by Clare Lydon
Ruby rested her head on her mum’s shoulder and sighed. “I know that. But I like coming back for the whole of December. It wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t. I love working at the farm.” She wasn’t lying. But it did put a strain on her every year.
“We’re not saying don’t come home. But we can hire extra help if you need to be elsewhere.” Her mum kissed the top of Ruby’s head and squeezed her waist. “Just think about it, okay? You could simply come home for Christmas like normal people.”
Ruby laughed, straightening up. “We’ve never been normal people. But I’ll think about it. I’m still coming back this December, but maybe next year might be different? Let’s see what happens.” It would mean she could really focus on her career and push things forward. Which was all kinds of scary.
Her dad nodded. “We just want you to have the best run at making it as a singer. The years slip by so quickly. We don’t want to stop you fulfilling your dreams.”
Ruby shook her head, her heart warmed through. Her parents’ support and belief in her singing talent had never wavered. Even when Ruby had often felt like throwing in the towel herself. She leaned down and kissed her dad’s bald head. “I know that, and I appreciate it.”
Her dad grinned up at her. “Don’t go getting all sappy, I have enough of that from your mother.”
Ruby and her mum guffawed. They both knew her dad was the sappiest of them all.
They all sat and sipped their tea. Ruby grabbed a biscuit, too. When she tasted it, she closed her eyes. Her mum’s baking was always divine.
Chipper, their golden Labrador, stuck his head up from under the table. His sixth sense that food was on offer was notorious. He put his soft head between Ruby’s legs and she ruffled him under his ears, just the way he liked it.
“I love you Chipper, but you’re not getting a crumb of this biscuit,” Ruby told him.
“Besides making home-made crackers—”
“Call them artisan,” Ruby interrupted.
Mum frowned. “Arty-what-now?”
Chipper barked as Ruby stopped petting him. She began again.
He dribbled on her thigh as a thank you.
“Artisan. It’s the new way of saying home-made. Sounds posher. You can charge more.”
Ruby had Mum’s attention now. Mum grabbed her phone and made a note. “Good job you live in London and know these things, isn’t it, Paul?”
Dad nodded. “We’d have no idea, that’s for sure. Although maybe Michael and Dale might.”
“Anyway,” Mum interrupted. She gave Dad a stern look. “Besides artisan crackers, the other big news in the village is that the new owners of Hollybush Cottage have finally moved in. They’re called Michael and Dale.”
Hollybush Cottage was next door to her parents’ farm. Sort of on it if you were going to be picky. When Mistletoe Christmas Tree Farm had been going through a lean patch around ten years ago, Mum had the bright idea of portioning off a section of the land and renovating one of the outbuildings into a three-bedroom home.
“Are they nice?”
Mum nodded. “Very.” She leaned in closer. “And gay.” She whispered those two words as if Michael and Dale might hear if she spoke any louder.
Ruby smiled. Cool as her parents were, sometimes she forgot they still lived in sleepy Suffolk. Although having a lesbian daughter put them ahead of most. “It’s about time our little hamlet of Mistletoe had a bit of male gay in the mix, isn’t it? Sue and Penny will be pleased the spotlight’s off them.”
Chipper huffed at her.
Ruby ruffled his fur. “I know, you’re a gay male, I’m not leaving you out.”
Dad snorted. “I dunno. Sue and Penny revel in the spotlight. Their noses might be put out of joint now they’ve got competition.”
“Anyway, Michael and Dale are lovely; I met them the other day.” Mum brushed the front of her pale pink jumper. “Their daughter’s visiting from London, so I told them to come over for a glass of wine. I thought it’d be nice, as you’re here from London, too. Make her feel more at home.”
Ruby’s stomach dropped. She’d been looking forward to the opening night of Strictly Come Dancing and a glass of wine in front of the fire, not making small talk with strangers. Then she frowned. Did her mum have an ulterior motive? “Are you trying to set me up again? Apart from anything else, just because Michael and Dale are gay, it doesn’t mean their daughter is, too.”
“I know that!”
