A Yorkshire Christmas Quotes

“magical holiday. She skimmed the article, her mouth turning down as she read about how scented candles created a mood, and she should buy wrapping paper during the sales after the holidays and save it for the next year. How to make sauce from fresh cranberries, and how mashed potatoes with skimmed milk and olive oil spread were delicious and low calorie. A well-decorated table, using fresh evergreen and holly, could, apparently, make all the difference. Claire didn’t read past the first ten tips to a perfect Christmas. She’d read enough, and”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas

“would not be joining the family festivities at their six-thousand-square-foot home in Greenwich, Connecticut. Claire’s sister Abby would be going, of course, with her perfect husband Andrew and her two perfect children, four-year-old Andrew Junior, nicknamed Drew Drew, and six-year-old Skylar. Claire could picture them now; Drew Drew in his Rachel Riley polo shirt and crisp khakis, Skylar in Lily Pulitzer. The beautiful, perfect family, poster children for prosperity and happiness. Claire didn’t want to be around all the glossy perfection, not when she fell so short of the mark. So, she’d hole up in Ledstow, in Yorkshire, reading books and marking essays, enjoying the luxuries of solitude and quiet, a bottle of wine, and a roaring fire. It sounded like bliss. It also sounded like”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas

“agency, where she’d filled seemingly endless paperwork despite all the forms she’d already filled out online, and was now in proud possession of the keys to a Honda Civic. It was nine o’clock in the morning, and the sky outside was as gray as pewter, with mean little flakes of snow, not the fluffy, festive kind, drifting down on a muted grey landscape of concrete and leafless trees. Claire dumped her bag in the trunk—or the boot, she supposed, someone in England would call it. Claire had always loved her godmother Ruth’s English accent, and when she was a kid she’d quizzed Ruth on all the different British words. Pavement for sidewalk. Jumper for sweater. Rubber for eraser. The last one, of course, had caused eleven-year-old Claire to burst into muffled giggles of embarrassment and mirth. Ruth had just smiled, her eyes twinkling, sharing the admittedly immature joke. Slowly, very conscious she was driving on the other side of the road, Claire pulled onto the road, and then followed signs for the M62 and York. An hour and a half later, those mean little flakes of snow had turned thick and fluffy and white. They were beautiful, but her little car was not handling the snowy roads all that”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas

“So, she’d hole up in Ledstow, in Yorkshire, reading books and marking essays, enjoying the luxuries of solitude and quiet, a bottle of wine, and a roaring fire.”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas

“drinking that Kool-Aid again. Not in a million years. And in any case, they’d known each other for about five minutes. She was ridiculous to be thinking of anything with Noah Bradford, even in the negative. He was a helpful stranger, nothing more. Noah paid for his groceries, his expression grim, and they walked out in silence back to the Land Rover. Claire thought she could piece enough of the story together from Noah’s phone call; his ex had asked him to take care of their daughter unexpectedly, for Christmas. His terse words echoed through her mind. ‘It’s Christmas, Dani. It’s an important”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas

“Sighing, she shifted restlessly in her seat. Her eyes felt gritty and hot, and her muscles ached with fatigue. She glanced down at her carry-on canvas bag, filled with final exams she needed to mark before she returned to her position as history teacher at Stirling Academy for Girls on Manhattan’s rarefied Upper East Side. She couldn’t face the exams yet and so she looked away, stabbing the button to power up the little screen installed in the back of the seat in front of her. Endless entertainment was what she needed.”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas

“scruff of the sheep’s neck, the dog by his heels. “Need a hand?” He stretched a hand out which Claire grabbed gratefully. She clambered up the ditch alongside him, until they were all standing, man, woman, dog, and sheep, at the edge of a snowy field without a house or building in sight. “Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff. “I couldn’t have got her out on my own.” He nodded towards her boots. “You’re soaked.”
― Kate Hewitt, A Yorkshire Christmas