Sneak Peak at my work in progress
I'm working on a new novel - a love story - and thought I'd share the first chapter!
Super secret, still unpublished FIRST LOOK at my work in progress!
Hi all, here’s a bonus New Year’s Day Post.
It’s a sneak peak at what I am currently working on.
I originally planned to only share it with my Snowdrop Kisses readers, because I knew they were def interested in romance, but I thought I’d send it to the whole Méli-Mélo list so you can all have a look! (Méli-Mélo’ers, if you like this, you can read my entire Snowdrop Kisses by starting at Chapter 1 and clicking the Next Instalment buttons down at the bottom of each post!)
It will be at least a year until this sees the light of day, and knowing the editorial process, it might look QUITE different, but here’s the first chapter of my work in progress… I am hoping to make this a series.
Also, as always, I really suck at titles, so this one is called Christmas at Harrow Manor, but it def needs a better name.
1. The Evergreen Suite
Gabby Macleod’s neck spasmed as she observed the long line of people snaking through the Harrow Manor’s Great Hall. Despite the cozy vibe: glittering chandeliers, thick, patterned carpet and huge flagstone fireplace with a roaring blaze, the scene spelled trouble. A dozen people were waiting to check in. Some tugged Louis Vuitton luggage behind them, others held tall ski bags. A father pulled out iPads, handing them to each of his three children who were dressed in matching Canada Goose parkas.
Gabby peered back through the glass entry doors she had just walked through. Poppy was pacing in the snow but didn’t look impatient –- yet. Her employer’s contentment couldn’t last. Gabby’s heartbeat increased as she formulated a strategy. Ignoring the outraged stares of the other guests, she cut in front of the whole queue.
Every Harrow Manor desk staff wore a Santa hat, but not the cheap Dollar Store kind. These looked velvety and warm. Given how swanky the inn was, Gabby wouldn’t be surprised if they’d been sourced directly from Santa’s own workshop.
The young woman behind the desk looked startled as Gabby deked in front of a short man with a glistening bald head to present herself . She used the clerk’s surprised to gloss over her own rudeness and get the job done. “Two rooms, booked under Poppy Montgomery.”
Gabby spoke with the quiet authority she adopted in Toronto where she was confident that the force of her personality, coupled with the magic of Poppy’s name, would produce rapid service. In Toronto, tables at buzzed about restaurants and exclusive nightclubs opened like flowers to the sun when the words “Poppy Montgomery — founder of Bloom” were whispered in the ears of Maitre-Ds.
“Non, mademoiselle, vous devez attendre votre tour.”
Gabby didn’t speak much French, but she understood the quiet dismissal of the woman’s words.
“I am sorry, mademoiselle,” the young woman repeated with a heavy French accent, “but you must await your turn.”
“Poppy Montgomery is here,” Gabby insisted. She pointed out the door, but Poppy had wandered off. Undoubtedly finding the perfect angle from which to get a shot of the silvery winter moon.
“We are happy Ms Montgomery has arrived, but you must await your turn.” So the clerk knew who Poppy was, but wasn’t going to give her special treatment. Apparently, in the mountainous wilds of Quebec’s Laurentians, no one cared about Poppy’s 900,000 followers — so painfully close to one million — who showered each of the influencer’s perfectly framed posts of colorful cocktails lined up on a bar or sumptuous steam baths at the city’s trendiest health club with heart-eyed emojis and comments like “totes jels.”
Gabby respected the clerk’s commitment to fairness – it did always make her a little queasy when she dropped her boss’ name and perks showered down – but what would Poppy say about the wait? Gabby didn’t like this feeling of uncertainty. It left her defenseless, vulnerable — exposed. Her normal response to such feelings was action. “We need our rooms right away,” Gabby argued. “Poppy Montgomery can’t wait. Her cookbooks and lifestyle guides are bestsellers. She’s a guest on CTV’s Good Morning Canada. Toronto Life called her a mix between Gwyneth Paltrow and Martha Stewart. She’s a Lululemon ambassador, for God’s sake.”
“I am sorry, mademoiselle. I must serve the next guest. S’il vous plait - wait your turn.”
The clerk turned and nodded to the man standing behind Gabby, who had been huffing in outrage as she spoke. “Wait,” Gabby said. “Poppy is here at Harrow Manor’s invitation. We’re being comped this entire trip. Your bosses want her to have a frictionless visit so she gives them the best possible coverage.” Gabby hated the implicit threat in her words, but she needed to get Poppy her room.
The younger woman met her eyes and Gabby’s embarrassment increased. She was behaving like an entitled jerk. She couldn’t give up, however. Instead, Gabby did what she often did when feeling defeated, she went on the attack. “Why is there such a long line, anyway? I would expect much more efficient service.”
