Christmas at Maplemont Manor: Maplemont, #1

By Julie Manthey

Noelle's predictable life is turned upside down by her 'frost impressions' of Maplemont's newest resident two weeks before Christmas.

A herd of reindeer, the scent of gingerbread, and a manor decked in mistletoe turn this heart-warming romance into a little Christmas magic. Escape into the festive frolic and spend the holidays in Maplemont.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Julie Manthey
• Release date: Jul 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393316916

Julie Manthey

Julie Manthey believes that holiday snow is magical and hopes you've enjoyed spending Christmas at Maplemont Manor. Julie is an independent author and has self-published this novel. If you enjoyed reading it, please tell all your friends and librarians. Please also consider writing a review. Thanks for your support! Author photo @Heather Crowder

Book preview

To Beth and Judi, superstars.

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

References to real events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2019 Julie Manthey

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-08-101267-0 (pbk.)

ISBN 978-1-39-331691-6 (ebk)

Independently Published

Cover design by Julie Manthey

Author photo @Heather Crowder

I should be playin' in the winter snow, but I'ma be under the mistletoe.

– JUSTIN BIEBER, NASRI ATWEH, & ADAM MESSINGER

Noelle, Noelle

The town’s Christmas tree stood watch while Noelle flipped the bakery’s door sign to ‘closed.’ She stopped for a second to smile at a photo of her sister, the original founder of the bakery, whose image had pride of place by the entrance where she could still welcome every guest. The aroma of maple fudge sweetened the air as Noelle tested out a new recipe that she hoped would be a contender for the gold medal of the prestigious Northeast Maple Tree awards. ​

The Sugarhouse Bakery glowed in white twinkly lights after a busy day. A fixture at the far end of Main Street, the building started in 1853 as a maple syrup processing house, or sugarhouse. Snow piled up outside in big clumps, as the small town of Maplemont, New York glittered in lights. Maplemont had two claims to fame. The first that it was only three hours’ drive from New York City and also to Montreal, Canada and the second, and by no means least, that it had the best maple fudge in the region at the Sugarhouse Bakery. ​

Noelle danced toward the kitchen, humming along to holiday music while totally engrossed in tasting fudge from a pan. With her long auburn hair pulled back neatly in a braid and long bangs framing her high cheek bones and hazel eyes, she could easily have been mistaken for a chic French woman. Chic, that is, until one noticed that her apron hid an ugly Christmas sweater from the bakery’s contest earlier in the afternoon. The sweater’s red sequins reflected the light as she moved.   

​Frowning after noticing another piece of fudge had been nabbed from the pan, Noelle looked up to find her employee, Skye, smiling in triumph.

Is this for the contest? Skye’s hair was twisted into two side braids that made her look younger than she was, complemented by a polka-dotted green and white sweater of a cat wearing a Santa hat. Her signature scent of patchouli and violet scented the air around her. Usually the smell of cookies and maple fudge overtook the air in the bakery, but this close to Skye, the patchouli was unmistakable. ​

I thought maybe, but it’s still not right. I wish Carol was here, she’d know what was missing. I don’t know. I should probably stick with Carol’s recipe again this year. ​

Tastes good to me, Skye said. You worry too much. ​

Noelle shook her head and thought that Skye didn’t worry enough. Maybe I won’t submit my own recipe this year. The fudge has to be perfect, like all the best flavors of an upstate Christmas in maple fudge that is so good that Sugarhouse will win the gold medal again. This is only ‘OK’ maple fudge. It’s still missing...something.

She sighed, afraid that she had run out of ideas. More importantly, she wanted to win the gold medal to know that Carol had made the right decision about giving her the bakery. Losing the first year she submitted her own recipe would make her feel like she was letting her sister down. ​

You’ll win, don’t worry. You’re the best chef I know. Skye mindlessly grabbed another piece of fudge, having gained ten pounds since she started working at the bakery but it only made her jollier. She frequently joked that being skinny was overrated.

​"I’m the only chef you know." Noelle laughed.

​"Like I said, you’re the best chef I know. You’ll win the gold medal and I’ll meet my dream guy."

​Just like that, huh? Noelle looked unconvinced.

