One Enchanted Evening

1

Rosalie Crawford had always been certain in her beliefs. In her view of the world. From a young age, she’d known that things like true love and magic—the kind you’d find in fairy tales—weren’t real. They were the stuff of childhood fantasies, tales spun to amuse and entertain. They weren’t real life. She knew, because she’d experienced the realities of life up close and personal, and she’d seen no evidence whatsoever of true, lasting love, or magic. They were as real to her as Santa Claus, or the tooth fairy.

And yet, somehow, she’d ended up working for Carrie Clark, one of the world’s most famous singer-songwriters, who spent most of her time pouring her soul into songs about love and soulmates and bone-deep connections. As her head of PR, it was Rosalie’s job to not only market Carrie, but her songs. To make the world wish they could experience love the way Carrie sang about it.

And it was because of her job that she was on her way to a small town about ninety minutes north of New York City that was purportedly full of legends and magic and wishes for true love granted. Carrie had read about Gossamer Falls in a magazine, and had instantly swooned over the town’s magical reputation. Once the idea of filming a music video there had taken hold, it had been all but a foregone conclusion.

So, Rosalie was headed to Gossamer Falls to scout it out and find out if filming a music video there was even a possibility. Not exactly a PR job, but everyone on Carrie’s team had an official title that came with nebulous, constantly shifting duties. Rosalie didn’t mind, most of the time; it kept things interesting, as far as she was concerned, even if some of the things she was expected to do were a little below her paygrade.

She shifted uncomfortably, sliding against the too-warm leather seat in the borrowed sedan. She didn’t have her own vehicle, spending most of her time in Manhattan, where Carrie lived—when she wasn’t in Malibu, or Nashville, or London, or Paris. Glancing back and forth between the road and the sleek dash, she looked for the control for the heated seat. She needed to turn it down or off before she cooked herself. Even through her thick camel coat and jeans, her skin was becoming uncomfortably hot and prickly.

She jabbed at a few buttons, and the relief was almost instant when she found the right one. Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, she refocused her attention on the road ahead. She’d left Manhattan over an hour ago, which meant she should be arriving in Gossamer Falls in about ten minutes, give or take.

The sky had been clear and brilliantly sunny when she’d taken the keys from Trevor, one of Carrie’s business managers, but as she’d driven, thick, purplish gray clouds had blotted out the sun, darkening the sky. It was going to snow, and soon.

As if on cue, thick snowflakes started to fall from the sky, batting against the windshield like fluff, and she fumbled for the wipers, flicking them away. She slowed her speed, wondering if the car was fitted with winter tires.

She glanced at the in-dash navigation, watching for her exit. Through the swirling flakes, she spotted the sign for Gossamer Falls, flicked on her signal, and took the exit ramp from the 9D. The ramp curved gently, and she saw what looked like a bay to her left, although it was hard to tell through the curtain of white. With both hands on the wheel, she slowed to below the speed limit, squinting through the flakes as she made her way into the small town of Gossamer Falls, named for the famous waterfall just north in the Hudson Highlands.

Rosalie grinned as she slowed the car even further. Snow clung to the branches of the trees, frosting them with fluff. Following the GPS’s prompting, she carefully turned onto Chestnut Avenue, passing by a charming antique shop with a vintage Art Deco display in the glowing front window. A few pedestrians walked up and down the snowy sidewalks, flakes clinging to their knit hats and coats. Even though it was just past three o’clock—her meeting was at three-thirty—the street lights had already flickered to life, casting a gentle glow on the road and sidewalks. Snow fell softly but steadily from the sky, seeming to stick to everything it touched. Even though the city was less than two hours behind her, the snow here felt different. Gentler and cleaner, somehow. Maybe it was the way it didn’t instantly turn to gray slush the moment it landed on the streets or sidewalks.

She drove past cute boutiques with displays of cozy sweaters, and small restaurants, front windows quiet between lunch and dinner. She came to a slippery stop at the corner of Chestnut and Main, waiting to turn right onto Main as snow-dusted pedestrians crossed the street. Her gaze caught on another boutique, this one with a white and gold sign emblazoned with the name Wild Flower Clothing Co, the window display featuring chunky cardigans, delicate sweaters, plaid maxi skirts, and a sweater dress in an absolutely stunning shade of burgundy.

