Eggnog Cookies at Eleven

By Cecilia Farrell

Margot Beaufort is out of a job. Soon she’ll be out of a home. If she doesn’t find a place, she’ll be sharing a couch with a friend’s territorial cat. And it can’t be just anywhere, not if she wants to see her opinionated grandmother, Marguerite. But it’s the season for miracles, right?

To save historic Renfrew House from demolition, Trent Talbot converted the property into apartments. But nobody stays in the “crazy" carriage house unit for long. If Trent can’t solve the problem, he’ll be back under Daddy dearest’s thumb. Then a chance encounter with a sweet redhead, plus an old book, inspire an insane idea…

Margot quickly discovers why everyone flees the carriage house apartment. It’s haunted! With Marguerite’s help, Margot’s determined to free an unhappy spirit. But can she and Trent have a future that’s merry and bright?

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Nov 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509243334

Book preview

By the time Trent and Margot arrived back at the Renfrew House Apartments, it was fifteen minutes to eleven. Time to set the plan in motion.

Are you sure you want to do this, Go-go?

Margot nodded. They discussed it that morning while she made coffee and scrambled eggs, then again at lunch over chicken corn chowder and a toasted tomato sandwich. Both Margot and Trent needed to be truthful with each other. No more secrets.

He had to see poor dead George in action.

Walk you to your door? Trent asked, holding out his arm. I shoveled the walk today and salted it, but there may be a slippery spot I missed.

She smiled and took it. Renfrew House no longer seemed like a comforting bulk of brick and mortar as they passed by. The lighted windows felt like the mansion itself spied on them.

She blinked, and the shadow of a man in a derby and overcoat slipped through the solid door of her cottage. Margot stiffened and sucked in a breath.

Was that George? Alfred? Or someone else?

Also by Cecilia Farrell

Crimson Summer

Eggnog Cookies at Eleven

by

Cecilia Farrell

Christmas Cookies Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Eggnog Cookies at Eleven

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by CJ Farrell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4333-4

Christmas Cookies Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my mother. I miss you.

Chapter One

The good-looking guy with the molasses-colored curls winked and dimpled as he opened the door. A sign of good luck? That’s what Margot Beaufort told herself.

She also told herself that cloud of butterflies in her tummy was all his fault.

Though the nervousness had been there before she mounted the steps to the broad veranda of the Renfrew House Apartments.

Maybe that email had been a mistake. But Margot always felt honesty to be the best policy. Even if she had a semi-scam-artist for a mother. Or maybe because of it. Sorry, Mom, wherever you are.

Margot carefully scraped her boots on the coir mat inside, unzipped her jacket, and stuffed her gloves into the oversized purple leatherette purse. She gazed around with pleasure. Tiny twinkling lights and an artificial tree with all the Yuletide trimmings decorated the small, paneled lobby. A lush green wreath with fake pinecones and a red ribbon framed the Private sign on the office door. Someone had even twined silver tinsel around the bench just outside the office.

Once a stately Queen Anne style abode for a wealthy family, the mansion had been converted into seven apartments by a hotshot new architect. Six were occupied. Only one unit remained, and it was a perfect gem of a bachelor apartment. High ceilings. Polished pinewood floor. An alcove to tuck in a bed and a sliding barn door to hide it behind. The cream white kitchen had stainless steel appliances and a breakfast bar. Three arched leaded windows let in lots of natural light.

And Marguerite approved, even if the unit had once been part of the attic. That meant she would show up more often.

Margot’s companion chuckled and said she sensed Molasses Curls was an important guy to them so if someone pushed out her boobs and showed a little initiative—

Stop it! And don’t start with how uptight I am, or I’ll call you granny! We both know how much you like that moniker. And no more jokes about swinging bachelor pads. This isn’t the Sixties, ok? Honestly! And don’t start with the homeless thing because I’m not yet—

Who are you talking to? Sally Walton, the building’s property manager, stood in the office doorway, hands on hips, staring.

I, um, I was just on the phone. Margot’s face heated and she pretended to tuck away her cell.

Sally ushered her into the office, and they both sat. The older woman tapped polished plum-colored nails against the papers on the antique desk. She didn’t smile.

Uh-oh. Margot resisted the urge to fiddle with the embossed gold locket around her neck. The butterflies in her stomach grew razor-tipped wings. They battered