Skye leaned on the counter and imagined her dream guy was walking in the door. Someday he’ll walk into the bakery and our eyes will meet. She sighed wistfully. And next thing you know, we’ll be off to dinner and the opera. You know, I read a book that said it’s important to visualize for a dream to come true. Her gaze concentrated on the door, willing it to be opened by a handsome and cultured dream date. Well, maybe tomorrow. Skye’s optimism didn’t end with thinking that her dreamboat would stumble into the bakery. ​

Noelle and Skye had met on a hiking trip in Spain, bonding on the trip as the only two women under fifty in the group. Skye, a free spirit who was always up for an adventure, worked on a fishing boat in Alaska, then at an art gallery in New Mexico, only to move to New York City where she became a taxi driver. She loved meeting interesting people. Noelle knew that she was trustworthy and a hard worker in whatever she put her mind to, so after her last employee quit and moved to San Diego, she asked if Skye might be up for a small-town adventure in upstate New York. Noelle wasn’t sure how long Skye would stay, but so far she was grateful that she’d stuck around for the last year. ​

Noelle laughed. Yes, maybe your dream guy will appear and it will be love at first sight.

Skye followed Noelle into the kitchen. Although they shared a sense of adventure, Noelle was far more grounded and realistic than Skye. She knew from experience that life didn’t care what one’s dreams were. When Noelle stopped to think about it, she couldn’t remember the last time that she took a risk on a new adventure. Even now, she was terrified to submit her own recipe into the regional maple fudge competition. Noelle figured that she was simply getting older and becoming more responsible, although she felt like a coward.

Skye’s glance was drawn to the many framed photographs on the wall at the far end of the kitchen. Castles, camels, and mountain glaciers covered the walls in a mix of scenes. I love these photos. Where was this one taken again? She pointed to a picture of a cobblestone street teaming with small cafes. ​

Noelle stopped briefly, smiled, and walked over to the wall. That one is the view from Notre Dame in Paris and the street where I spent a year at the macaron shop. Having spent over a decade working around the world in different restaurants and bakeries, the pictures reminded her of life before Carol’s accident when she was free to roam.

​You make the best macarons! And the camels? Skye asked, pointing to an image with camels crossing radiant golden desert sands that almost looked orange. ​

That was taken on a trek in Morocco. I was working in a restaurant in Fez and spent a week crossing the Sahara on an old salt caravan route. Noelle smiled at the memory which felt like it had happened a hundred years ago in a different life. ​

Don’t you miss traveling? Not knowing what’s around the corner or who you’ll meet and having to ask for directions sounds so romantic. Maybe I should move to Paris. I’ve never spent much time at all in Europe. Skye sighed. I should learn French.

​Looking thoughtful, Noelle waited a beat before replying. Are you getting restless? Noelle could completely relate to Skye. After almost four years in Maplemont herself, she missed the pull of the open road and the international airport, although her family kept her anchored to Maplemont’s Main Street. She had a home now that she left for vacations, instead of her previous life where she was a traveler, slowing moving from one side of the earth to the other and ‘home’ was wherever she had unpacked her suitcase.

​Skye stood tall and looked thoughtful. I suppose I am feeling restless. Maybe I should take that trip to Cambodia with you next year. ​

Yes, you should. That’s exactly what I’ve been telling you. Noelle looked at her watch in alarm, clearly having lost track of time. Oh no, I’m late! Can you close tonight, Skye? I’m catering a dinner tonight at Maplemont Manor and I can’t be late. I hear that the new owner is a real bore; you know someone who is always working and thinks the rest of the world should wait on him hand and foot.  But it gives me a chance to finally check out that kitchen and I can save the money from catering for the Cambodia trip, she said quickly.

​No problem, Skye said. You know, I’ve heard he’s handsome, single, a millionaire, and that he’s moved back to Maplemont Manor to finally settle down. You’ll get to meet the most eligible bachelor upstate. I’m so jealous! I bet he loves opera and Paris in the spring. Skye put one hand over her heart and the other over her forehead as if she would swoon. ​

Noelle shook her head. I’m sure he’s a spoiled, entitled jerk and I’ll probably not meet him because he’ll have ‘staff’ to deal with the help. ​

Or he’ll be a smoldering Darcy to your feisty Elizabeth, Skye said and they shared a laugh. I’ve been re-reading the classics and I’m simply falling for the romance of them. ​

Glancing at her watch nervously, Noelle worried about being late. Oh, I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow! Take that fudge home with you, please. I don’t want it sitting there in the morning, reminding me how mediocre it is. Before leaving, she grabbed the plastic containers holding the dough for the dinner rolls that she’d prepared earlier. ​

Skye grinned, happy that the bakery kept her so well stocked up on treats that quickly made her the most popular member of her book club. Wait, Noelle! Skye yelled out, as Noelle was putting on her down parka and hat. Your ugly sweater! You can’t wear that to Maplemont Manor.

