by Kate Forster
‘I can’t remember the last time I was out in the country like this,’ she said as the path meandered down and a large hedge loomed before them.
‘Me neither,’ he said. ‘It’s good for us, don’t you think?’
She looked up at him. ‘I do.’ Her face was clear and bright. She didn’t have on any makeup, synthetic fillers, false eyelashes, or expectations. Ever since his divorce, certain types of women were the only ones who approached him. The ones looking for a rich husband who were everywhere in parts of California. Perhaps they were lovely but it was hard to see under the exterior they had created, thinking that’s what rich men wanted. Even his ex-wife had succumbed to fillers and Botox and eating next to nothing. It made him sad when he thought of her once-carefree face and attitude when they met before he became rich.
He found he suddenly wanted to kiss Christa, but then that would mean he’d be crossing boundaries and she would run away and that would be that. She was out most nights, probably seeing someone in town, he assumed. It made him wish he was something more than he was, so she would be interested in him, but she was not interested. She had made it clear she thought him shallow and silly at times. He saw her mouth part slightly and he leaned in a few millimetres.
‘Dad, Christa, Dad, come find us,’ he heard the twins yell, breaking the spell.
‘Where are you?’
‘In the maze. The first one to the centre is the winner; the last one to the centre has to bite their bum.’
Marc saw Christa run to the entrance and she turned to him before yelling into the maze, ‘Challenge accepted.’
Marc put the basket down where Bill was standing. ‘Do you mind looking after this?’
Without waiting for an answer, he stepped into the maze and looked ahead. There was a pathway surrounded by hedges, and all he knew was he had to find Christa who was somewhere inside the walls.
13
Christa walked through the maze, occasionally hearing the boys yelling out for each other or crowing like birds.
There was something eerie about the dense foliage and the scent of the rain from the night before that made her feel nervous but excited.
Marc was somewhere near. It thrilled her, like her own little private game.
She turned a corner and saw the leg of one the twins disappear ahead, then heard the crunch of gravel next to her behind the hedge.
She was silent and stopped walking. Was it a twin or was it Marc?
She started to walk again and turned right, coming to a dead end.
Why did she feel so nervous?
There was running and crowing from the inner part of maze while she turned right again and came to a small marble statue of some sort of goddess. Turning right again, she came to the fork in the paths. Which way?
She paused and then went right again. She had seen something on a television show years ago that if you ever wanted to get out of a maze, you had to keep turning in one direction. It could be right or left but to exit you had to stay committed to one direction.
She could hear the boys yelling. They were in the centre and she heard the sound of feet on the path next to her again.
Another fork and she waited.
To leave the maze she should turn right.
She turned left.
And there was Marc at a dead end.
She smiled at him, feeling her heart beating faster.
His gaze captured hers and he smiled in return. It was a lazy, sexy smile that she found truly knee-buckling.
‘Are you lost?’ he asked and she could have sworn he was flirting with her.
‘Nope, are you?’ She returned his sassy tone.
God they were flirting – so silly. Perhaps it was just in fun but Marc was looking at her in a way that she knew would get her into trouble.
‘Should I leave?’ she asked.
‘Please don’t,’ he said.
Christa thought about what the next few weeks would be like if anything happened with Marc. There was a flirtation but he was teasing her, like he probably did all women. Men like him could have supermodels, actresses, heiresses. She would be nothing more than a Christmas fling and she would still have to cook for him.
God no, she thought, and she laughed at him.
‘Last one to the centre has to bite the other’s bum, remember.’ She turned and walked in the opposite direction.
‘Christa.’ She heard him say her name but she kept walking towards the sound of the boys in the centre.
What would she have done if he’d kissed her? What if she had kissed him? What if she was mistaken? How embarrassing would it have been?
She worked for him. So many rules broken – it would have been a workplace disaster.
A phone rang and she heard him answer, saying Adam’s name. Saved by the bell, she thought as she finally came to the centre, finding the boys looking into a pond with little fish darting about.
‘There you are,’ she said.
‘Hey, I have to head back to the house – work emergency,’ Marc called.
‘Bye,’ yelled the boys but Christa said nothing. It was better that way, she decided.
Keep it strictly professional. That’s what she had always told the staff at Playfoot’s. She and Simon never showed affection in the kitchen at work. It was professional and respectful at all times. In hindsight they probably took it too far when they brought that energy home as well but it was done now.
Christa and the boys found their way out of the maze, using her one direction theory, to where Bill was sitting patiently on a bench with the picnic basket and Meredith the dog next to him.
‘Right, next stop please,’ said Christa wishing Marc was still there but also grateful he wasn’t. As they followed Bill through the garden, she began to think the conflicting feelings were a real pain.
Ahead was a large greenhouse, the glass shimmering in the sun.
‘A greenhouse,’ exclaimed Christa as they came closer. ‘It’s lovely.’
‘One of only three like this in the country,’ said Bill proudly. ‘It used to be heated by coal but Mr Ferrier got us some solar panels and some natural heat so we have all sorts of things growing inside.’
They walked through the greenhouse while Bill pointed out the ferns and the tropical plants, including pineapples and even an avocado tree that was bearing fruit.