If she had time after her meeting, and the shop was still open, Rosalie was totally coming back here. If Rosalie had had to name a weakness—under duress, of course—she’d say clothing. She had a closet full to bursting back in her Manhattan apartment, full of elegant, glamorous, sophisticated clothes. Nothing made her feel more vibrant or alive—or successful—than pulling on a buttery soft cashmere sweater, or rolling on a pair of pure silk stockings. To boot, she had an extensive lingerie collection, and always wore a lacy, matching set under her clothing. Yes, it was superficial and materialistic and probably not the best use of her incredibly generous salary, but it made her happy.

Oh my God, that scarf, she said, leaning against the seatbelt, peering through the snow. And those boots. And those earmuffs! She made the kind of sound usually reserved for eating something delicious. Or sex.

She huffed out a breath at the thought of sex. It had been a while since anyone had seen her in that fancy lingerie she loved so much. Which was fine, because she wore it for herself and she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. She was never looking for a boyfriend. Casual flings were fine. Casual flings were fun and safe.

A horn tooted behind her, and she made her turn, not realizing she’d been holding up traffic.

Sorry, she said with a little grimace, holding her hand up in a wave as she turned onto Main. On her right, she spotted what looked like a coffee shop, and she briefly caught the scents of cinnamon and chocolate as she passed, wafting as if by magic through the car’s vents. Her mouth watered appreciatively, and she realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since her oatmeal that morning. Okay, she now had two stops to make after her meeting.

Hemlock Square, her destination, was ahead on the left, buildings with Tudor-style facades lining three sides of the square. She pulled into the small parking lot, crossing her fingers and toes that she’d find a spot. There was one left, right in front of the municipal building on the far-right side of the square. According to the website she’d consulted, it housed the tourism office where she was meeting her contact person, along with the small town’s city hall, municipal offices, a post office, a small courtroom, and the police station.

She parked, gathered her overflowing, oversized purse and stepped out of her car and into the gently drifting snow. Now that she was off the highway, the snow didn’t seem nearly so dangerous. The flakes were still thick, but fell in slow swirls before landing gracefully among the thickening carpet of white.

The municipal building was a three-story brownstone with triangular arches over the colonial-style windows, which were lined with empty flower baskets. The front door looked heavy, and was painted a bright, cheery red. Lights glowed from behind the windows. It looked like something out of a movie set, not an actual town hall in small-town upstate New York.

Carrie was going to flip over this place. Rosalie already knew it in her bones, and she hadn’t even seen the famed waterfall yet.

She made her way to the entrance, reaching for the door’s handle when it swung inward so suddenly that she stumbled slightly. A uniformed police officer stood on the other side, his phone pressed to his ear. He shot her a rueful smile, showing off a dimple in his left cheek, and then stepped back as he held the door for her, tipping his head to indicate that she should go ahead.

I’ll have to check the records to see what information we have. I’ll send you anything I find before the end of the day, he said, his voice pleasantly masculine.

She stepped inside, and their gazes collided. Gorgeous blue eyes pinned her in place, and her eyebrows inched up her forehead as unexpected heat pooled low in her belly.

Well, hello, officer. It was a fact that she was an absolute sucker for a man in uniform.

Then he winked and stepped through the door and out into the snow, not missing a beat in his phone conversation.

What in the Hallmark Channel is this place? she asked no one in particular, shaking her head slowly.

The lobby of the building was warm and cozy, with a set of leather furniture gathered around a fireplace in the far corner. A placard hung on the wall, listing all of the different offices and locations in the building. She scanned down the list, finding the tourism office, and set off down the hall, her boots clicking softly over the polished floor. At the very end of the hall on the first floor, she came to a door with a frosted glass window, vinyl letters declaring that she’d found the Gossamer Falls Tourism Office.

She checked her watch, noting that she was still a bit early, and she debated whether or not to wait in the lobby for ten more minutes or just knock. The decision was made for her when the door opened, revealing a tall woman in her early to mid-thirties—Rosalie’s age—in the midst of shrugging on a thick brown coat similar to Rosalie’s.

I’m sorry, I know I’m early— she started, but the woman cut her off with a shake of her head, snapping the door to the office shut behind her.

