy nest on the sofa. “It’s early. You’ll wake the whole building.”
“Worf!” Not only does my little mutt keep barking, he also has the nerve to start jumping against the kitchen island where I’m up to my elbows grating frozen beef fat (suet, to those in the know) so I can to test a recipe for traditional English mincemeat Christmas pies.
‘It’s a marshmallow world in the winter…when the snow comes to cover the grouuuund…’
“Oh, the phone! Of course. You are a wonder dog, aren’t you?” My December ringtone is the jaunty Dean Martin rendition of one of my favorite retro holiday songs. I should have guessed. Hudson has a knack for barking right before my phone rings. I chalk it up to being a version of that thing animals do when they sense earthquakes and tsunamis.
“Rowf!”
“Yes, the phone. I hear it, Huddie. I’m getting it. It’s not life and death,” I say wiping my hand on a freshly bleached, extra-large Williams-Sonoma kitchen towel. “I do have voicemail, you know.”
“Hello darling, I scarcely have a minute to breathe, never mind visiting the loo, but I promised I’d ring you this week. I’m told you’re in my diary, so here I am.”
It’s Aunt Miranda. If she were Native American, her name would be more “Bursts in Frantic,” than one of the more traditional, serene names like, “Walks with Nature” or “Drifts on Clouds.”
“Good morning, Aunt Miranda,” I say slipping Hudson a pinch of the suet. He’s considerate enough to nibble it gently out from between my fingers. I know that took disciplined restraint on his part. “I’ve missed you too.” Hudson finishes his morsel, and rubs against my leg to give me a hug.
“Now Charlotte, don’t be like that! You know I always miss you, it’s only my hair’s on fire with the Rockefeller Tree Lighting tonight. As you know, those early December blizzards really threw a spanner in the works. We had this planned for the week after Thanksgiving, the way it has been for years and years. But they’ve only just managed to resurface the skating rink after the weight of the snow caused that massive crack. The commissioner only just declared it safe to the public. Pulling off this huge event this close to Christmas Day will be the triumph of my career. Between you, me, and the lamppost, it’s going to be spectacular.”
It amazes me how Aunt Miranda can talk a mile a minute when she’s downloading information to me, but the second she’s in the presence of a client or celebrity, she’s as measured and gracious as The Queen. Her chameleon-like ability to adapt has catapulted her the top of her field. My Aunt Miranda is a party planner on steroids. She produces major events all over the globe, ranging from celebrity weddings, to movie openings, to charity marathons, to high-profile ribbon cuttings. Her company, Nichols Bespoke Events, is, as they say, a major player.
“Sounds awesome.”
“Awesome? Honestly Charlotte, one would imagine you were born in The States and educated on a Disney cruise ship, rather than born in England and educated in the finest public schools.”
“You mean the finest boarding schools where you could chuck me on the Northeastern coast. I’ve lived in America longer than in England. I moved here when I was 12.”
“I know very well when you move
d here. I raised you, if you’ll remember.”
“Sort of,” I mumbled.
“What’s that?” Miranda shouts, not bothering to muffle the phone with her hand. “NO! Shandelle, the horse blankets belong in wardrobe! And tell craft services to track down those cases of NutriWater. If we don’t have Pomegranate-Acai, then we don’t have Miss Miranda Lambert in a fringed jacket and cowboy boots handing over a billboard-sized check to Toys for Tots in front of millions of television viewers! No. I said pomegranate! It’s the pink one. Do you enjoy being employed?!!”
I pick up a microplane grater and calmly begin shaving nutmeg seeds into a bowl. It’s been my experience that Aunt Miranda’s tirades can go on so long that she forgets about me and walks away from her phone. I shouldn’t have picked up. This call is throwing me off my schedule. I have a plan for the day, as usual. There is very little that makes me happier than a solid plan.