Mum sounded hurt. But Ruby would bet money that had been her logic.
“I just thought you’re both from London. They lived in Surrey before, so coming to Mistletoe is a bit of a change.”
“I’ll say.” Mistletoe wasn’t so much a Suffolk village, it was more a hamlet. It had a church, a Christmas tree farm, a shop, and a part-time bar. If you wanted a proper pub, you had to walk 20 minutes to the next village, Snowy Bottom.
Ruby checked her watch. “What time are they due? I have a couple of calls to make.” Even though she was home for the weekend, she still had work to do.
“After seven. Drinks and nibbles. Just to welcome them.”
Ruby glanced around the kitchen, with its peeling units and trusty AGA. ‘Lived-in’ was what some would call it. ‘Weathered’ was another term that could be applied. If this festive season was a success, maybe they could get a new kitchen. That was her mum’s dream.
“Why don’t we take the newbies to The Bar?” Ruby said. “That way, they can meet the whole village.”
Mum wiggled her nose. “They’re coming here first, but maybe afterwards if they want to. So long as it’s not too late.”
“Is Scott showing his face?” Ruby hadn’t seen her little brother since she arrived this morning.
“He might. We finished planting the younger trees this week, but he still had some photoshoot trees to ship today.” Dad pushed his metal-rimmed glasses up his face.
Ruby’s face dropped. “Has Nettie gone?”
Her mum shook her head. “Tuesday. You should go and say goodbye before she leaves.” Nettie was a statuesque 12-year-old Nordmann fir who was destined to be a photoshoot model this year.
“I’ll go give her a pat tomorrow.” What was it her parents had said about being unhinged? However, when you tended to a tree for a decade, you got attached. Nettie was a firm family favourite.
“I say let’s take the newbies to The Bar,” her dad agreed. “Then they can meet Victoria, Eric, and Scott, too. The entire O’Connell family.”
They had no idea what they were in for.
Chapter 3
Fran still couldn’t quite believe her parents had bought this cottage.
Although, in another way, she totally got it. It was them to a tee. Quaint. Full of charm. Shiny. It should be. Her parents had spent a huge chunk of money having it done up, after the previous owner had lived there for eight years with an array of dogs and an allergy to opening a window.
“Dog and chips, that’s what it smelled like,” Dad had told her over the phone. She’d never have known. Now, it smelled like fresh paint and promise. Plus, with Pop’s favourite lemongrass and basil candles already burning, it smelled like home.
That Hollybush Cottage was lovely wasn’t in doubt. It even had a holly bush in the garden.
Of course it did.
Fran’s issue was that it was in the middle of nowhere, in a village called Mistletoe. Better yet, the cottage was situated on the edge of Mistletoe Christmas Tree Farm. It was like her parents had moved into a Hallmark Christmas movie. One that smelled divine, and was super gay.
In the real-life version, which Fran was reluctantly starring in, she and her parents were going around to their neighbours’ house for welcome drinks tonight. Fran had endured a tough week. Delilah was number one, and Fran was still bruised from their split. Recovered, but bruised. She’d come to Mistletoe to check out her parents’ new house, but also to hide away for a bit where nobody knew her. To take a moment to breathe. Drinks with the neighbours wasn’t on
her agenda.
However, she couldn’t say no to her parents. This was their new life, and Fran wanted to support it. They’d supported her in everything she did, after all. Even when she’d ditched her art degree for a career in the music business.
“What are the neighbours like?” Fran was pretty sure she had an idea, but she wanted to hear it from Pop’s mouth.
“They seem lovely.” But Fran could hear the amusement in Pop’s voice as she followed him up the stairs.
“Uh-oh,” she said.
“No, they really are!” A gasp of laughter escaped Pop’s lips as they arrived on the landing. “You know, they’re just a bit… country with it.”
“Which is absolutely fine,” Dad added from behind, a scold in his voice. He pointed through the rustic pine door off the landing to her left. “This is your room.”
