Christmas at Thornton Hall
Lynn Marie Hulsman
A division of HarperCollins Publishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Lynn Marie Hulsman Lynn Marie Hulsman I’m a writer. My mother’s death brought an epiphany. “Life is short,” said my inner voice. “Thanks, I.V.,” I replied. “I know what I have to do.” In short order, I got an agent, co-wrote two books, ghost-wrote another, published an article, and sold a novel. Kentucky-born, tall tales and hyperbole are in my bones. I love story. My real jobs? Equity actor. Ad copy writer for casinos, (“Loose slots!”) Stand-up comic. Pharma editor. Cheese cube passer-outer (admitted low point). I’m an Ideation Agent (sounds fake, right?) and run an improv company in NYC. My favorite, favorite thing to do is write Romantic Comedy. I live with my family in Hell’s Kitchen, and am seen around town auctioneering for charity, hosting gay men’s fashion shows, and calling bingo games. You can follow me on Twitter @LynnMarieSays.
Dedication For my dear friend Kate Bushmann.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Summer at Castle Stone
Acknowledgements
About HarperImpulse
Copyright
About the Publisher
I’m a writer. My mother’s death brought an epiphany. “Life is short,” said my inner voice. “Thanks, I.V.,” I replied. “I know what I have to do.” In short order, I got an agent, co-wrote two books, ghost-wrote another, published an article, and sold a novel.
Kentucky-born, tall tales and hyperbole are in my bones. I love story. My real jobs? Equity actor. Ad copy writer for casinos, (“Loose slots!”) Stand-up comic. Pharma editor. Cheese cube passer-outer (admitted low point). I’m an Ideation Agent (sounds fake, right?) and run an improv company in NYC. My favorite, favorite thing to do is write Romantic Comedy.
I live with my family in Hell’s Kitchen, and am seen around town auctioneering for charity, hosting gay men’s fashion shows, and calling bingo games.
You can follow me on Twitter @LynnMarieSays.
For my dear friend Kate Bushmann.
“Juliet, it’s Phillipa from The Gastronome’s Trust. Big stuff. I hope I’m not calling too early,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.
I held the phone with one hand and stroked the still-warm, empty space next to me in the bed with my other, drinking in the sensation of being a grown-up.
I seriously cannot believe I’m me, I thought, suppressing a manic giggle. I’m in my boyfriend’s Mayfair apartment – which he owns! – answering a phone call from my agent who’s about to offer me real money for my very much in demand culinary skills to put in my – wait for it! – savings account. A savings account which now has enough for me to go back to college and complete my sociology degree. Who would have thought it? Juliet Hill – back on track. Certified Grown-up. Even my mother would have to agree. My mind was racing, even though my body hadn’t quite caught up, yet.
I’m on the brink of a new beginning, I’m moving back to New York to complete the studies I’d dropped all those years ago. And I’m moving back with my successful boyfriend…successful and athletic, I thought, wincing as I stretched out my aching limbs. After recent work trips to the States, then New Zealand, Ben seemed determined to make up for lost time: he was like the cat that swallowed the canary. Absence had certainly made his body grow fonder, and his heart, too, I hoped. So maybe, if I’m honest with myself, my world hadn’t been properly rocked last night… but then he’d practically just stepped off a plane, for heaven’s sake, I couldn’t expect nirvana. We’d have plenty of time this holiday season to get back on the same page in the old sex department.
Where is he, anyway? I peeled one eye open to check the clock on his night table. 6:55 a.m. My agent, Phillipa, certainly was getting the worm, as it were.
“Juliet,” she said sharply. “Are you listening to me? I asked if I’ve awakened you.”
“No, Pips, it’s fine,” I lied breezily, forcing myself to sound alert, “I’ve been up for ages.” Phillipa Burton, owner of London’s top agency dedicated to placing chefs in private households, expects everyone’s full-on attention. I’ve always thought of her as one of those British school-mistressy types. She scares me a little, but I pretend she doesn’t. I’m a favorite because I’ve always behaved like a soldier in her army.
“Darling,” she said crisply, “I’ve just had a specific request come in for you to work over the Christmas holiday. I explained that you blacked those dates out with us, but the client insisted I ask, and here’s the kicker…You’d need to be there tonight.” She paused. “The housekeeper rang and said if I could send Juliet Hill, they’d pay a fee for the late notice, and a holiday bonus. The call came at six, and I’m sorry to say the offer’s only good until eight o’clock this morning.”
I let her talk, knowing I’d be turning the job down. I’d tell her about my plan to move back to New York with my soon-to-be fiancé and having to leave the business altogether once the holidays ended. No need to stir up emotions and spoil the joy right now. While she tried to sell me on the job, I let my mind wander to thoughts of caroling around the piano with Ben’s cousins and uncles, mugs of warm mulled wine on the sofa, and smiling faces peeking over a crispy roast goose flanked by massive tureens of root vegetables. This Christmas was going to be special – a real family celebration. Impeccable Ben, in his well-cut suit, standing possessively with his arm around my shoulders, welcoming me into the fold, and for once in my life, I’d be wearing the right thing. Nothing too slutty, or cheap. And certainly no stains on my starched, white blouse. His family would murmur among themselves about what a perfect match I was for their Ben.
I was determined that all would go according to plan. When I’d phoned him last week to firm up this year’s holiday plans, he’d been kind of quiet on the phone from his office in New Zealand – he’s on location there for a film his firm is representing. I’d chalked his lukewarm mood up to exhaustion. Poor Ben, I’d thought. He’s lost without a girl like me to loosen him up. After all, he is English. He can’t help it if he’s tightly wound.
He told me he had something important he wanted to talk about with me. Once he said that, I’d changed the subject, fast. I hadn’t wanted him to spoil the big surprise, hoping he wouldn’t discuss logistics until after the thrill of the engagement wore off. I couldn’t help grinning and giving myself a little hug just thinking about it.
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