Chapter 1
Beatrix
I stood in the middle of Heathrow Airport, surrounded by a sea of holiday travelers. I felt like the world’s biggest idiot. My eyes were puffy from crying, my hair was a disaster, and I was pretty sure I had mascara streaked down my cheeks. Real classy, Beatrix.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Vinsser. There are simply no flights available to the United States today.” The airline representative said, her polite smile barely masking her irritation. “It’s Thanksgiving weekend, you see.”
“I bloody well know it’s Thanksgiving!” I snapped, immediately regretting my outburst. It wasn’t her fault my life had imploded. I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Look, I don’t care where in the States. Anywhere. I just need to get out of here.”
She tapped away at her keyboard, brow furrowed in concentration. “Well, there is one option... a flight to Burlington, Vermont. It leaves in three hours.”
“Vermont?” I blinked. “Like, maple syrup and ski resorts? Vermont?”
“The very same,” she replied.
I hesitated for a moment. Vermont wasn’t exactly the glamorous California or Florida beaches under the sun I’d envisioned when I’d grabbed my passport and stormed out of my flat. But then again, I really wanted to get out of here.
“Fine,” I said, pulling out my credit card. “Book it.”
As she processed my ticket, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a wall mirror at the back. Christ, I looked rough. My normally sleek blonde hair was frizzy and tangled. My eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. I looked nothing like the polished actress the British public knew from countless rom-coms and period dramas.
Good. Maybe in Vermont, no one would recognize me.
The thought of anonymity was suddenly intoxicating. No paparazzi, no gossip rags speculating about my love life. No well-meaning fans asking for selfies while I was trying not to have a mental breakdown in the frozen foods aisle of a grocery store.
“Ms. Vinsser, your flight is confirmed,” the rep said, handing me my boarding pass. “Gate 27. And... may I say, I loved you in ‘Love Actually Works.’ Your scene with Hugh Armstrong was brilliant.”
I managed a weak smile. “Thanks. Though I think the dog stole the show in that one.”
As I walked away, I heard her mutter to her colleague, “Wonder why she looks so upset? Trouble in paradise with Eugenio, you think?”
I quickened my pace, fighting back a fresh wave of tears. If she only knew.
After three hours and one overpriced airport gin and tonic, I buckled into my seat. I stared out the window as the plane taxied down the runway.
My phone buzzed incessantly in my bag, but I ignored it. I knew who it was. Eugenio, probably, with some pathetic attempt at an explanation. Or my agent, wondering why I’d missed today’s scheduled photo shoot. Or worst of all, Maura, my supposed best friend, calling to apologize for shagging my boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend, I reminded myself bitterly.
As the plane lifted off, I closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry again. I’d done enough of that in the past 24 hours to last a lifetime.
It had all started yesterday afternoon. I’d come home early from a costume fitting, excited to surprise Eugenio. We’d both been so busy lately, barely seeing each other between his filming schedule and my press tour. I’d picked up a bottle of his favorite wine, planning a romantic night in.
Instead, I’d walked in to find him balls-deep in Maura on our kitchen counter.
The memory made me want to vomit and punch something. But instead, I signaled the flight attendant.
“Excuse me, could I get a vodka tonic, please? Actually, make it a double.”
She raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “Of course, Ms. Vinsser.”
Great. Even 30,000 feet in the air, I couldn’t escape recognition.
As I sipped my drink, I pulled out my phone and googled “Burlington, Vermont.” Might as well know what I was getting myself into. The images that popped up were like something out of a Christmas movie. Quaint storefronts decked out in twinkling lights. Snow-capped mountains in the background, people ice skating on a frozen pond…
It looked... nice. Peaceful. The complete opposite of my life in London.
On a whim, I searched for hotels in the area. Most hotels were fully booked for the holiday weekend, but I managed to find a room at a place called “The Snowy Owl Inn” in a town called... I squinted at the screen. Frostville? Seriously?
Well, it certainly sounded festive.
I booked it without a second thought, enjoying the idea of disappearing into a winter wonderland. Where no one would know my name or care about my relationship status.
As the drink hit my system, I felt myself relax for the first time in 24 hours. Maybe this impromptu trip wasn’t such a bad idea after all. A few weeks away from the spotlight, away from the constant reminders of Eugenio’s betrayal... it might be exactly what I needed.
I dozed off somewhere over the Atlantic, lulled by the hum of the engines and the alcohol in my system. When I woke, we were descending into Burlington International Airport.
The reality of what I’d done hit me as I stepped off the plane. I was in bloody Vermont, of all places. With nothing but a hastily packed carry-on and no proper plan beyond “hide from my problems in a small town.”
Brilliant strategy, Beatrix. Really top-notch thinking there.
I made my way through customs, grateful that the bored-looking agent didn’t seem to recognize me. As I emerged into the arrivals area, I was hit with a wall of holiday cheer. Garlands and fairy lights adorned every surface, and a massive Christmas tree dominated the center of the terminal.
“Welcome to Vermont!” a cheery voice called out. I turned to see a woman in a truly horrendous Christmas sweater handing out candy canes to arriving passengers. “Happy holidays!”