“We have a small computer glitch. It happened only five minutes ago. Everything went ‘poof.’” The clerk’s professional mask wavered. “Very strange. They are working to bring it back online, but we are slower to check in because we must do everything by hand. Now, I am sorry, but I must serve the next guest.” The clerk turned firmly from Gabby and waved to the man behind her. “Bonjour Monsieur,” she called.
Short of throwing herself over the counter and checking them both in herself, there was nothing Gabby could do. She trudged to the back of the line, receiving a few death stares from the guests she had tried to bypass. She waited for a minute or two, then shifted irritably. The line wasn’t moving. Gabby stood on tiptoe to see what was happening. Being short was a curse, especially when her personality was so obviously tall.
Gabby glanced back through the glass doors. Poppy was strolling the inn’s sweeping drive in her ankle-length cashmere Céline coat, staring up at the fat snowflakes falling from the sky. Incredibly, she seemed untroubled by the wait. Gabby breathed a small sigh of relief, but it couldn’t last. It was freezing out there and Gabby couldn’t rely on her staying outside for long.
Gabby looked around. From her extensive study of the inn’s website, she knew the Great Hall was its beating heart. It was an enormous, two-story high octagon. The rest of the building spread out from this center. Corridors whisked guests to the spa treatment wing, the thermal baths experience, further guest rooms and even a large indoor pool.
The complex was huge, but somehow this great space managed to feel cozy. Perhaps it was the décor. One week to Christmas and the Great Hall looked like Santa’s workshop – if Santa was a member of the landed gentry with mountains of money and elegant good taste. White vases sprouting boughs of real evergreens were tied with red bows and fairy lights twinkled in classy swoops from the ceiling. The hall’s large, mullioned windows were festooned with subdued golden garlands and pinecones and flameless candles flickered from most surfaces, casting a warm, cozy glow over everyone.
A fire roared in a hearth so large it could roast a boar. Very paleo — Poppy would approve. Dozens of leather armchairs were scattered around small tables. Some guests were already enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail and snacks. Gabby’s fingers itched to take some photos. The gleaming wood around the fireplace was a nice background and she would play up the lighting. She envisioned an artful shot of the tray bearing homemade cheese twists and roasted pecans that a waiter ferried past. This is why food photography was her passion: any fool with an iPhone could snap a half-decent shot of a smiling baby or a cute dog. It took precision, restraint, and speed to make a cheeseburger look juicy and delicious instead of wilted and greasy. She and Poppy had plans to catalogue the much of the inn’s menu, and she was anxious to get started.
Gabby tilted her head, trying to ease the ache in her neck. She was only twenty-five, but the demands of her job had jammed up her upper spine like a broken accordion. She glanced at the large portrait of a stern-faced, elderly man looking down from above the fireplace. Very much the king of all he surveyed, he posed in a three-piece suit, a pocket watch glinting from his somber waistcoat.
Gabby studied the image, appreciating the skill of the painter, who managed to imbue it with life. Indeed, it felt like the old man’s eyes were following her. Were they in fact following her? She stared harder. He was so alive he was almost coming out of the frame. It was unsettling. At that moment, a breeze gusted through hall, sending a shiver down Gabby’s spine. The flames in the fireplace leapt higher for a moment and Gabby thought she saw figure in the blaze – an old man with twinkling eyes. She blinked and the vision was gone.
Her research on the inn turned up some persistent rumors of ghosts. Apparently, an old governess in a high-necked gown haunted those with a guilty conscience and a young houseboy, who had fallen from the third floor whilst cleaning windows, returned to play pranks on unsuspecting guests. There were others, too, but Gabby didn’t bother reading further. Ghosts were a silly way for the credulous to explain the world. Gabby didn’t need any of that. She faced things head on and dealt with them. Well, most things -- her Weird Problem was a whole lot easier to ignore than to resolve.
A waiter passed bearing a tray of champagne flutes. “Deepest apologies for the delay. The computer issue has been resolved. We will get you checked in shortly.”
Gabby declined the drink. She should keep her wits about her while on the clock. Despite working for Poppy for nearly a year, she found her boss impossible to read. She presented a polished, beautiful aura, and Gabby had witnessed very few cracks in that professional facade. Maybe it wasn’t a façade. Maybe Poppy really was as self-assured, brilliant and unemotional as she presented. In any event, Gabby knew that for the next six days, she’d have to be on her toes. Her neck tensed again, and she winced.
“Life's greatest comfort” said a deep voice, “is being able to look over your shoulder and see people worse off, waiting in line behind you.”
She turned to look up at a tall slim man standing behind her. “Pardon me?”
The guy grinned; a mischievous look that invited adventure. That kind of charm probably worked on most women, but Gabby’s spasming neck muscles and worries about Poppy made it a wasted effort.
“Chuck Palahniuk,” he said.