“You’re a bit country now, can I add?” Fran gave them both an amused look. She walked into her new bedroom, and took a breath. The views over the fields of Christmas trees and beyond were spectacular. The late afternoon sun cast an orange haze over the sea of green. In the back garden, she spied her parents’ newly installed art studio. “Wow, I can see what you mean when you said it was a room with a view.”
Dad put his arm around her. “We are a bit country now, too. I guess that’s why we moved here. To embrace this life, with these views. Plus, Paul and Mary who own the farm have been very welcoming. Mary even brought us a casserole. Like we’re in a real community.”
“You had that in Surrey.”
But even as she said it, Fran knew it wasn’t true. They hadn’t had that. The people in their Surrey village had kept themselves to themselves. Perhaps Mistletoe was going to be what her parents had hankered after for years. A thriving community who looked out for each other.
Dad took Pop’s hand in his. “We didn’t. But we might get it here.”
Two hours later, Fran, Michael and Dale trudged out their front door, down the garden path, and then along the perimeter of the farm until they reached the main entrance. A massive wooden sign welcomed them to Mistletoe Christmas Tree Farm, although one of the three small bulbs illuminating it had blown. The painted Christmas trees on the sign could do with some touching up, too.
“Do people actually make a living growing Christmas trees in the UK?” Fran blew on her hands as she asked. Out of London, the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, even though the forecast told her otherwise. “Also, why have we never come to a Christmas tree farm before?”
“Because we always had a fake one?” Pop replied.
“Let’s not share that fact right away, okay everyone?” Dad added.
They all nodded, then started along the main path to the farmhouse.
Barking from the other side of the door greeted their knock. It opened to reveal an excitable golden Labrador, held tight by a woman in jeans and a dusky pink jumper, her short ruddy-brown hair sticking up at all angles. A bald man with metal-framed glasses appeared at her side. The woman’s face broke into a welcoming smile when her glance settled on Fran’s parents and then on her.
“You made it! Come in, welcome! You must be Francesca. I’m Mary. This is our overgrown puppy, Chipper, and that’s my husband Paul. It’s lovely to meet you!”
Paul gave them a wave, then grabbed the dog and disappeared, before returning in seconds.
Her hands now free, Mary wasted no time in hugging Fran.
Fran hesitantly returned it. There really was no other option.
Paul, who towered over Mary, did the same, before leading everyone through to their farmhouse kitchen.
“Excuse the pumpkins!” Mary added.
In stark contrast to Fran’s parents’ newly refurbed pad, this kitchen had seen better days. However, even though the floor was scuffed and the cupboards worn, the smell lingering in the air was divine. The table was laden with sausage rolls, cheese, crackers, chutneys and a tray of scones. There were also wine glasses in an array of shapes and sizes, as if they’d once had six sets, but now just had one glass left from each. The fridge was covered in a montage of flyers, leaflets and lists, and the mantle that adorned the room’s centrepiece fireplace was laden with family photos. Dad and Pop had mentioned one daughter who lived in London, but there were clearly more children. None of them were in this room, though.
As if reading her mind, Mary walked past, patting Fran’s arm. “Let me just give Ruby a shout.”
Fran braced herself. She hoped she and Ruby had something to talk about. It was going to be a toe-curling evening, otherwise. Or perhaps one where she could just fill her mouth with pastry items so she didn’t have to talk.
Fran was just doing exactly that — a still-hot sausage roll, so good she was worried she might have groaned in pleasure when she bit into it — when Mary reappeared.
“Found her!” Mary stepped back to reveal her daughter. Tall as a tree. Mud-red hair. Intense green eyes. A stare that Fran had been on the receiving end of before.
Fran blinked then sucked in a breath. Big mistake. A piece of sausage roll lodged in her throat and she doubled over, coughing violently. She sucked in a huge breath. That only made it worse.
In seconds, Dad was behind her, whacking her back with his shovel-like hand. Why did people insist on doing that?
Fran shook her head frantically, but was too busy choking to tell him to stop. Her insides wheezed as she fought to catch her breath, panic blaring in her brain.
