The Christmas Concierge, page 2
“Yes?”
“In the immortal words of Bing Crosby, I will be home for Christmas.”
Chapter Three
“Stand by. I’m sending you some pictures of the target.” At seventy-six years old, Mrs. Alice Penewate possessed the regal hauteur of old-world aristocracy along with the technological skills of an Apple engineer. Even over the phone, she commanded deference.
Holiday’s eyebrows shot up as she studied the black-and-white photo downloading on the screen. “This is the guy?” She leaned forward over the hotel room’s desk, upon which she’d assembled a packet of trail mix, a pen, and a legal pad to make notes about her last-minute mission. She closed her eyes for a moment and fought through a wave of jet lag before fortifying herself with a sip of coffee. Outside the fifth-floor window of the bland, corporate hotel room, the roar of airplane engines droned as late-night landings and takeoffs continued.
“Yes,” Mrs. Penewate replied. “His name is Alex Sappier.”
“But he’s like fifteen years old.”
“Don’t be daft, darling. Those are his high school yearbook photos. My granddaughter Francie used to pore over those every day after school.”
Holiday squinted at the grainy images of a fresh-faced teenager with wavy black hair and a preppy polo shirt. “Do you have anything more recent?”
“Patience is a virtue,” Mrs. Penewate admonished.
“Yes, ma’am.” Holiday drummed her fingernails on the desktop as she waited for newer images to materialize.
Mrs. Penewate proceeded to bombard her with links to a series of news articles from Boston-area newspapers—“MIT Grad Makes Good in the Tech Sector,” “A. Sappier Joins Board of Directors,” and “Start-up Whiz Sells His Stake in Biotech Giant.”
Holiday studied the photos of Alex Sappier, who was invariably decked out in a suit and tie. Although he was objectively handsome, he came across as remote. His expression was similar in every photo—tense and unsmiling to the point of looking grim.
“Your granddaughter was crushing on this guy?” Holiday dug the lone M&M out of the trail mix. “No offense, but he looks like the dude who’d call the cops to break up every party.”
Mrs. Penewate inhaled sharply. “Are you questioning my granddaughter’s judgment?”
“No, ma’am, I am not.”
“Apparently, he was wretched working in the tech industry and so he pulled up stakes and moved to Maine.”
Holiday started to ask why he would peace out to an island that was the climatic equivalent of a deep freezer, but then closed her mouth. Who cared why he moved to Maine? She didn’t need to know his whole life story. She just needed to deliver him to his intended recipient and make it back to her parents’ house for Christmas.
“Poor Francie has had a beastly year,” Alice continued. “Her husband had an affair, the divorce was hellacious, and my sweet girl has just withered.”
Holiday was dying to know how Mrs. Penewate was so sure that Francie would want to reunite with her high school crush, but again she managed to keep her mouth shut. Years of acting as a Christmas concierge had taught her that human desires were mysterious and often laden with a love and loss. She just needed to know the “who,” “what,” “where,” and “when.” The “why” was none of her business.
“A romantic pick-me-up is just what Francie needs for the new year,” Alice continued. “She deserves to meet a man on her own level.”
“You want it, you got it,” Holiday assured her. “Let’s go over the details. Where and when do you want all this to go down?”
“I’ve told Francie that I planned a surprise trip for her, but I haven’t shared any of the details. She won’t know she’s going to Maine until I give her the boarding pass at the airport. I’m also going to give her an envelope with directions to the best hotel on the island.” Mrs. Penewate paused. “That’s where I’ll be putting you up as well, of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Although from what I gather, there’s only two or three lodging options, so ‘the best’ hotel may not be saying much.”
Holiday glanced around at the beige carpet, beige wallpaper, and beige comforter in her current digs. “Don’t you worry. I’m pretty low-maintenance.”
“After you explain the situation to Mr. Sappier and ensure his cooperation, I’d like you to arrange a Christmas Eve meeting at the most romantic place possible.”
“Um.” Holiday stopped scribbling notes. “Christmas Eve?”
“That’s correct.”
Holiday slumped back in the desk chair, tilted her head upward, and closed her eyes.
“Is that a problem?” Mrs. Penewate’s tone became crisper by the moment.
Holiday rubbed her forehead and forced herself to rejoin the conversation. “No, I can whip up an amazing dinner date, no problem, it’s just . . . how long would you like me to stay and chaperone?”
“My heavens, they’re adults. They don’t need a chaperone, and I’m certain they won’t want one.”
Holiday opened her eyes to gaze at the beige ceiling as a tiny spark of hope rekindled. “So you wouldn’t object if I left for the airport right after I introduce them?”
“Of course not.” Alice seemed affronted by the very idea. “Go ahead and book an evening flight out of Boston that night.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll call Francie tomorrow and tell her to pack her bags. I’m so thrilled to be able to do this for her.” There was another pause at the other end of the line. “And Holiday, I hate to bring this up, but . . .”
Holiday flinched in anticipation.
“This isn’t going to be like last time, is it?” The old dame’s voice actually quavered. “I’m still a bit heartbroken, to be honest.”
“No.” Holiday squeezed her pen so hard her fingers ached. “I won’t let you down again. I promise.”
