One Winter’s Day: A feel-good winter romance Read online

  One Winter’s Day

  A feel-good winter romance

  Laura Briggs

  Also by Laura Briggs

  One Day Like This

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  One Day Like This

  Hear More From Laura

  Also by Laura Briggs

  A Letter from Laura

  For Jacquelyn,

  who loved the wintertime

  and especially loved the snow.

  One

  Ama sifted flour into her bowl, sending a cloud of it airborne, scented sweetly with cinnamon and cloves. Her first autumn treat of the year, from her online side business Sweetheart Treats to its latest customer—a batch of miniature spice loaves, to be decorated with an apple glaze, each one boxed as a gift for attendees of a fundraiser.

  Unlike the loud atmosphere of her family’s restaurant the Tandoori Tiger, the kitchen at Wedding Belles, the Southern event planning firm where Ama now worked alongside her friends Tessa and Natalie, was quiet, except for the sound from Ama’s laptop, which was playing a DVD of Bride and Prejudice. It had just reached the wacky musical number devoted to Mr. Collins’s marital quest as Ama slipped her wet ingredients into the flour’s well.

  This was the only Bollywood film that Ama truly loved—she enjoyed a few others, but she wasn’t as big a fan of them as her mother and auntie, who were positively diehard viewers. They adored the musical sequences and even liked the more outrageous stunts of the late-night Indian action flicks. Sometimes Ama would watch these with them, paging through a cookbook as she enjoyed the sound of her family’s laughter at the onscreen antics. But she wasn’t big on action films herself, and when it came to love stories, Ama had one very specific rule: the more impossible the romance the better.

  That was probably why the stack of DVDs that entertained her as she stirred her latest batch of cookies for a birthday party included Serendipity, While You Were Sleeping, and a few Hallmark Christmas movies she had sneaked from her sister Rasha’s collection. Movies with mismatched protagonists and star-crossed lovers were a must for someone with Ama’s romantic ideals, and the Bollywood favorite she was watching right now was a perfect fit.

  Designer cookies with a pumpkin-vanilla glaze… and was it mini chrysanthemums she was painting on them, or foxtail feathering? She searched through her sketches to refresh her memory, sliding aside her latest wedding-cake designs. There was her favorite of them all, the Birds of Paradise cake that she still hadn’t found the perfect customer to appreciate.

  What about herself? Fat chance of that. Ama laughed at the idea of finding anybody to fall in love with her—unless her auntie forced on her some matrimonially desperate boy she met at the laundromat, for example. But as for love at first sight sweeping her away and making her dream of a lifelong future with someone come true… she would probably find a customer for this cake long before then.

  Love at first sight. A first kiss under the stars. A glance from across the room that forms an instant connection and changes everything in the world. Ama would take any of these scenarios, or any alternative that was completely magical and spontaneous. In short, anything but a sensible match with someone carefully screened by her overly protective family. If he was on an Indian matchmaker’s dating site, if he thought you could find your lifelong mate through traditional channels of matrimonial ads, he wasn’t the boy for her.

  Mr. Darcy and Lizzy’s story was onscreen again. Ama turned up the volume and propped her chin on both hands for this part, smiling as she watched. This was the only way that two unlikely matches could or should ever come together, and that’s what she loved about it.

  Two

  Natalie’s black pencil brushed over her latest design sketch with quick, feathery strokes, deepening the shadows of the chocolate brown halter gown, which Natalie envisioned embroidered with a gold and green vine decorating the left half of the neck strap and bodice. Perfect for an autumn charity ball or an office Christmas formal, she thought. Now, if she could just convince someone else of that, too.

  Her own outfit was an advertisement for her skills both as a designer and as a seamstress: a sheer, silky peasant-style blouse with fitted wrists and open elbows and shoulder slits that let a glimpse of skin be seen. Flowers were hand-embroidered along its wide scoop collar, held closed by a couple of pearl buttons—a dressy twist with her casual suede skirt and vintage straw platform sandals with brown ankle laces. She’d tried to sell the blouse once in her former boss Kandace’s shop, but it had ended up being buried behind a line of black vinyl capes her boss had designed—deliberately hidden there, Natalie knew, behind the shop’s least successful item at the time.

  At least she was getting some use out of it now—and a few compliments to boot. She reflected on this as she sipped her cappuccino in the little coffee bar close to the university where she studied part-time for her degrees in fashion design and business. This was the urban district of Bellegrove, the Southern city that managed to capture small-town heart in the historic homes and quaint little boutiques that outnumbered the modern business complexes at the heart of its business quarter. Even a modern street like this one bore hints of the city’s old-fashioned charm, from the magnolias and dogwoods on the cafe’s wall mural to the soul-food joint on the corner, and the flyers for this weekend’s ‘Merry Christmas, Baby’ blues concert in the park.

  Lots of other students were at the coffee bar today—most of them younger than Natalie, who had spent her college years working in her family’s Italian bakery—and she loved the vibrant atmosphere as much as they did. Including the extremely cute teacher’s aide who had just walked in.