“Er, thanks,” I mumbled, accepting the candy cane mostly out of politeness. I hadn’t celebrated Christmas properly in years. It was always some industry party or another. More about networking than actual holiday spirit.
I made my way to the car rental counter, praying they’d have something available on such short notice. The clerk, a pimply-faced teenager who looked about twelve, eyed me skeptically.
“You sure you can handle driving in the snow, ma’am?” he asked.
I bristled at the “ma’am.” I was only 32, for Christ’s sake. “I’m quite capable, thank you,” I said, my posh accent coming out in full force.
He shrugged and handed me the keys to a sturdy-looking SUV. “Suit yourself. But be careful on those mountain roads. They can be treacherous this time of year.”
Treacherous mountain roads. Lovely. Just what I needed to cap off this stellar day.
As I navigated out of the airport parking lot, I pulled up the directions to Frostville on my phone. It was about an hour’s drive from Burlington, nestled in the Green Mountains. The sun was already setting.
I had to admit, it was beautiful. Fresh powdered snow covered the trees, and every so often I’d catch a glimpse of a farmhouse or a herd of deer in a field. It was like driving through a bloody Christmas card.
Then, a massive truck, horn blaring, came barreling around a curve. It shattered my peaceful admiration of the scenery. I swerved, narrowly avoiding a collision, and found myself fishtailing on a patch of black ice.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I cursed, gripping the steering wheel with as the SUV spun out of control. At that moment, all I could think about was how utterly ridiculous my obituary would be. “Beatrix Vinsser. Star of stage and screen, died in a car crash in bloody Vermont while fleeing a cheating boyfriend.”
Somehow, I managed to wrestle the vehicle back under control, coming to a stop on the shoulder of the road. My heart was pounding, and I was pretty sure I’d left fingernail marks on the steering wheel cover.
“Right,” I said out loud, trying to steady my breathing. “Note to self: Vermont driving is very different from London driving. And especially don’t drive on the wrong side of the road.”
I sat there for a few minutes, gathering my wits, before cautiously pulling back onto the road. This time, I kept my speed well below the limit, white-knuckling it the rest of the way to Frostville.
By the time I pulled into the town, night had fallen completely. But even in the darkness, I could tell this place was Christmas Central. Every lamppost was wrapped in garland. Every shop window glowed with warm light and festive displays. In the town square, an enormous Christmas tree rivaled the one I’d seen at Rockefeller Center last year.
The Snowy Owl Inn was easy to find. It was the largest building on Main Street, a sprawling Victorian mansion. As I parked and grabbed my bag, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d stepped into some kind of holiday-themed twilight zone.
The lobby was warm and inviting, all crackling fireplaces and overstuffed armchairs. A cheery old lady stood behind the desk.
“Welcome to the Snowy Owl!” she boomed as I approached. “You must be Ms. Vinsser. We don’t get many last-minute bookings this time of year.”
I tensed, waiting for the inevitable recognition, but it never came. She simply smiled warmly and handed me a key.
“You’re in room 12, up the stairs and to the right,” she said. “Breakfast is served from 7 to 10 in the morning. Oh, and you’re just in time for the tree-lighting ceremony tomorrow night! The whole town turns out for it. You won’t want to miss it.”
I nodded, not having the heart to tell her I had zero interest in the town festivities. All I wanted was a hot shower and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
As I trudged up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror hanging in the hallway. I looked... well, I looked like I’d been through hell, to be honest. My carefully cultivated image. The one that graced magazine covers and movie posters, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, I saw a woman with messy hair, smudged makeup, and eyes that looked far too old for her face.
For the first time in years, I saw the real Beatrix Vinsser. And I wasn’t sure I liked what I saw.
I unlocked the door to my room, dropping my bag unceremoniously on the floor. The room was cozy, with a four-poster bed and a window seat overlooking Main Street. Under normal circumstances, I might have found it charming. Tonight, I was just grateful I had somewhere to sleep.
As I was about to collapse onto the bed, my phone buzzed. Against my better judgment, I looked at the screen.
Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-two text messages. All from Eugenio.
With shaking hands, I opened the most recent one:
“Bea, please. Let me explain. It didn’t mean anything. I love you. Come home.”
I stared at the words until they blurred, feeling a fresh wave of pain wash over me. How many times had I heard those exact lines in scripts? How many times had I delivered them myself, in one tearful on-screen confession or another?
But this wasn’t a movie. This was my life. Eugenio’s betrayal wasn’t something that could be fixed with a grand gesture or a heartfelt monologue.
In a burst of anger, I hurled my phone across the bed, falling on the floor.
“Fuck you, Eugenio,” I said to the empty room, my voice breaking. “Fuck you, and fuck Maura, and fuck this whole bloody situation.”
I collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to change out of my travel-worn clothes. As I lay there, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, I felt the full weight of my impulsive decision settle over me.
What the hell was I doing?
But as I drifted off to sleep, one thought kept circling in my mind. At least here, in this quaint little Christmas town, I could just be Beatrix. Not the actress, not the girlfriend, not the tabloid fodder.
Just me.
And maybe that was exactly what I needed.