Chapter Four
By the time Holiday made her way from Bangor International Airport to the rental car center, she’d zipped up her coat, pulled on fleece-lined gloves, and donned the fluffy earmuffs that Nora had insisted she take along. Her sister was right—as always. Holiday had thought she understood the concept of “cold,” but Maine took it to a whole new level.
She had her driver’s license ready as she approached the rental agent. “I have a reservation for Holiday Smith.”
The employee typed in her information. “Ah yes, here you are.” He printed out some documents for her to sign. “Your vehicle will be in parking spot 6B. It’s a blue sedan.”
Holiday froze. “I’m sorry . . . did you say ‘sedan’?”
“That’s correct. It’s a four-door, midsize car.” He listed the vehicle’s make and model.
She shook her head so fast, her curls whipped against her cheeks. “There must be some mistake; I reserved an all-wheel-drive SUV.”
The employee stopped making eye contact. “Um, yes, I see that. But I’m afraid that, due to the recent changes in the supply chain and transportation demands—”
“No, no, no.” A shrill note of panic crept into her voice. “I went out of my way to make sure that this didn’t happen. I made promises, I have responsibilities, and I’m going to need all-wheel drive.”
The employee rubbed his chin. “Where are you headed?”
“Alemos Island.”
“Wow, you’re really going off the beaten track, huh?”
“Yes.” Her panic intensified. “And it’s supposed to snow on and off over the next two days. I have a deep-rooted fear of blizzards.”
The employee blinked. “Then why’d you come to Maine in the middle of winter?”
“It’s a long story, and it ends with me needing all-wheel drive. So if you would kindly double-check your SUV availability . . .”
“Hang on. Let me ask the manager.” The employee straightened his vest and picked up his phone.
“Thank you.” Holiday tried to murmur calming mantras to herself while she waited. They didn’t work.
The employee hung up, shaking his head. “Sorry.”
“Please! There must be something we can do. I’ll take anything.” She smacked her palm against the countertop for emphasis. “Pickup truck, station wagon, whatever.”
“I’d help you if I could. But we’re completely out of stock.” He gestured around the car rental building. “Everyone is, this time of year. You’re lucky to get the sedan.”
Holiday closed her eyes and spent a moment breathing deeply, which was even less effective than those stupid calming mantras. Then she opened her eyes and got back to business. “Does the sedan have snow tires, at least?”
His gaze shifted again. “Not exactly. But if you need to, you could always buy snow chains. Do you know how to put those on?”
She started to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. “I do not, but I’m sure I can figure it out between divine intervention and YouTube.” She took the key fob he offered, slung her carry-on over her shoulder, and set off in search of parking spot 6B.
*
BRIDGE FREEZES BEFORE ROAD
Holiday had seen similar road signs many times while traveling through the Northeast, but the message had never seemed quite so apt as it did now. The bridge stretching over the icy-gray Atlantic between the mainland and Alemos Island was, well, hopefully, not quite as old and rusty as it appeared.
The clear, sunny skies belied the frigid wind chill, and ice-crusted snowbanks rose up on either side of the two-lane highway, but Holiday felt grateful that at least the roads were currently dry. Warm air wafted out of the car’s dashboard heat vents as her favorite travel podcast played over the speakers. All was calm, all was bright . . . for now.
The rural highway narrowed as the bridge ended and the town’s main street began. Holiday had devoted the entirety of the flight researching the town of Alemos Island, but the internet photos didn’t do justice to the quaint tableau before her. A cobblestone sidewalk edged a series of brick-and-stone storefronts, all centered around a tiny town square with a towering clapboard church and spire at the far end.
“Set design by Currier and Ives,” Holiday murmured to herself as she eased into the first parking spot she saw. “Wardrobe by L.L. Bean.”
According to GPS, she was a mere two-minute walk from Black Bear Bakery, purveyor of world-famous apple tarts that happened to be a favorite among locals in general and Alex Sappier in particular. Or so said their Instagram post from seven months ago.
Holiday had carefully considered the best method to approach and apprehend her target. She knew that Alex rarely left the island and that he owned and operated a small business with his younger brother. She’d considered calling ahead to make an appointment to speak with him at his office, but she didn’t want this to feel business-y. Everything she’d read about him indicated that he was level-headed, methodical, and not prone to rash decisions. Which was why she had to ambush him, dazzle him with her charm offensive, and fast-talk him into agreeing to a blind date before he could come to his senses. Stun and run. Shock and awe.
She braced herself for the shock and awe of the Maine winter wind as she opened the car door and sprinted into the warm bakery, where she bought a trio of tarts and double-checked the location of the bar and grill where Alex routinely had lunch on Saturdays—thank you, social media accounts of the Wily Whale Coffee House and Tap Room.
After she stashed the baked goods in the back seat of the sedan, she swiped on some lipstick, recited a few calming mantras (useless, as usual), and prepared to secure her target.
Who was already striding past her car and heading toward the town square? Crap. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet! How could the Wily Whale Facebook page mislead her so cruelly?
Holiday slammed out of her car and hurried down the street, waving and yelling at the two men about to round the corner.