No, you’re perfect. It’s best if we leave now, before the snow starts to really come down. I’d hate for you to come out from the city and not even get the tour of the falls you were promised. My Jeep’s just out front. She wrapped a vibrant red scarf around her neck and then stuck out her hand. Indy Greer. I’m the manager of the tourism office here, among other things.

Thanks so much for taking the time to meet with me, said Rosalie, shaking the other woman’s hand. She was striking, tall and confident with dark hair and gleaming skin.

Of course! said Indy, rummaging through her purse and retrieving a set of keys as they walked back down the hallway. Honestly, we’re thrilled that someone as cool and famous as Carrie Clark has even heard of our little town. How did we end up on her radar? she asked with a slightly arched brow. She opened the building’s front door and held it open for Rosalie.

She saw an ad in a magazine, did some googling, and was intrigued. Not just by the scenery, but by the story surrounding the town.

They walked carefully down the snow-covered steps, taking their time. The snow was still falling steadily but gently from the sky, sticking to everything it touched. Indy inhaled and then turned to Rosalie, a smile lighting up her round face, emphasizing her wide mouth and high cheekbones. Snowflakes clung to her thick lashes, which framed her light green eyes.

Don’t you just love the smell of fresh snow? she asked. Rosalie blinked, sniffing tentatively at the air.

I wasn’t aware that snow had a smell, she said.

Close your eyes and breathe in.

Rosalie grinned. Indy was a little offbeat, but there was also something about her that Rosalie liked. So, she closed her eyes and inhaled, deeply and slowly. The air had a crispness to it, the cold air rushing into her lungs. I smell…pine, I think. And something clean and fresh that I can’t identify. Like…a cold forest. She opened her eyes to find Indy smiling at her.

Now you know what snow smells like. She tipped her head to the right. I’m just parked over here. And don’t worry, I’ve got snow tires on and all-wheel drive, so we should be fine. She peered up at the sky as they walked, Rosalie having to take two steps for every one of Indy’s wide strides just to keep up. Were you planning on driving back to the city?

Rosalie nodded. After our meeting, yes.

She glanced up at the sky again. I’d check the weather reports and 511 for road conditions before heading out. She unlocked a dark blue Jeep, tossing her bag into the back as she settled into the driver’s seat. Rosalie quickly scooted up into the passenger’s seat, glancing nervously at the sky.

2

Once Rosalie had buckled her seatbelt, Indy pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto Main, leaving Hemlock Square behind them. She adjusted the knob for the heater and then looked over at Rosalie. We have a great hotel in town, if you do decide to stay. It’s called the Shephard Inn, run by the Shephard family since the 1940’s. January’s usually fairly quiet, so I’m sure they have a room available.

I’ll keep that in mind, said Rosalie, eyes fixed on the cheerily glowing storefronts. What’s the population of Gossamer Falls?

Just over 2,300 at last count.

They drove slowly down Main, passing by shops and restaurants, and the coziest looking pub Rosalie had ever seen. It, like much of the town, looked like something out of a movie set, with its black lacquer façade and scrolling name in fancy gold serif. She sat back in her seat self-consciously when she realized she was practically pressing her face to the glass of the window. She wasn’t normally one for small towns—her favorite place on Earth was Paris, after all—but there was something about this one that appealed to her.

She pointed at the pub through the window as they passed. Pour Decisions is a fantastic name for a pub, she said, and Indy laughed.

If you decide to stay, you should wander over for a drink. It’s only about a ten-minute walk from the hotel. I highly recommend the spiked hot chocolate. The bartender even toasts the marshmallows on top with one of those little torch thingies.

I’m always game for anything that involves a little torch thingy, she said, her gaze still trained on the snow falling from the soft gray sky. They continued down Main, passing by a small, old-fashioned looking grocery store, a gas station, and signage for the train station. Indy turned right onto Foundry Bridge Road, her tires sliding slightly in the accumulating snow.

Is it…are we…are we crazy for going out to see the falls right now? asked Rosalie once her stomach had settled back down where it belonged, even though Indy didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed by the slippery roads.

She shrugged. I mean, maybe a little. But you came up from the city, and this is important. We’re talking about Carrie freaking Clark possibly coming to our town, after all. I’m under strict instructions to do everything in my power to make this happen. She exhaled, blowing a lock of errant hair out of her face. It’s just a little snow. It’ll be fine. I’m not putting your life in danger. I promise. But she eased off the gas a little as they wound their way out of the town and toward the Hudson Highlands. Snow-covered pine trees loomed ahead, looking like a fairy tale forest. The Hudson River churned to their left—the river almost never froze over completely—but the water was sluggish and slow. Rosalie shivered and snuggled into her coat.