In the city she would have briskly told him, and his too-charming grin, to leave her alone. She and her best friend, Benjy, hated the douchey finance bros who lurked in so many downtown bars – bragging about their $400 dollar lunches and complaining about all the homeless people. To ward them off, she cultivated an aura of efficient “Don’t fuck with me,” energy that was useful both in her job and the rest of her life. She wasn’t in the city, however. This was the boonies and as their driver explained, in his thick French-Canadian accent, on the two-hour ride from the airport, “folk are friendly out this way.” Their chauffeur was so damn unpretentious he didn’t even say “folks.” It was “folk” — singular.
“Nice to meet you,” she said to the chatty man, using a Toronto tone that conveyed that it was not, in fact nice to meet you and to mind your own business.
“No,” the guy said.
She frowned. This folk wasn’t being very friendly. Her big-city tone became more pronounced. “What?”
“I’m not Chuck Palahniuk.”
Gabby gave him the once over. Was he messing with her? Her defense went up like a castle’s drawbridge. “Why did you say you were?”
“It’s a quote. Chuck Palahniuk said it.”
“Who’s he,” she snapped, now on the back foot. She didn’t like not knowing things. She was the one who could smooth over any unpleasantness and juggle any scheduling conflict while also having a well-thought-out opinion on the correct light level to shoot a fifteen-dollar jar of organic beets.
“He’s a novelist, a journalist, a thinker.” Tall and Skinny paused, as if waiting for the penny to drop.
She stared at him.
“His most famous work is Fight Club. They made it into a movie… with Brad Pitt and Edward Norton. You see, they start a club to beat each other up, only —“
“I’ve seen it.” She crossed her arms and leaned back, which tweaked her neck, causing her tone to be even sharper than intended. “Toxic masculinity with white men living out the fantasy that they’re society’s victims.” That was almost a verbatim quote from Benjy, but this guy didn’t need to know that.
Tall and Skinny cocked his head, considering her words with a smug smile that made her neck stiffen even further.
“Let me guess,” she continued. “It’s your favorite movie?”
He blinked and shook his head. “Not at all. I thought the quote was apropos. You know, just making chitchat.”
She smiled stiffly, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. She didn’t normally chitchat. It required too much ease. Gabby wasn’t good at ease. She looked outside. Poppy was holding her cellphone and positioning herself under the silvery half-circle of the early evening moon. Even from here, Gabby could see it would be a killer selfie. Poppy had a gift. She found the beauty in everything and was able to convey her vision so that others (or at least 900,000 of them) grew excited about it too.
Gabby wasn’t interested in the job’s glamor. She wasn’t Poppy’s personal assistant because the influencer was the second coming of Gwyneth. No, Gabby wanted to learn how Poppy created the astounding images that she did. At heart, Poppy was a damn good photographer and a brilliant photo editor. Indeed, Poppy once let slip that her grandfather had run a camera shop, and Gabby imagined that’s where her boss got her killer sense of perspective. Learning from Poppy, not to mention her boss’ incredible contacts, was going to launch Gabby’s photography career.
Him again, “You’ve got to admit, Palahniuk was right. There’s nothing better than seeing people worse off behind you in a line.” He gestured with his head, and she saw the queue now extended to the lodge’s front door. She hated to agree, but some ugly part of her took satisfaction in seeing all those people further back. Her satisfaction turned to horror when she spotted Poppy entering, looking impatient.
Her boss strode forward, her thick blonde hair flowing behind her. Several people turned to give her the once over. Poppy’s appearance — the epitome of rich, beautiful blonde lady — had that effect. A uniformed bell boy hurried behind her, tugging their mountain of luggage.
“Gabby,” Poppy said, her voice at once husky and piercing. “Surely, we don’t have to wait in this line? I’m booked into the Evergreen Suite. That’s VIP. Did you explain that I was Poppy Montgomery. I know the owners?”
“Everything is under control,” Gabby responded crisply. The best way to manage Poppy was through vigorous efficiency. “There was a small computer malfunction that has been resolved and we will be served shortly.”
Poppy looked dubious. “Always advocate for me, Gabby. That’s your job.”
Gabby nodded, wishing Tall and Skinny wasn’t so obviously listening. Her cheeks burned.
“I can’t wait with you in this line.” Poppy shifted her feet. “Make sure I get that suite.”
Poppy stalked toward a wingback chair by the fireplace under the portrait of the elderly man. The bellboy trailed behind, depositing their luggage beside her chair, and then bowing like a Downton Abbey footman. A waiter appeared instantly and tried to hand Poppy a flute of champagne. She waved it away and issued some sort of instruction. Undoubtedly, she was requesting a fresh carrot juice or a matcha latte with oat milk.
