A Magical New York Christmas

by Anita Hughes

Genres: Holiday books; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

A magical holiday love story set at the glamorous Plaza Hotel in New York City.

It’s Christmas week when twenty-six-year-old Sabrina Post knocks on the door of the Vanderbilt suite at the Plaza Hotel in New York City, ready to accept the ghostwriting position for the memoir of Grayson Prescott—a famous art dealer.A struggling journalist, Sabrina can’t believe her luck: a paycheck and six nights in her own suite at the Plaza. She feels like Eloise, the heroine from her favorite children’s books. To make the job even more exciting, Grayson recounts how he worked as a butler at the Plaza sixty years ago for none other than the author of the Eloise books, Kay Thompson.What promises to be a perfect week is complicated when Sabrina meets Ian Wentworth, a handsome British visitor, at the hotel bar. When Ian assumes Sabrina is another wealthy guest at the hotel, she doesn’t correct him—a decision she doesn’t regret after learning that Ian is a member of the British aristocracy. But, things are not what they seem. The truth is: Ian is not a wealthy lord; he’s actually the personal secretary of Lord Spencer Braxton.As the week unfolds, will Sabrina and Ian learn the truth about one another?Filled with the magic that can only be found at the Plaza Hotel during the holidays, and revealing facts about the author of the Eloise books, the novel is both a holiday treat and a heartwarming story that reminds us that falling in love is the greatest miracle of all.

Release date: September 28, 2021

Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

One


There really was nothing like the Plaza Hotel in New York at
Christmas. The Pulitzer Fountain on Fifth Avenue was strung
with silver lights, and the valets resembled chocolate soldiers in
their red velvet coats and gold caps. But it was the lobby itself—white
and gold columns wrapped in satin bows and glass tables
scattered with presents—that
took Sabrina’s breath away.


She reminded herself she wasn’t a tourist about to go ice-skating
in Rockefeller Center or see a show at Radio City Music
Hall. She was here to work. But her heels clicked faster on the
marble and when she saw the Christmas tree, yards and yards of
lights and ornaments reaching to the ceiling, she couldn’t squelch
her excitement.


“Hi, I’m here to see Mr. Prescott,” she said as she approached
the concierge desk.


“We’re happy to have Mr. Prescott back at the Plaza.” The
man tapped on his computer. He glanced up at Sabrina. “You
must be Miss Post. A butler will show you up to his suite.”


“Oh, that’s not necessary.” Sabrina shifted and wondered
what the concierge thought of her outfit. The skirt was a designer knockoff that she’d had since her first postcollege job but the
blouse was a recent purchase. The salesgirl had said it could be
worn anywhere from the office to a holiday party, but that probably
didn’t include the Plaza Hotel, where other guests wore cashmere
sweaters and the softest Burberry slacks.


“What’s not necessary elsewhere is standard at the Plaza.” The
concierge snapped his fingers and a butler appeared as if by magic.


Sabrina tried to think of something to say to the butler in the
elevator but she was too nervous. There were six hundred dollars
in her bank account and if she didn’t get this job, she’d be eating
beans the whole week between Christmas and New Year’s. Not to
mention the rent on her apartment in Queens. Her parents would
be happy to send the rent check as a Christmas present. But it had
been four years since Sabrina received her journalism degree, and it
was time she was financially independent. Then she thought of one
of her favorite books, Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, which she had
been reading on the subway. There was a reason Dickens wrote
about poverty in his books: writers were usually on the verge of
being broke.


“Mr. Prescott is in the Vanderbilt Suite,” the butler said when
the elevator doors opened. “Would you like me to announce your
arrival?”


“No, thank you,” Sabrina commented. If he escorted her any
farther he would expect a tip, and he probably wouldn’t accept the
laundromat token in her purse.


The hallway was decorated in grays and yellows with thick
beige carpeting and gold-framed
paintings on the walls.


“Miss Post,” Grayson Prescott said when she rang the doorbell.
“Please come in.”


Sabrina had googled him, of course. Grayson Prescott had sold more than a billion dollars’ worth of paintings during his
career as a private art dealer and he was credited with sparking
Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s
interest in the work of Damien Hirst. His
clients ranged from Bill Gates to Mary-Kate
Olsen and there
wasn’t a private collection from the Hamptons to Beverly Hills
that Grayson hadn’t been involved with.


“Can I get you something to drink? The orange juice is delicious.”
He waved at the minibar and Sabrina thought he looked
younger than his eighty years. He had a full head of white hair
and his eyes were clear and blue. He was over six feet tall and
Sabrina could imagine him in one of those faded newspaper photos
of college quarterbacks in the 1950s—all
square shoulders and
thick chests.


“I’m fine, thank you.” Sabrina shook her head.