After the greenhouse tour, they sat inside and ate the lemon cake Christa had made and drank cups of hot cocoa that she had packed in a thermos with cups.
‘This is the best time ever,’ said Seth, a little chocolate moustache giving him a look of Charlie Chaplin.
‘And Dad came and everything,’ said Ethan and Christa wondered how they could be happy with less than an hour of his time.
Her own father wasn’t a saint but when he became sober, he’d spent time with her. They went fishing, sometimes he would take her on bus trips to places she wasn’t familiar with, or they would go window-shopping in Bond Street just for fun. He would watch television with her or read the paper while she did her homework. His company was enough.
After they said their farewells to Bill and Meredith and promised to be back, they walked back to the house, where Christa could see Marc standing in the kitchen doorway watching their return.
She wondered what could have been so important that he had to leave them for Adam but she wouldn’t ask. She was setting up professional fences, she reminded herself as she kicked off her wellingtons and slipped on her sneakers.
‘Let me take the basket,’ he said, as the boys ran around to the front of the house.
‘All fine, I have it, said Christa with a firm smile and she pushed past Marc and into the kitchen.
‘It was a shame you didn’t stay. I saw your pineapples,’ she stated as she started to unpack the basket onto the bench.
‘My what?’
Christa laughed. ‘The greenhouse has pineapples and avocados.’
Marc looked guilty. ‘I don’t see Bill’s work enough.’
>
Christa said nothing as she tipped the remaining cocoa down the sink.
‘Do you think I am a total idiot, a spoiled man who doesn’t know what he has?’
Christa rinsed out the thermos. ‘I don’t think anything about your decisions,’ she lied.
She heard Marc pull out a chair and sit at the table. She wished he would go away. He was distracting her and she needed to think about what was for dinner and if she should go into town for eggs.
‘I told Adam to ask Paul to get some eggs when he was in town, as I saw we were out,’ Marc said.
Dammit, he was thoughtful and observant at times. Then she remembered he was moody and quick to judge. Had Simon set the bar so low that she was impressed by even the slightest act of service?
‘Thank you. I was going to get some, but that’s good of you to organise,’ she said.
Christa opened the fridge and saw all the food going to waste and it annoyed her so much, thinking of the children at the food bus the night before.
‘There is a lot of food here that’s going to go to waste,’ she said. ‘I need to cook with it or else it will have to go in the rubbish.’
Marc wasn’t listening. He was staring at his phone.
‘Perhaps I could donate it to a food kitchen or something?’ she said, as though the idea had just come to her.
Marc didn’t look up. ‘Fine, sounds great. I have to find Adam. Issue with work.’
He stood up, still looking at his phone and left the kitchen, while Christa watched him go.
She had told him. He had agreed. While she wasn’t completely sure if he had actually heard her or not, he had given her permission to cook the food and that was enough for now.
14
The next day Christa swung open the garden gate outside Petey’s house with her foot, while carrying some potato and leek soup from Bill’s harvest and some fresh soft white rolls she had made that afternoon.
She knocked at the door of the plain little house and waited.
Zane had given her Petey’s address somewhat reluctantly but she promised she wasn’t up to anything more sinister than trying to give the older man something nourishing to eat while he was ill.
The door opened a little and she saw Petey’s face.
‘Christa,’ he exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Zane said you were sick, so I have some soup and bread and maybe a slice of chocolate cake. If you’re hungry, of course, or you have it later when you’re feeling better.’
Petey opened the door wider. ‘Come in, come in. I could eat an oven door if it were buttered,’ he said, his lilting accent making her smile.
Christa followed him into the warm house and down to the kitchen, which was neat as a pin.
There were signs of a female’s touch in the house, with tea towels and oven mitts matching the yellow gingham curtains on the window above the sink.
‘What a pretty kitchen,’ she said, as she placed the bag of food onto the table.
‘Oh, that’s my Annie’s doing, she was always good at the things to make a house a home,’ he said as she sat down at the table with a sigh. His head still sounded as though it was filled with cold and he had a slight rasp to his voice.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Christa said quietly.
‘She’s been gone a few years now. Cancer, terrible thing. She started making the fudge and did so well. All her recipes are the ones I still use today.’
He shook his head as though trying to remove the memories. ‘Want a brew? I can make a pot.’
‘Only if I make it. Now let me get this soup warmed for you and the bread buttered so the oven door is safe and then we can chat.’
Christa busied herself and soon Petey was eating his soup, giving a running commentary on the taste, the flavour, the viscosity. He raptured over the softness of the rolls and then finished his symphony of compliments with a rondo about the chocolate cake with the strong tea.
‘You must have been a very good cook in London,’ said Petey. ‘Your little place must have been the place for everyone to go.’
Christa smiled. Usually she corrected people when they called her a cook because it was meant as a put-down but Petey’s comment couldn’t be further from that.
‘I did okay,’ she said. ‘I ran it with my ex-husband, although he got most of the glory.’ She scoffed thinking of Simon’s excitement every time he was mentioned in a review.