  “Earth to Natalie. Tell me those brain cells are totally focused on the pad in front of you,” said Cal, her former coworker, who had just rejoined her with his skinny latte and a low-fat soy seaweed cookie. They’d worked together at Kandace’s Kreations—a horrible fashion boutique—until last summer, and had remained great friends.

  “Ew. You’re eating that?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “I’m trying to be good. I’ve been bingeing on chocolate for two weeks straight, since Kandace is working us like her personal slaves to finish autumn inventory. I have never sewn soooo many hideous orange-patched flannel shirts in all my life.” He opened a packet of sugar substitute and sprinkled it over his coffee and the dry-looking seaweed cookie, making a face as he took a bite.

  “Is she that behind in production? What about the fashion show?” Natalie asked. The December fashion revue was only a few weeks away, and most of the city’s major designers wanted their creations to parade down its runway for the sheer prestige, not to mention the publicity in the local fashion journal.

  “There’s no way we’ll have her winter fashions completed in time, so Kandace won’t have a thing to do except sneer at the competition,” said Cal. “But I thought maybe a certain someone might finally be contributing something?” he hinted.

  Natalie closed her sketchbook. “Uh
-uh,” she said. “I’ve sewn one dress for my personal collection, and that’s it. If I go, it’s strictly to network.” Her last two dresses had been wedding gowns—not her most brilliant creations, but the important part was the exposure. Her name was on the labels worn by those brides, and it was all thanks to her friend Tessa’s idea for Bellegrove’s most unconventional and unique wedding planning firm. Known as Wedding Belles, it was more or less a ‘one-stop shop’ for would-be brides, providing everything for their big day from the cake to the gown, and anything in between. It was run by three girls, three genuine artists dedicated to providing the perfect day’s most crucial pieces, as Tessa would put it. Ama handled the cakes and all things catering, Natalie designed and consulted on bridal couture, and Tessa… well, she was in charge of everything else.

  “You are going, though?” persisted Cal about the fashion show. “Say yes, Nat, please. It’ll be totally unbearable if it’s just me and Tony and Celia hanging out together, commiserating about the horrors of Kandace’s Kreations.”

  Until this year, Natalie had always played the part of faithful assistant to the boutique in question, accepting Kandace’s tongue-lashing with the best grace she could muster as she struggled to solve the designer’s last-minute fashion emergencies. But not anymore, and for that, Natalie was immensely thankful. No standing by and smiling—or rather, biting her tongue and trying not to roll her eyes—as Kandace savaged the more talented competition in the show or clung fawningly to the few critics who took her work seriously.

  “I’ll be there, probably,” she reassured Cal. “Providing I’m not working or anything. Here—I even printed some business cards to hand out. You know, so I could look professional?”

  She pulled a few from her billfold and held one out to Cal. She’d printed them herself a couple of days ago. Natalie Grenaldi. Simple, Chic, Timeless Designs. A little black pencil silhouette of a girl in a fashion gown to one side, copied from one of Natalie’s own sketches.

  “Yay! You used my words for this card,” said Cal. “I’m flattered, truly. Can I keep one?”

  “Keep a dozen,” said Natalie. “Just not where Kandace can see them lying around, all right?”

  “Are you still afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West?” said Cal. “You’re her ex-employee, Natalie. You don’t owe her any loyalty, so you don’t need to tiptoe past her when it comes to your career.”

  “Maybe,” said Natalie vaguely. Kandace wouldn’t be understanding, to put it mildly. For all her ex-boss’s mean remarks about her designs, Kandace was more than a little bit jealous of anybody’s talent. Anybody, even a nobody whose dresses had only publicly graced herself, her family and friends, and a few bridal parties thus far.

  “So, big plans for the weekend?” Cal sipped his latte, knowing for Natalie that plans meant only two things—either she was participating in one of the Grenaldis’ endless Italian traditions of family gatherings or baking for a living, or yet another of Natalie’s casual, fun, and flirtatious encounters had asked her out.

  “Nothing too big,” said Natalie. “Jake and I aren’t seeing each other these days. I decided he’s more interested in sunbathing beauties on the beach than me.”

  “Oooh, too bad. It’s his loss. He totally doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll be a little more careful before I say yes to the next surfer. Try to avoid anybody who plans to stab my heart or my pride.” Not that Jake had been anything special, but they had dated longer than most of Natalie’s relationships lasted. She had found him fun and loved spending time with him… until he revealed the feeling was not mutual, that is. Natalie’s openness when it came to romance did not extend to being someone’s last-minute date of desperation after another girl said no.

  “Someone better will come along,” said Cal sympathetically. “A girl as gorgeous as you can’t stay single. It’s a crime.” He took another bite of his soy cookie, then abandoned it. “I can’t. I just can’t,” he muttered with a sigh.