Today’s agenda:
1. Test the recipe for Mince Pies
2. Update The Cozy Brownstone Kitchen, (Maybe a blog post on Potted Meat?) and respond to questions from my followers
3. Go to the butcher to pick up the crown roast I ordered for my next recipe test
4. Make lunch for myself and Huddie and eat it together while watching the end of You’ve Got Mail
5. Research the origins of the preservation of Potted Prawns in the days before refrigeration
6. Prepare said crown roast, with an array of winter vegetables
7. Test a recipe for a Bakewell Tart,
8. Watch some animal planet with Hudson, and maybe the first part of Love, Actually
9. Early bedtime with my fat new Harlequin Superromance novel and Hudson (he never judges what I read)
Perfection!
“…and the baby for the crèche scene needs a laminate,” Aunt Miranda is still shouting. “Strangling hazard? So remove the cord and pin it onto his pyjamas, do I have to solve every problem? What? Then Velcro it! It’s not rocket science. Of COURSE the mother needs an all-access pass as well. Do you think the baby is going to climb up into the manger and swaddle himself? Why are you still standing here? GO!”
“Right then, sorry about the interruption,” she says smoothly transitioning back to me. “Charlotte, dear, I’m ringing to respond to your invitations to Christmas Eve brunch and Christmas dinner. I have some very big deals in the works, and I’m not at liberty to discuss them at this point, confidentiality agreements, meow meow, etcetera. At this point I’m afraid I still can’t commit.”
None of this comes a surprise, of course. Aunt Miranda may be my only family, apart from a few very distant cousins numerous-times removed who live in far-flung tiny villages dotting England and Wales, but she is first and foremost a businesswoman.
“Oh,” I respond, trying not to sound disappointed, “it’s just that I’ve already blogged that I might have a crowd here in the brownstone so I can serve the traditional English feasts I’ve been working on recently. I mean, this is a really good way to test the recipes for the cookbook I’m researching. I’m told by my agent, Beverly, it’s expected to sell big.” This latest cookbook, The English Manor Cookbook: Traditional Meals for Holidays, Shoot Lunches, and More, is due out next year.
Hudson takes advantage of my being distracted by climbing onto a kitchen chair and straining his pointy little muzzle toward the bowl of beef fat. I swat him away. “Hey you, you had your share.”
Sometimes I forget he’s a dog and treat him like a person, but his animal instincts come roaring to the forefront when there’s raw meat within smelling distance. “Huddie, shoo!” Disappointed, he hops down, and slinks to his basket in the corner of the kitchen.
Aunt Miranda sighs down the phone line. “Why can’t you just fly off to Saint Thomas like other sane, single young women and forget Christmas is even happening?”
I hear the subtext: Because that would be so much more convenient for me.
“That’s what I’d do…” she continues. “A few frozen cocktails, a chaise lounge, a bottle of tanning oil, a personal butler. Before you know it, Christmas will be done and dusted, and you’ll come home bronzed and more relaxed than you’ve been in years, if you catch my meaning.”
“Subtle, Aunt Miranda. Is that how you speak to the Dalai Lama when you’re overseeing his blessing ceremonies? Anyway, I don’t want to leave New York at Christmas time. I’m planning to put up my tree tomorrow.” I feel a frisson of pleasure buzz up the back of my neck. I love everything about having a real, living Christmas tree. I love choosing it, I love springing the branches free from the bundling, I love the herbal floral fragrance, and I just adore draping it in lights. “You should try it some year.”
“What’s the point? I’m never at home. Besides, if I wanted a sticky pine tree swathed in handmade ornaments and drugstore tinsel, I have people for that. You know, Charlotte, you could have people, too.”
“I don’t need people.” I lean over and give Hudson a little scratch on the belly. He twitches, and bicycles his stubby legs. He smiles a blissed-out smile.
“I’m saying that I have connections. I could give you a leg up to a real career.”
“I have a real career.” I pick up my nutmeg and begin grating with renewed determination.
“Pfft! When are you going to stop testing recipes for cookbook authors, and write a cookbook of your own? For heaven’s sake, how many awards did you walk away with when you graduated from The Culinary Institute of America? I’d never have sanctioned your turning your back on university in favor of The CIA had I known you’d toss out any chance of success and waste your time with that little blog.”