​Laughing, Noelle looked down at her garish sweater of a reindeer’s face with a sparkling red nose that shimmered in sequins. I don’t have time to change. It’s no big deal; I’ll be in the kitchen the whole time with an apron. Besides, the ‘lord of the manor’ hired a server. Wrapping a scarf around her neck, she waved quickly and flew out the door in a rush.

One Lord a-Leaping

At the local Moonlight Theater, Grant Fitzgerald tried not to doze off in the plush red velvet seat, listening to a classical music quartet that included two violins, a viola, and a cello. The charity concert supported the restoration of the local museum after the roof caved in last year when historic snows blanketed the region.  He looked comfortable, albeit bored, in his full tuxedo that he wore as a uniform to the many charity events on his social calendar. His thick, wavy hair seemed purposefully disheveled, as if he had just left the beach, in contrast to his strong jawline that made him look serious.

Checking his watch, he wondered whether his mother would notice if he slipped out to leave early. Glancing over to her, she glared back as if reading his thoughts. He returned his gaze to the quartet, wondering how many hours of his life he’d spent at events like these. While being the ‘lord of the manor’ in Maplemont had its privileges, Grant often found his new life here to be very dull and isolating. ​

At the end of the concert, he stood up quickly while a young woman rushed up to him gushing about the music and the benefit for the museum. Word had quickly spread that Grant was the most eligible bachelor in the area, having recently moved into the enormous and historic Maplemont Manor that he inherited from his grandfather. The gossip mill’s description that he was also tall, dark, and handsome added to the frenzy.  Having already amassed a fortune, he allegedly planned to settle down at Maplemont where the only thing he lacked was a wife.

HIS MOTHER SMILED, while a flock of potential partners encircled her son in varying colors of silk and velvet, vying to gain his attention. She and his stepfather, William Smythe, lived nearby in another grand historic mansion, Highgate House, in neighboring Mount Briar. Although having remarried decades ago, she decided to keep the Fitzgerald last name, hyphenating it to ‘Fitzgerald-Smythe,’ since she then benefitted from the double prestige of both well-known and wealthy names.

Grant’s mother strolled over, arm-in-arm, with the beautiful and very blonde, Imogen Prescott. Imogen, heiress to the estate of the Mount Briar Prescotts, had never worked a day in her life, attended only the best private schools, and made all the charitable events she attended fashionable. 

Mrs. Fitzgerald-Smythe had already judged Imogen to be the perfect match for her son. Look who I found, she announced. Imogen has agreed to join us for dinner. Isn’t that lovely, Grant? You two have so much in common. ​

Imogen smiled and grabbed Grant’s hand, as the tide of ladies receded in her wake. You simply must join us this summer, Grant. We’re taking the yacht to the vineyard for the summer and staying at the house there for three weeks. It will be gorgeous. You’re coming! ​

Grant’s face maintained cool composure while he thought of an excuse. I’m planning a trek across the Atlas Mountains in Morocco this summer. I’m sure that you’ll have a great time though, he said knowing that someone like Imogen would never agree to any trip that included the slightest lapse of luxury. ​

Morocco? Imogen made a face. Oh, you can’t be serious! You’re teasing me! Imogen proclaimed it to be the truth, and to her, it was. She had a habit of adjusting reality to the way she believed things should be. Between her wealth and her beauty, she usually got her way anyway. You’ll love the vineyard and the beaches. We Prescotts go every year. ​

Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it, Grant? Mrs. Fitzgerald-Smythe chimed in. She’d wanted nothing more than to see her son settle down with an appropriate wife from the right family who would provide structure and a social path for Grant to follow. She regretted that her son didn’t understand the privilege that she’d sacrificed so much for, to give him access to all the right people for him to thrive. ​Routinely, she congratulated herself as the primary driver of his success. Had she not remarried to an even wealthier and more prestigious man than Grant’s father, their position in society would be very different. Instead, he had been provided all of the best connections and the world was his to conquer. 