“Hey! You!” She inwardly cringed. Talk about shock and awe.
The men stopped, turned around, and stared at her. As did all the pedestrians on the other side of the street.
“Hi!” She forced herself to lower her arm and her voice as she approached him. “Are you Alex Sappier?”
The men glanced at each other, then back at her. The taller one—who she knew perfectly well was Alex—said, “Maybe.”
Holiday nodded and directed her attention to the second guy. “And you must be the brother. Pete, is it?”
The second guy glanced behind him, as though she might have been addressing someone else. “Paul.”
So much for the charm offensive. She switched tactics to a more businesslike Q&A. “You two operate a charter plane business together, correct?”
Paul looked as though he was prepared to succumb to her interrogation, but Alex stepped in and cut him off. “Who are you?”
She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m Holiday Smith and I’m here with an amazing opportunity for you.” She pulled out a business card and handed it to him.
He glanced at her name and job title and raised his eyebrows. “You’re telling me that your job title is something called a ‘Christmas Concierge’ and that your name is Holiday?”
Holiday had variations of this conversation on a near-daily basis. “Yes, those are the facts.” She shrugged. “Holiday is my legal, government name.”
He looked less suspicious and more intrigued by the moment. “There’s got to be a story there.”
Holiday smiled as she thought of her family. “My mom was a huge Billie Holiday fan. My sister’s name is Nora.”
Both men regarded her blankly.
“Billie Holiday’s real name was Eleanora Fagan. Mom took that theme and ran with it.” She nodded down at the business card. “As I was saying, I’m Holiday Smith and I’m going to need you to come with me.”
“Are we under arrest?” Paul looked excited.
“Not you.” Holiday lifted her chin toward Alex. “Just him.”
Paul glanced at his brother. “Call your attorney, dude.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she assured him.
“That’s what they all say until it’s too late and you’ve incriminated yourself.” Paul folded his arms over his heavy plaid jacket. “I’ve watched enough Law & Order to know how this works.”
Alex was clearly trying to suppress a smile.
“I come bearing gifts.” Holiday beckoned back them toward her car. “Apple tarts, fresh out of the oven at Black Bear Bakery.”
“We’re getting kidnapped for sure,” Paul muttered.
Holiday opened the car door and handed them the bakery box tied with red twine. “Help yourself.”
Paul wasted no time ripping off the string and seizing a tart. Alex hung back, observing and taking her measure.
“Have one of these.” Paul practically shoved a tart into his brother’s mouth. “They’re delicious.”
Alex pushed the pastry away. He continued to study Holiday with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. As the moments ticked by, Holiday started to understand why young Francie had harbored such a crush all those years. He was definitely the strong, silent type, but there was also a bright, playful glint in those dark-brown eyes. Even in a parka and jeans, he was a force to be reckoned with. She was willing to bet that he was quite good at . . . ahem . . . “reckoning,” but right now, she needed to keep her mind out of the gutter and on the business matter at hand.
“Listen, Alex, I know that you’re a busy, fiercely private individual.” Holiday cleared her throat. “I also know—well, I heard—that you’re single.”
“Stalker with apple tarts,” Paul mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. “Score.”
Holiday ignored him and waited for Alex to reply. He rocked back on his heels and took his time considering his response.
“What is it that you want from me, Ms. Smith?”
“Call me Holiday. And I don’t want anything from you—I have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you.” Holiday pointed out the job title on her business card. “As a Christmas concierge, I make people’s wildest dreams come true. And I’m going to arrange a romantic evening with the woman of your dreams.”
“That’s it.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m calling my attorney.”
“Told ya,” Paul said.
“Not so fast!” Holiday felt herself starting to sweat, despite the windchill. “Do you remember a girl from high school named Francie Penewate?”
Alex didn’t even hesitate for a second. “Nope.”
“She was a sophomore when you were a senior?” Holiday pressed. “Long dark hair, rosy cheeks, penchant for berets?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” But he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
Paul elbowed his brother. “Yes, it does. Francie, remember?”
He shook his head. “Clearly, I don’t.”
“She was hot,” Paul said.
“Yes!” Holiday jabbed her index finger in victory. “Thank you, Paul. Francie was indeed hot. And guess what? She still is.”
Paul leaned in. “Go on.”
“Her grandmother—who is just the sweetest woman alive—would love it if Francie could find a smart, stable, kindhearted man such as yourself.” She tilted her head at Alex and resumed Operation: Charm Offensive.
Alex folded his arms. “How do you know I’m not a soulless sociopath?”
“I ran multiple background checks, of course,” Holiday scoffed. “What is this, amateur hour?”
That faint, sexy smile reappeared. Wait. No, no, no. Not sexy. Just . . . attractive. Alex was objectively, factually attractive, as was his smile. She straightened her scarf as she tried to get back on track. “You’re welcome to run a background check on me as well.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he assured her. “Since this deal isn’t going to get done.”
“Let’s not frame this as some sort of ‘deal.’” She pulled up some photos of Francie. “It’s your lucky day! I’ve compiled a dossier on this case and I can assure you that Francie is exceptionally bright, beautiful, classy and—”