  “Tell my mother that I’m a viable commodity,” said Natalie. “She thinks I’m almost over the hill, and I still haven’t found a steady boyfriend who would make a great father for her eight imaginary grandchildren.”

  “Eight grandchildren?”

  “She’s Italian,” said Natalie. “What can I say?” She took another sip of her coffee and flipped open her sketchbook, finding herself mulling over Cal’s hints about the December fashion revue. What would it be like to see her designs in a runway show? It would be exciting… and way braver than anything Natalie had ever done, since her first official dress sale had been this summer.

  Natalie Grenaldi, fashion designer. Her own label, her own fashion house. A much bigger dream than even this first step as Natalie Grenaldi, fashion consultant and designer for the Wedding Belles.

  “Plans for Thanksgiving?” asked Cal. “If you want, you can join the rest of the gang—Marcel’s making a tofu turkey and his famous cranberry stuffing, then we’re decking the halls at Sadie’s apartment with some totally kitschy holiday ornaments she bought last week at a basement sale.”

  “And have my mother kill me for skipping her dinner? Not on your life.”

  Three

  At the Wedding Belles’ headquarters in the historic downtown of Bellegrove, proof of success, albeit modest success, adorned its walls. Tessa had photographs from all four of their wedding clients framed as big black-and-white images in the foyer. Paolo and Molly looked joyful beneath the shower of petals from the ornate fire escape balconies above, while another smiling couple, Tim and Reese, were posed beside one of Ama’s cakes, decorated with delicate gilded candy butterflies.

  An impromptu snap from their last wedding featured the newlyweds beneath a beautiful canopy of autumn leaves drifting on the wind, which Tessa had just finished hanging in the foyer. She climbed down from her ladder and inspected it with a smile of approval.

  “Perfect,” she said. “Ama, move the one of Kelly and Clark a little to the left, will you? It’s a tiny bit crooked.”

  Ama nudged it slightly to one side. “Better?’ she asked. “You know, I only have a couple more minutes to help before those cupcakes are ready.” She pointed to her wristwatch timer.

  “I know. I’ll be done before then, I promise,” said Tessa, biting her lip. “Maybe I should have an extra one printed and framed of Kelly and Clark’s cake.”

  “Maybe we should just find another client,” said Natalie wryly. She had just entered the foyer, her class satchel filled with business and fashion textbooks slung over her shoulder.

  “We will,” said Tessa. “New businesses always have a tiny slump right after their initial success. It’s a proven fact. Look it up in your textbook if you don’t believe me.”

  Natalie rolled her eyes. “I think we’re getting mown down by Weddings ’R’ Ours a couple of streets down,” she said gently. “They’ve got the edge right now, Tess. They plan birthday parties and retirement dinners on the side. And our word-of-mouth theory hasn’t exactly paid off with hoards of clients.”

  Their last official wedding had been John and Ella in the first week of October: a local apple orchard with straw bales for seats, and a weathered two-story barn rental space on the grounds for the reception, with smoked brisket, homemade rolls, and a local vineyard’s wine selection on hand. Ama had created a spice cake with caramelized apples between layers, naked sides, and simple candy-glass leaves for the top ornament. The bride had worn a plain but elegant white dress with a pink sash, her smile radiant in the large sepia-tinted photograph that hung among the display on Wedding Belles’ wall: an image of the bride walking down the autumn leaf-strewn aisle.

  Since then, a handful of customers had ordered baked goods from Ama’s side of the business, including the latest batch of cupcakes for a wedding shower, and Tessa’s services had been tapped for planning a surprise last-minute engagement party for a nearby restaurant owner. But an event for all three of them? A full-size event that would help th
em stay competitive? Not for six weeks now. Long enough that they couldn’t help but feel a little nervous that four clients simply hadn’t been enough to put them on the map.

  “I know,” said Tessa. “Relax. I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” said Ama. “For getting more clients? Are we putting a trapdoor in the walkway outside?” she joked.

  “No, we’re getting a billboard,” said Tessa. “Look. There’s one available on the main bypass to the heart of the business district.” She opened today’s paper to the ads section and showed them the notice: Billboard for rent, prime location, reasonable payment plan. A telephone number was printed at the bottom.

  “Tess, those billboards cost a fortune,” said Natalie. “You do remember that we’re still paying off this decrepit old building, right? Which would you rather have—a nice billboard or heat in your new digs this winter?”

  She was referring to Tessa’s two private rooms upstairs, where the wedding planner had taken up residence in order to concentrate all her earnings into the Wedding Belles’ headquarters and business. Even if it meant giving up her privacy and the guarantee of a washroom with running water at all times, luxuries that this building did not offer its only full-time resident.

  “We won’t have to worry about either one if we don’t have more clients, right?” retorted Tessa. “I called the rental company that owns the space and it’s not that bad, Natalie. Here’s the cost proposal, and here’s the design I had in mind. I sort of doodled it last night while watching reruns of Rich Bride, Poor Bride.” She handed both women a sheet with the little sketch on it, and the quote from the billboard’s owners.