‘Men always do,’ Petey replied. ‘Even with my Annie’s recipes, and her name on the label, people still think it’s all me. I stopped correcting them because then I have to tell them she died and that just makes me sad.’
Christa nodded.
‘I understand. My dad didn’t like to talk to people about my mum after she died.’
‘So what are you going to do when you’ve finished cooking for the fancy man on the hill?’
Christa was surprised he cared but they had connected when they worked at the food van and at the market the way old souls do. Seeing the same values in one another about food, and compassion and doing what you can with what you have.
She thought for a moment. ‘I think I want to open a place for people to come and eat for nothing. A free restaurant.’ She laughed. ‘Which goes against everything I worked for in London.’
Petey thought for a moment. ‘So they don’t pay nowt?’
‘Nowt, nothing, nada,’ confirmed Christa. ‘But with good food. Nourishing food to help people’s bodies and minds, not just sugary stuff donated, you know? I mean it’s nice of companies and businesses to give it away but there’s nothing in it to help the body. You need to balance it, you know?’
Petey nodded. ‘Like this meal you make. Who wouldn’t be happy after such a feast?’
‘You are too sweet, Petey. Honestly, all these compliments will go to my head.’
She washed up the dishes and put them away according to Petey’s instructions.
‘Who is making the fudge for you, Petey?’ she asked. ‘Are you having a market stall this weekend?’
‘I haven’t made any,’ he said. ‘I might not head down this weekend – a bit cold. The air makes me cough.’
‘You don’t have anyone to help?’ she asked, wondering if he had children or grandchildren.
‘No, it’s just me. Annie and I weren’t blessed with littluns. Shame, too, would have been nice to have a bit of company now and then as I get on.’
Christa nodded sympathetically. ‘Who do you spend Christmas with, Petey?’
‘I help out with the van,’ he said. ‘It’s fine. I like to help out, keeps me mind off my worries.’
Christa wished she could ease his loneliness and the loneliness of every other isolated person in the world. She knew what it was like to be lonely even when in a marriage.
‘I would love to do a big Christmas lunch for families or people without families who were struggling or needed company. I would make beautiful turkeys and hams and vegetables and salads. And delicious fruits with puddings and cakes for a treat.’
Christa closed her eyes. ‘I can see the space. Tall ceilings with individual tables of different sizes. I would have tablecloths, because we all deserve tablecloths and nice cutlery. And there would be Christmas crackers and presents for the children and little packs of sensible things for people like toothbrushes and toothpaste and some vouchers and things people need and use. I think about giving cooking lessons for people, teaching them how to shop and buy smart at the supermarket, making things go further and make them healthy.’
She opened her eyes to see Petey grinning at her.
‘You know, you should look at the old pub on The Street. It’s a grand place and hasn’t had anyone in it for a year or so now. Pop by when you’re on your way back today. I’ll draw you a map.’
Petey pulled out a pad of paper and pen from a drawer behind her and drew a map of the streets from his house to the empty pub, describing each turn carefully and drawing little arrows on the paper. Finally, he finis
hed and he pushed it over to Christa.
‘Go on, have a look and let me know.’
‘Even if it’s perfect, I can’t make something like that happen on my own. I’m not a social worker and haven’t ever run a charity. I wouldn’t know what to do. It’s just a dream really.’
Petey crossed his arms, his face worn, but with a warm expression.
‘Everything is a dream to start with. When Annie started making fudge she never imagined she would one day have a stall at Shambles, and yet we did. You can do if you think about it the right way.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked.
‘By thinking about why you want to do it. Annie wanted to sell fudge because she said everyone deserved a little treat. It wasn’t about making money. I used to be a delivery man but eventually I gave up my job to help her. And that worked because I wanted to help her. If the reason is the right one, then it will happen. I’m not a rich man but Annie’s and my success means I don’t have to work but I like to. I like to meet people, people like you.’
Christa held his hand and squeezed it. ‘You’re a lovely man, Petey, really. You remind me of all the good parts of my dad.’
‘Then he must have been a fine fella to have a lass like you.’ She saw his blue eyes glisten a little as he spoke. ‘Now get out of here and let an old man have a nap. Don’t you have a pub to inspect?’
15
Pudding Hall was becoming more festive under Paul’s command. Even Peggy acquiesced to his vision, particularly after she saw the wonderful way he had used the holly and ivy and armfuls of spruce draped along the bannisters.
Ethan was filming every moment of the decorating of Pudding Hall, asking Paul about his vision and process, which Marc though was hilarious but which Ethan took very seriously.
But somehow Marc still had the feeling something was missing.
It was as though he had given the nod to the spirit of Christmas and it arrived in all its glory, throwing the front doors of Pudding Hall open and blowing magic everywhere and over everyone except Marc.
He couldn’t understand why he felt so indifferent about the whole event. Granted he didn’t have the general dislike he usually felt around this time of year but there was still a sense of distance from the excitement brewing in the house. He stood in the foyer of the house looking at the tree, splendidly dressed in all the silver and gold and red and green. The scent of the pine tickled his nose and he could hear the children chatting like magpies down the hall in the kitchen. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he let himself feel it all? Enjoy it? He had worked for it and yet he was being a Grinch more often than not.