Dad switched to two hands around her middle. He gripped, then pressed hard.
A huge gust of breath rushed up Fran, and the offending bit of sausage roll flew out of her mouth at speed. It landed on the toe of Ruby’s right slipper, which was styled in the shape of a snowman.
Fran should have been more embarrassed, but she was too focused on getting her breath back. She coughed some more, tears streaming down her face. She could just imagine the bemused faces all around the kitchen. She put the palms of her hands on her thighs, then took a few more steadying breaths. She accepted a tissue from Mary, a consoling hand on her back from Pop, then straightened.
It was only then she was doused in embarrassment. What a way to make an impression on her parents’ new neighbours.
One of whom was the only singer to ever turn her down.
“I’m so sorry, that sausage roll went down the wrong way,” Fran said.
“Don’t be silly!” Mary thrust a glass of red wine into her hand. “Have a drink, that’ll make you feel better.”
But all Fran could see was the regurgitated sausage roll, still sitting pretty on Ruby’s slipper. Where was Chipper when she needed him? Fran glanced at Ruby’s face, then back to the slipper. She had to deal with it.
She put her wine on the table, then lunged forward, tissue in hand, and scooped up the sausage roll. It would have been a successful mission too, if her head hadn’t met the farmhouse table on the way back up. The crack as her skull hit solid wood reverberated in the air. Fran staggered left, clutching her head.
Arms held her upright as pain ricocheted around her brain. She winced, closing her eyes, waiting for it to pass. Could this night get much worse? She really hoped this was the low point.
“Oh my goodness, are you okay?” That was Mary again, her voice rising as she spoke.
Eventually, Fran opened her eyes, her vision watery. When she glanced Ruby’s way, she was sure she could see the hint of a smirk under her blank features. Fran didn’t blame her. She’d provided a wealth of entertainment already.
“I’m fine. I just need to stand still and not move or eat anything for a little while.” Her head throbbed as she eased her dad’s hands from her. “I’m not normally this clumsy.”
“Don’t worry about it. Ruby was a terribly clumsy child. Always in the hospital, weren’t you?”
Ruby frowned. “It was once, Dad.”
“Had an argument with the living room fireplace, and the fireplace won,” Paul added.
Mary put an arm around Ruby, then angled h
er towards Fran. “Anyway, this is our daughter, Ruby. She lives in London, too. Ruby, this is Francesca.”
“Just Fran.” She was still holding her head.
Mary nodded. “Just Fran it is.”
“Hi, again.” Ruby didn’t quite meet Fran’s gaze. She clearly wasn’t sure how to play this, either. “Are you stalking me?”
Fran smiled despite herself. “I’m not a very good stalker, am I? I haven’t seen you in four months.”
There was a silence, broken eventually by Fran’s dad. “You two know each other?”
“Sort of.” Fran leaned over and grabbed her wine. She took a swig. “Ruby’s a folk singer. A really good one. I went along to one of her gigs and tried to sign her, but she turned me down.” Fran met Ruby’s gaze. “Maybe this is a sign you should say yes.”
Ruby gave her a measured smile. “I don’t believe in signs.” She paused. “But this is freaky. What are the chances of you being my new neighbour?”
“What are the chances?” Paul touched his wine glass to Fran’s with some force.
Fran made a face. If Paul smashed her wine glass, that would be her evening complete. Luckily, it held.
“However you two know each other, you have good taste in music, Fran. And you,” he pointed his glass at Ruby, “never told us you’d been approached again. You should think about it. It might work out this time.”
“And give up control of my life. We’ve been through this, Dad.”
“We have. But sometimes, a little help can be good. Especially if it gets you into places you wouldn’t get to otherwise.”
Fran winced. She focused on a time when her head wouldn’t be throbbing.
When she wouldn’t be in this kitchen with Ruby.
Who still didn’t want to sign with her.
“Enough, Paul. We have guests. I think it’s lovely you two know each other. You can be friends even if you don’t sign to Fran’s label, can’t you?”
Ruby eyed Fran. She gave a shrug.
