Stella MacLean - The Christmas Inn

This year the event included five days—three before Christmas, plus Christmas Day and the twenty-sixth. It had taken months to put together a good marketing campaign, but it had paid off. The only room left in the inn was a small one, with a double bed, that was earmarked for renovation, making it into an office for the housekeeper Mary Cunningham.

He’d been up since six that morning, thanks to his four-year-old son, Ethan, who’d been promised a chance to help decorate the huge balsam fir that was presently being strung with lights in preparation for a tree-trimming party. The staff and their families had been invited to a luncheon due to start at noon, after the tree trimming, a party to show appreciation for the staff of the inn. Luke, as the manager, had to be there to kick off the celebration. It was important to hold this party before the getaway event began as many of the staff would be working throughout the holidays.

Despite his aversion to Christmas, Luke enjoyed this event because he got a chance to give back to the staff and their families whose support was important to the success of the inn. The lunch buffet would be set up in the glassed-in patio along the south side of the two-hundred-year-old inn. The chef, Max Anderson, was making lobster quiche, this year’s special dish, along with the usual turkey, ham and all the vegetables, rolls and condiments people enjoyed as part of the Christmas festivities. Family members of the staff, who liked to bake, provided the desserts, showcasing the recipes of some of the best bakers in the region.

Tidying the cost projections report he’d been reading at his desk, he placed it on top the pile, intending to work on it later. When Luke had first come to work at The Mirabel Inn, he’d gotten rid of the stark furnishings in the office and added his own touches along with state-of-the-art computers to assist in managing the inn. But his favorite piece in the office was an antique oak desk with hidden drawers, pigeonholes and a roll-up top, a special gift from his grandfather. Grant Harrison had left the desk to him in his will, and now it was a part of his life. A daily reminder of his grandfather, who had owned one of the largest inns in Connecticut years before.

He was closing his computer when someone knocked on the door. Before he could answer, Mary Cunningham opened the door and Ethan rushed in behind her.

“Well, hello there, big guy,” Luke said, getting up from his desk in time to catch Ethan in his arms.

“Daddy!” the little boy yelled, a red-and-green cap balanced precariously on his head.

“Where did you get the elf hat?” Luke asked. Scooping Ethan up and holding him close, he breathed in his scent—usually a mixture of dirt from playing with his dump trucks in the garden plot next to the back patio, and sweat from racing around the property. But today there was just a hint of cinnamon, enhanced by frosting smudges on his cheeks, which meant Ethan had been in the kitchen driving the pastry cook crazy with his questions and his pleas for more sweets.

“Mary gived it to me,” Ethan said, triumphantly.

Luke had planned to spend the day with his son, but an urgent call from the owners of the inn had meant he’d been forced to work on cost figures this morning. He was proud of his management of the inn, which was located only a few miles from some of the best skiing in the eastern United States.

Digging a tissue from his pocket, he wiped the frosting off Ethan’s cheeks. “Hope he hasn’t been too much trouble.”

Mary smiled, a warm smile that had been so welcome in those early months after Anna’s death in a car accident. She’d been the mother figure to a one-year-old toddler who had no comprehension of why his mommy had left, only that she was gone from his life. Mary had helped both his son and him through the proceeding months of agony and loss, and her generous support and advice had held Luke’s life together during a very difficult time.

“Evelyn and Ethan made a batch of sugar cookies with Santa faces on them for the children who are coming.”

“How many cookies did you eat, Ethan?” he asked.

The boy grinned and held up five fingers.

“You didn’t! Did you share them with anyone?”

Mary laughed. “Henry probably has a tummy ache. I put him in his crate in your apartment. It seemed safer that way.”

Henry was a stray part-terrier, part-spaniel that had arrived at the inn on one of the coldest nights in January last year. Henry and Ethan had been constant companions since that frozen evening. “Great. We don’t need a four-footed tree trimmer joining the excitement.”

“Daddy, I patted the branches of the tree.”

“You patted them?” He glanced at Mary.

“Yep. He patted the tree and helped open the boxes of ornaments.”

“I found a red bulb this big,” Ethan said, opening his arms wide and grinning at his father.

“Wow! You’ve been busy,” he said, reveling in the joy of his son’s face. The past three years since his wife’s death had been the hardest of his life. Each morning he woke to the fact that Anna wouldn’t be there to share the day, to see their son grow into a young man, to face each moment with her inexhaustible enthusiasm. In those early weeks after her death, he sleepwalked through each meaningless day. His only connection to the world around him was Ethan. All those lonely months had been made bearable by the presence of his little boy.

But there was a part of him that couldn’t forgive his wife’s reckless behavior. She’d insisted on driving to Boston to do some last-minute Christmas shopping and hadn’t heeded his warning to stay there until the ice storm had passed and the roads had been cleared. As much as he tried, it had been hard for him to understand how she could have acted the way she did, knowing the risks involved. The kind statements from their friends about how Anna did what she thought best were drowned out by the heartbreak of life without her.

“Are we ready to start trimming the tree?” Mary asked, reaching for Ethan.

Luke hugged his son before putting him down. “Don’t know about you, but it will be the bright spot in my morning.”

Ethan nodded so vigorously his elf hat fell off, and he raced from the room.

“Where does he get the energy?” Luke asked.

“Kid power is what I call it.” Mary chuckled as she rescued the hat. “And I should know.”

“By the way, how’s Troy doing at college?”

“Not bad for his first term. Better than his sister and brother did. Peter and I were figuring out the amount of free cash we’ll have once Troy is out of school. We’ll be living well, let me tell you,” she said, a smile spreading across her round face.

Luke had never thought that far ahead: he’d been too busy keeping his life on an even keel and working long hours at the inn. Because of the good friends he’d made since he’d come to work at the inn, he wanted to stay on there for the long term, and maybe someday own an inn like his grandfather had. Owning an inn was not the career his parents had dreamed of for their only child. His father had wanted him to get a law degree and become a partner in his law firm—a profession Luke had no interest in, despite his father’s love for it.

“I’m sorry your parents can’t come for Christmas this year. Ethan is growing up so fast, and Christmas is all about children.”

“I am, too, but it seems they have a prior commitment to spend Christmas with friends in Australia.”

It hurt to say those words, words that only increased the disconnect he felt where his parents were concerned. He’d tried to get them to be more involved in Ethan’s life, and they’d made promises they hadn’t kept. And now with it being Christmas…

“The FedEx truck will be here tomorrow,” Mary said, as if she were reading his thoughts. But in all honesty, it would shock him if his parents had the foresight to send a Christmas gift to their only grandchild.