How much do you know about the legend? asked Indy, two hands on the wheel, her eyes glued to the windshield and the snowy road ahead.

Not much, answered Rosalie honestly. Magic and fairy tales weren’t really her thing, so she’d avoided digging into the town’s allegedly magical history. Carrie read the story after hearing about the town, and she mentioned something about the falls and true love, which is totally up her alley. Carrie’s alley, not Rosalie’s. Definitely not.

Carrie. Ha! It’s so surreal to hear you talk about one of the most famous women in the world so casually. Honestly, a part of me can’t quite wrap my head around the idea that she might actually be coming to our town. God, I have so many questions I want to ask you, but in the name of professionalism and focusing on not sliding off the road, I won’t. She glanced over at Rosalie. Today, anyway.

Rosalie smiled, but truth be told, sometimes she got a little sick of answering questions about Carrie Clark. Sure, it was interesting that she worked for Carrie, but Rosalie often found her job title eclipsed everything else about herself. It felt hollow, sometimes.

Indy blew the same lock of sleek, dark hair out of her eyes again, and then continued. So, the legend is based on a famous short story published in the 1890s. It was written by a woman named Mary Elizabeth Axton, and it’s about a Civil War widow who visits the falls—just like Mary Elizabeth herself did—in an effort to escape her grief and get her feet back under her… At this, Indy trailed off for a moment and then cleared her throat. A-anyway, she visited the falls under the light of the full moon and felt as though her tears were being kissed away by angels. She felt soothed, hopeful, even. She felt as though the angels were grieving with her, and this healing energy opened her heart to the possibility of a new love. She paused again, and Rosalie had the feeling there was more she wasn’t saying.

She snorted softly after a moment. A new love. Right. Anyway, in the story, the widow meets a handsome doctor, and they’re engaged before the next full moon. She said the last part all in a rush, almost like ripping off a verbal Band-Aid. The legend surrounding the town grew from that story, and we transitioned from an industry town—there used to be a foundry on the edge of the bay, hence the name Foundry Bridge Road—to a tourist destination. People started coming to visit the falls, believing that if they were kissed by the mist under the light of the full moon, their true love would be revealed to them before the next full moon. The legend and its magic spread, and now we’re one of the top tourist destinations in the state.

Just then, they slid to a stop beside a small guardhouse with a snow-dusted placard that welcomed them to Gossamer Falls. Indy powered down her window, and a flurry of snowflakes gusted inside. The man inside the guardhouse slid open his window.

The hell you doing out here, Indy? It’s supposed to keep snowing all afternoon. Roads are gonna get worse, he said with an assured nod.

Clint, this is Rosalie, she said, tipping her head in Rosalie’s direction. She’s with Carrie Clark’s team.

The man’s bushy eyebrows rose, almost disappearing into his knit ski hat. Oh, Carrie Clark! Well, why didn’t you say so?

Just did, Clint, said Indy, glancing over at Rosalie and rolling her eyes slightly.

Right, right. Okay, head on in and use the main parking lot. Stick to the main paths, don’t go down near the creek. It’s frozen over, but you know how slippery those rocks get.

Indy saluted him. Will do. Thanks, pal. She powered her window back up. They drove down a narrow road, gravel and snow crunching beneath the Jeep’s tires, passing by wide, open areas that were currently covered in snow, but probably ideal picnic spots in warmer weather. Indy pulled the Jeep into a parking spot, cutting the ignition.

Well, here we are, she said, pushing open her door. Rosalie did the same, stepping out into the cold. Immediately, the sound of rushing water filled her ears. Towering pines soared up to the sky, clumps of white frosting the dark green branches.

It doesn’t freeze? Rosalie asked, following Indy down a gently sloping hill and to a wide, paved path that was thankfully cleared of snow and covered in a mixture of salt and sand.

She shook her head. The creek does, but the falls themselves don’t. They’re 215 feet tall, making Gossamer Falls taller than Niagara Falls. The force of the water prevents it from freezing.

They