“Please, I won’t feel as guilty if you join me.” He poured her a
glass. “The prices at the Plaza always make me feel that way. The
last time I had the Wagyu beef at the Palm Court, I had such a
guilty conscience I wrote a check for the same amount to the Red
Cross.”


Sabrina accepted the orange juice and took a small sip.


“You came highly recommended by an old friend, Chester
White. I gather you’re his goddaughter.”


“Our families have known each other for years,” Sabrina said
with a nod. “I grew up in New Jersey and my parents are both
professors.”


“Anyone Chester recommends is good enough for me.” Grayson
leaned back in his chair. “I hadn’t heard of ghostwriters before, let
alone thought I needed one. When I signed with my publisher, I
imagined writing a memoir would be fun. Who doesn’t want to
believe his life might be interesting to others? But then Leo’s emails changed from rants about the Giants game with a polite sentence
asking how the book was coming to pointed letters saying he needs
the first draft by January.”


“I’m sure I can do a good job.” Sabrina was earnest. “I spent
the last week researching your career. I was impressed with your
early appreciation of Kenneth Noland. You sold one of his pieces
to Robert De Niro when the only place they had been displayed
was in Noland’s guest bathroom.”


“It was a clever place to hang it. Most dinner party guests
are bound to use the powder room and notice it.” Grayson’s
eyes twinkled. “I had a client in the south of France who kept
a seventy-five-
million-
dollar
Van Gogh above her bathtub. The
insurance company didn’t want to allow it, they were afraid it
would warp. My client said if she paid that much for a painting,
she wanted to hang it where she spent the most time.” He
looked at Sabrina thoughtfully. “Leo is expecting a tell-all,
but
that’s not what I want to write. There will be some of that; I
won’t disappoint him. But isn’t a memoir the only chance one has
to teach something important?” He leaned forward. “I want to
write about my own Christmas miracle.”


“A Christmas miracle?” Sabrina repeated.


“Life is about three things: there’s hard work. You can’t be
happy if you aren’t passionate about what you do. But there’s also
luck. Luck can make the difference between leading a pleasant
existence and having a life where every day is exciting and you
can’t wait to get out of bed.”


“And the third thing?” Sabrina asked.


“That’s the part a lot of people get wrong,” he answered and
a small cloud passed over his face. “Recognizing the luck when it
arrives.”

“It sounds interesting,” Sabrina said doubtfully. She had to
fill three hundred pages and it was easier to write about concrete
names and places than nebulous ideas. But Grayson was paying
her and she had to do what he said.


“It better be,” Grayson chuckled. “Or people at the airport
bookstore will pass over the book and buy the autobiography of
that fellow who flips houses.” He smiled at Sabrina and his face
was almost boyish. “I believe my assistant discussed pay and accommodations.
She booked you the Fitzgerald Suite, it’s on the
next floor.”


“I don’t need a suite!” Sabrina insisted.


“That’s all that was available. And you can charge any food or
drink at the hotel. You will be working over the holiday week and
I don’t want to seem like some kind of Scrooge.”


Sabrina pictured eggs benedict and Belgian waffles for breakfast
and lunches of French onion soup and the Plaza’s famous
burger and had to stop herself from blurting out that she’d work
for free.


“That sounds fine,” she said instead. “I brought a suitcase with
a few clothes. I left them with the valet.”


Thank God her best friend, Chloe, worked in fashion and
regularly trolled the sample sales. Sabrina had begged to borrow
Chloe’s Vince sweater and Theory pantsuit.


“Excellent,” he said, beaming. “And I promise we won’t work
all the time, if you might be meeting anyone.”


Sabrina tried to remember the last time she’d had a date. It had
been in August when a magazine writer had asked her to attend
Shakespeare in the Park. Patrick had been as broke as she was, and
even after pooling their resources, they could barely afford two hot
dogs. He said he’d call after he got his next check but he never did.

“I don’t have anyone to meet.” Sabrina shook her head.


Grayson looked at Sabrina kindly and held out his hand. “Do
we have a deal?”


For the first time since she’d entered, she allowed herself to
glance around. The floors were parquet and there were gold upholstered
armchairs and gray velvet sofas. The sideboard was set
with blue-and-
white
china and there was a coffee table with a glass
chess set. How could she pass up six nights at the Plaza and a paycheck
that would allow her to pay the heating bill and get her hair
cut in the same month?


Sabrina shook Grayson’s hand and felt the same anticipation she
experienced when she entered the Plaza’s lobby: for a short time,
her life could include paper-thin
cucumber sandwiches at the Palm
Court and holiday cocktails served in tinted glasses and topped
with whipped cream.


“We have a deal.”