“This recipe testing and my ‘little blog,’ happen to pay my bills, thank you very much. I’m getting more and more paying sponsors every day. Since last month, 37 more members have signed up.”
“Ah, yes, your ‘Charlotte’s Chefs.’ Has it ever occurred to you, young lady, that you spend more time with the followers on your blog than you do with live humans?”
“Charlotte’s chefs are live humans.”
“Technically, yes, but you must see my point. A 26-year-old girl shouldn’t rely on online friendships and a stray dog as her entire social sphere. She should be out in the city, getting dirty and making mistakes. Speaking of dirty, have you heard from James?”
My back stiffens as I accidentally hack a large chunk of skin off of my knuckle. “Ouch,” I cry, chucking the microplane and the nutmeg into the sink. “No, I have not heard from James, and I’ve asked you repeatedly not to bring him up.” I crouch down on the floor, gather Hudson into a hug, and suck on my wounded finger.
“With your talent and his star-power, you could be someone by now. I know you blew your chance by turning James down way back when, but I’ve an idea he’d welcome you back with open arms. Team up with a real player like that firecracker, and you’d be a New York Times columnist and a leading restaurateur in short order. Your literary agent, the one who gets you all those testing jobs… what’s his name? Beverly Chestnut! That’s it. He’s said as much a number of times. What a character that man is! Ha! The bolo tie he wore to the World Literacy Fund Charity Ball slayed me. Genius! All I’m saying, darling, is that you could be someplace in this world.”
“I am someplace in this world.” I look around my cozy kitchen, decorated just the way I like it with a combination of French country touches, and mid-century appliances. “I’m where I want to be.” Hudson turns in a circle, and snuggles into my lap, burrowing with his little, pear-shaped head. I give him a scratch behind the ears. He fusses a little, then settles in the crook of my knee.
Aunt Miranda sighs. “I care about you, Charlotte, I truly do, but I’ll never understand you.”
I notice the clock, and see that the day is getting away from me. “So, is there a chance you’ll come to Christmas brunch or dinner, or is it an absolute ‘no?’”
“One moment Charlotte… I beg your pardon! Of course we cannot supply cocaine to the on-air talent. Who do you th
ink I am? The concierge of the Chateau Marmont.”
I put the phone down on the counter. Maybe I can make some apple butter, I think to myself while Miranda rants on, with lots of clove. That’ll be so warm and yummy for the winter. Hmm…when will I be able to hit Fairway to see what they have in the way of decent New York State apples…?
“Charlotte, are you there, darling?”
“I’m here,” I say firing up my Nespresso machine to make a nice, steaming double-shot cappuccino.
“As I was saying Charlotte… Actually, hold the phone. You’d better tell that talent wrangler that if any pop star, politician, or for that matter, Muppet, is too high to sing in the final number, he’ll be looking for a job come New Year’s! Sorry darling, it’s a madhouse here. Tell you what, come down to the tree lighting tonight and we’ll discuss. I really can’t stay on the line.”
“No thanks,” I say, pulling my antique, hand-cranked food mill from under the sink. “I’m going to watch it on TV.”
“Darling, you must come. It’s the pinnacle of my event-planning career to date, and I’m not going to be very English about it and pretend it’s really nothing. Taking a leaf from the Americans’ books, I’ll simply say it. If I pull this off, I’ll frankly be one of the top global Production Directors, period. Hello Cannes! Hello coronation of Prince William! Say you’ll pop round.”
I glance over at Hudson snoring lightly in his warm bed. I don’t want to go out for walkies today, much less eject myself into one of the single-most crowded events on the island of Manhattan.
“I don’t know…”
“Super. The broadcast starts at 7, and the lights go on at 9. I’ll phone or text you later. I won’t take no for an answer.”
Before I can argue, she’s put down the phone. I’m on a schedule, too, you know. Maybe I’m not organizing the lighting of the tallest tree in the Northeastern U.S., but I have responsibilities. I stomp my foot and let out a scream of exasperation, waking Hudson.
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