This was Poppy’s life, never a lineup, always someone willing to help, and more often than not a glass of something wonderful handed to her before she even knew she was thirsty. Gabby would be lying if she said she didn’t envy it, but she also saw how hard Poppy worked. She wasn’t sure the perks outweighed the complete dedication her boss gave to Bloom. Gabby turned back to the line, which was at least moving. She was almost at the front.
“So, Gabby? I’m Dan.” Tall and Skinny introduced himself, sticking out a hand.
She grasped it; his palm was more calloused than she’d expected. Her hand tingled, heat concentrating where they made contact.
“Gabby Montgomery,” she said faintly. She was still processing her physical reaction to his touch.
“I can hold your place if you want to explain to them at reception who your boss is.”
Her gaze sharpened. trying to detect any sarcasm in his voice. Had he witnessed her earlier attempt? His face was guileless. Maybe he really was trying to be friendly.
There was now only one person in front of her. She tilted her head to speak to Dan. He really was quite tall. “I’m almost there, and Poppy’s settled. I think it’s OK.” The fire and ambience would keep her boss happy for now.
“That was Poppy Montgomery?” Dan confirmed.
Gabby nodded, suddenly wary. Like Poppy herself, her demographic skewed to older millennial women. Male fans were either gay and extremely enthusiastic or profoundly weird straight guys. “Yes,” she said shortly, hoping to cut off any creepiness before it emerged.
Luckily, it was her turn to check in. It was the same clerk as before, but with consummate professionalism the woman didn’t acknowledge their earlier encounter.
“Two rooms for Poppy Montgomery,” Gabby said with a cheery smile, attempting make up for her earlier pushiness.
The clerk looked at her screen. “Yes, I have one single in our new wing, and a beautiful suite in the original manor house. It’s our biggest room with a separate living room.”
“Yes, the Evergreen Suite?”
The young woman looked at the computer. “No, it’s the Glades.”
“Poppy is meant to have the Evergreen.” Gabby’s voice rose and she glanced around, noting that Dan was checking in at the desk next to her. She modulated her tone. It wasn’t this poor girl’s fault. “We requested it specifically.”
“The Glades is our best room. Amélie, one of our owners, insisted Ms. Montgomery have it. It’s very large and has the jacuzzi tub…” Seeing Gabby’s face, the receptionist’s voice trailed away. She stared at her screen. “I’m terribly sorry, mademoiselle, but the Evergreen is booked.”
Gabby closed her eyes. Poppy was going to freak. She’d been yammering on about this particular suite for weeks.
“Please,” she said, “Is there anything you can do. My boss wants that room.”
The woman shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but there’s nothing —“
“We can switch.” Dan loomed over her. “I’m in Evergreen. She can have it. No problem.”
The import of his words sunk in. “What? Really? Thank you so much! That’s amazing.”
“On one condition.”
Gabby’s heart sank. Here came the creepiness. She crossed her arms. “What would that be?”
“I’d like fifteen minutes of face time with your employer.”
Gabby hesitated. Poppy guarded her time fiercely and was always “intentional” about meetings. “What do you want to talk to her about?”
“I’d rather not get into it. Just know I can give you the Evergreen Suite.”
Gabby bit her lip. Poppy really was fixated on that room. She’d mentioned it more than once when discussing the trip. Gabby had no idea why, but it was important to her. “Fine,” she conceded thinking rapidly, “but I get to organize the meeting and I’ll tell her how we know each other.” It would be better if Poppy didn’t know about the room mix-up. Gabby needed Poppy’s enthusiastic reference to have a hope of cracking into the competitive world of food photography.
“No problem,” Dan repeated.
“Great,” Gabby said. She pulled out her phone. “What’s your name?”
“Daniel Algernon Fontainebleau.” The name rolled off his tongue with a French flourish.
“What? Is that a joke?” Her suspicions came racing back. This guy didn’t even have an accent.
He blinked at her. “I’m serious. Most people call me Dan.”
He seemed sincere and she reminded herself he was doing her a huge favor. “OK. I’ll set up a meeting between you and Poppy.”
“Excellent,” he turned back to adjust his reservation.
Gabby’s took a relieved breath and felt her neck relax. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and balsam. She looked at the Great Hall. Poppy was sipping her drink by the snapping fire. Christmas carols wafted through the speakers.
Overseeing all this cozy activity was the portrait of the well-dressed old man. It really was a beautiful painting. The artist captured more than just sternness in his expression; there was a warmth behind his eyes that one didn’t notice immediately. She met the old man’s gaze and blinked in surprise. She would have sworn the portrait winked at her. When she looked again the gentleman was as serene as ever. She shook her head and turned back to the desk to finalize Poppy’s reservation.
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Already loving the characters and can't wait to read more! Thank you for the holiday bonus...
Yay! More, please. Hope it’s as much fun to write as it is to read. 😍