They worked for an hour and then Grayson apologized that
the combination of jet lag and old age was making him tired and
he needed to lie down.


Sabrina took the elevator to the fifteenth floor and slipped the
key into the door. There was a small salon with one wall of mirrors.
An art deco desk stood by the window and stockings hung
from a marble fireplace. The bookshelf held leather-bound
books
and a Christmas tree was decorated with glass ornaments.


In the bedroom, Sabrina discovered a four-poster
bed and a
bedside table with a Tiffany lamp. The welcome card detailed the
24-karat
gold fixtures in the bathroom and the soaking tub that
could be filled with a selection of bath salts. White-glove butler
service was available twenty-four
hours a day, and anything she
needed was on the other end of the phone. But it was the bed itself—king-
size
with a padded headboard and white comforter as
soft as fresh snow—that
was the most inviting.


When was the last time she’d had a full night’s sleep? She’d
spent the last two weeks working twelve-hour
days with an aging
rock star until he decided he needed spiritual awakening before
he could finish his memoir. The next day he’d flown off to Joshua
Tree without paying her fee.


She peeled back the bedspread and rested her head on the pillow.
She’d close her eyes for a few minutes and then she’d transcribe
her notes.


When she woke up, the time on the bedside clock said 12:30
a.m. and for a moment she didn’t remember where she was. She
drew back the curtains and was stunned by the beauty of the
night skyline. Fifth Avenue was a patchwork of colors far below.
The Empire State Building was festooned with shiny green and
red Christmas lights, and Central Park shimmered as brightly as
an airport runway.


Then she sank back on the bed and realized she was starving.
The only thing she had eaten all day was a turkey sandwich
that she had fished out of the bottom of her purse when she got
off the subway. When she’d taken it out from under her laptop it
was completely flat and the mayonnaise had leaked into the plastic
bag. She’d taken two bites and tossed it in the garbage.


Grayson had said she could sign for whatever she liked, but she
didn’t feel like ordering room service. She changed into the Vince
sweater and a pair of slacks and stepped into the hallway. The
sleeves were a bit long but Sabrina was glad she’d brought it. At least
if anyone saw her, they wouldn’t think she’d snuck into the Plaza for
the free hot chocolate.


The Palm Court was dark except for the light of a vacuum cleaner being pushed across the floral rugs. The Champagne Bar
had closed at midnight and there were only a few Christmas cookies
left on the complimentary display in the lobby. Sabrina took
the stairs down to the Rose Club, but the sleek walnut bar was
empty. She was about to go back to her room when she noticed a
man asleep on the sofa. He wore an expensive-looking
gray suit
and there was a silver tray and an empty glass on the coffee table.


The man stirred and sat up.


“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”


“What time is it?” He rubbed his eyes. He had dark wavy hair
and spoke with a British accent.


“Almost one a.m.,” Sabrina said after glancing at her phone.


“That’s six a.m. London time,” the man groaned. “I don’t usually
fall asleep in public places, but I’ve been awake for almost
twenty-four
hours. I’m surprised someone didn’t wake me before.”
He glanced around for a bartender but there was no one
there. He grinned at Sabrina. “For all I know, a housekeeper was
here to vacuum but didn’t want to disturb me. I’ll have to apologize
to the front desk.”


“Did you just arrive?” she asked.


“Last night.” He waved his hand and Sabrina noticed his gold
cuff links. “It’s all a bit of a blur. My stomach wanted breakfast
but the clock said it was time for dinner.”


“That’s why I came downstairs,” Sabrina said. “I took a nap
and woke up starving. But everything is closed.”


He pointed to the tray.


“You’re welcome to share some of mine.”


“I couldn’t do that.” Sabrina shook her head.


The man sat up straighter and ran his hands through his hair.


“Please. This caviar is four hundred dollars an ounce; it would be a shame for it to go to waste. And the lobster rolls are delicious,
I can’t imagine where the Plaza gets fresh lobster at Christmas.”


“They partner with a lobster farm in Maine,” Sabrina answered.
“The lobster is put on a train every morning and delivered
directly from Grand Central Station to the Plaza.”


“How did you know that?” he asked.


Sabrina blushed and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s the kind of
thing some New Yorkers know.”


“So you live in New York and are staying at the Plaza?”


Sabrina was quiet. One of the rules of being a ghostwriter was
to never disclose anything about her work or the client.


“I’m staying here for a project,” she said offhandedly. “It’s too
distracting to work from home.”


“Then you must join me,” he insisted. “This is only my second
time in New York and you can give me some tips. You know, like
when tourists come to London and they’re disappointed because
Prince William and Kate aren’t at any of the nightclubs and no
matter how many times they walk past Buckingham Palace, they
never see the Queen coming out.”