Conveniently, she forgot that his grandfather’s money paid for everything although she never saw a penny of it for herself and wasn’t allowed to live in the manor. Grant’s grandfather made it very clear when his son died, that the ‘money grabbing’ wife he left behind would never see a penny. He ensured Grant received the inheritance that his father should have had. She knew though that all the social opportunities that she married into did not come without a cost, mostly resonating as a cool rift between them since his father died. The more she tried to be a part of his life these days, the more distance he managed to put between them. By choosing the right wife for him who would be her ally, she’d seal her position in Grant’s life. ​

If you’ll excuse me, Grant said, walking toward the bathroom. He looked over his shoulder to find his mother and Imogen laughing over some comment and then darted for the door like a thief. He slipped out where his driver waited as if driving a getaway car. ​

Will Mrs. Fitzgerald-Smythe be joining us, sir? the driver, a young burly man of maybe thirty years old asked about Grant’s mother. He used ‘sir’ out of habit from his military days. ​

No, Dean, her driver is waiting. They’ll meet us at the manor, Grant said stiffly. ​

Roger that, sir. Having worked for Grant for several years, Dean knew that he typically didn’t appreciate long conversations. While some interpreted that as rude, most quickly learned that Grant was always very busy and surrounded by work so he appreciated his quiet time. Once Dean understood that, the quiet time they spent in the car became a comfortable silence. 

Grant had taken a chance on hiring Dean, given his post-traumatic stress disorder, most commonly referred to as PTSD after his time in the service, when it was difficult for him to hold an office job. Dean performed terribly as an administrative assistant but, instead of firing him, Grant took time to find another job that would be more suitable for him. Dean knew from experience that level of effort and care was rare, making him very loyal to Grant.

​Have you ever been to Nantucket, Dean? ​

No sir, that’s not really my thing, Dean said. ​

Me neither, Grant replied, still working out the scene with Imogen in his mind. Oh, please stop at the kitchen entrance of the house. I need to tell the chef that there will be one more for dinner.

​Of course, sir. ​Grant felt annoyed that his mother had invited Imogen to dinner. It was bad enough that she had invited several members of the museum board, but continuing to give Imogen hope that she’d someday be the lady of Maplemont Manor made him irritable. All he wanted was a quiet night at his new home and time to think. His opened his phone to catch up on business, mostly the final negotiations of the sale of his multi-million-dollar business. 

It was important to him that his staff were taken care of after the transaction and he replied with another strongly worded email that, yes, he was serious about the new company providing one week of paid holiday leave for all of his employees this year. He used the phrase ‘non-negotiable,’ hoping to drive the point home. He knew that several companies were interested in the app his company developed and that his terms for the sale were very reasonable. Once he decided on a path, Grant rarely veered from it. ​

As the car left the parking lot, Grant’s laser focus on his phone and business meant that he missed the holiday lights and the town Christmas tree. After the car stopped in the driveway, it took Grant almost a minute to realize that they had reached the manor. Dean forced a cough to alert him to their arrival. As requested, instead of the usual front entrance stop, Grant entered the house via the kitchen back door.

Frost Impressions

Noelle gazed in wonder , driving down the tree-lined lane toward Maplemont Manor, a ten-bedroom Tudor style brick mansion sitting majestically on twenty park-like acres. With the wide courtyard and limestone accents around the doors and edges, Noelle thought that the manor looked more like a fancy university complex than a home. Although the manor’s property shared a fence with the Maplemont River Farm where Noelle lived, she’d only been inside the manor once or twice in her life when she was a little girl. 

Each tree along the drive was lit up with white lights and every window of the house held a candle lantern, flickering with light that made each room look as if it glowed. Even the service entrance door at the back of the property had a massive evergreen wreath and large red bow, that smelled of pine as she approached the door. The snow looked as if it had been directed to only fall outside of the walkways.

​Following the directions from the house manager, Noelle quickly took stock of the kitchen, finding all of the ingredients already in the refrigerator as previously arranged. She squealed with delight in the kitchen, touching the wide stone hearth that met the