Sabrina laughed and glanced longingly at the tray: caviar in
silver bowls and pink lobster on pumpernickel. Wedges of cheese
that looked as soft and buttery as whole cream.


“If you’re sure.” She could barely pull her eyes away. “I’m
Sabrina.”


“Ian.” He piled a plate with caviar and melba toast and handed
it to her. “I thought only Californians were friendly,” he said, when
he had poured two glasses of sparkling water from the bottle on
the table. “But I couldn’t walk through the lobby without being
asked what temperature I liked my suite and whether I preferred
a silk robe or cashmere pajamas. I’ve never discussed how I sleep with another man before.” He grinned and she noticed how his
eyes crinkled at the corners. “He would be disappointed that I
wear a T-shirt
and flannel pajama pants.”


“That’s only at the Plaza.” Sabrina smiled. “If you want to
meet grouchy New Yorkers, you only have to walk down Fifth
Avenue at Christmastime. You can’t enter Macy’s because of the
tourists standing in front of the window displays, and there are so
many people sledding in Central Park, it’s as dangerous as schussing
in the Alps.”


“Londoners are the same. We insist that everyone who comes
to London must see the Christmas lights in Piccadilly Circus, and
then we’re cross that there aren’t any taxis.”


“New York at Christmas is magical,” Sabrina sighed, biting
into melba toast. She’d never had caviar before and at first it tasted
foreign. But she took a second bite and the crunchy toast and salty
fish eggs were a perfect combination. “My parents brought me
to New York when I was eight. They wanted to show me the
Natural History Museum and the children’s floor at Saks but all I
wanted was to come to the Plaza Hotel and meet Eloise.”


“Eloise?” Ian repeated.


“I guess you’ve never been an eight-year-
old
girl,” Sabrina
laughed. “Eloise was the most beloved guest of the Plaza Hotel.
She was six years old and lived in a suite with her nanny and her
dog, Weenie, and her turtle, Skipperdee. She got into all sorts of
trouble but she always managed to make things right. I looked for
her everywhere: at the Palm Court and in the Persian Room. I even
cajoled a butler into opening the Royal Suite to see if she was there.”


“You must have been irresistible if someone showed you the
Royal Suite. That’s reserved for kings and heads of state.”


She suddenly felt embarrassed. She had never talked about Eloise with a guy before. It was like admitting she liked rom-coms
or preferred a Snickers bar to imported chocolate.


“I didn’t find her because she lived in a book,” Sabrina finished
awkwardly.


“I’ve discovered some of my best friends in books,” Ian rejoined.
“Harry Potter of course, but also Pip in Great Expectations.
I wanted to be like Pip: street smart but with a heart of gold.”


“You read Dickens?”


“He was one of my favorite authors growing up, along with
John le Carré and Ian Fleming,” he admitted. “After I outgrew
Pip, I spent a few years wishing I was James Bond.”


Sabrina was about to say she had a copy of Dickens’s A Christmas
Carol in her room and stopped. She was at the Plaza to work,
not to flirt with strangers. Besides, any man who could afford to
stay at the Plaza probably dated corporate CEOs or high-powered
attorneys.


The screen on her phone blinked 1:30 a.m. She had to get
some sleep or she wouldn’t be alert in the morning.


“I really should go.” She stood up. “Thank you for the caviar.”


“I’ll go up with you,” Ian suggested. “If I stay here I might fall
asleep again and I’ll be in pain for days. Eight hours twisted like
a pretzel on the plane and then a sofa cushion for a neck pillow
instead of the down pillows they have in the suite.”


The lobby was deserted except for the concierge idling behind
his desk. The Christmas tree glittered under white chandeliers,
and Sabrina was reminded of the scene in The Nutcracker when
everyone had gone to bed and the toys had woken up and become
real.


“What floor are you on?” Ian asked when they stepped in the
elevator.

“Fifteenth floor, please.”


“It looks like we’re neighbors,” he said pleasantly.


Sabrina stood toward the back. The intimate mood in the
Rose Club—the
crushed velvet of the sofa under dimmed lighting,
the novelty of eating melba toast and caviar—evaporated,
and she felt self-conscious.
What had she been thinking, sharing a
meal with a stranger past midnight?


The elevator stopped and Ian took out his key. He turned to
Sabrina and held out his hand.

“It was nice meeting you, Sabrina.”
“It was nice meeting you too,” she answered. His hand was
warm and smooth and she wondered if she would see him again.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in New York.”


Sabrina put the key in her door and it clicked open.


“Sabrina,” Ian called from across the hall.


“Yes?”


“I think you’re wrong about Eloise. I guarantee that you’re the
most delightful guest the Plaza has ever had.”