If Every Day Was Christmas
A gorgeous and heart-warming Christmas romance
Donna Ashcroft
Books by Donna Ashcroft
If Every Day Was Christmas
The Little Village of New Starts
The Christmas Countdown
The Little Guesthouse of New Beginnings
The Little Christmas Teashop of Second Chances
Summer at the Castle Cafe
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
The Little Christmas Teashop of Second Chances
Hear More from Donna
Books by Donna Ashcroft
A Letter from Donna
The Christmas Countdown
Summer at the Castle Cafe
The Little Guesthouse of New Beginnings
The Little Village of New Starts
Acknowledgements
*
To my brother Peter and his family, Christelle, Lucie, Mathis and Joseph.
Because family matters and I want to say thank you for mine.
One
Four missed calls.
Meg Scott pushed her mobile back into her pocket, putting into practice one of her favourite philosophies: if you don’t let yourself see, hear or smell something, it won’t exist. Besides, she could guess why her father was calling and had promised herself she wouldn’t relent.
‘So we’re down to our final option.’ Morag Dooley whacked a reindeer-shaped salt shaker onto a table in Meg’s cafe, imitating a judge with a gavel. The black cape she wore done up to the chin and her mass of grey curls added to the illusion. Meg glanced around the small room, which was situated in the back corner of her all-year-round Christmas shop. She’d added an extra layer of festive decoration the evening before because it was mid-November – a Christmas tree, flashing white icicle lights, green and red tablecloths, and sparkly snowman centrepieces which gave her a warm fuzzy glow. The counter in the corner of the room, behind which Cora Dougall – Meg’s assistant and uber-barista – stood, was lined with tinsel and displayed what was left of the cafe’s decimated stock of Christmas-themed cakes, biscuits and sandwiches. The rest had been snapped up by the two dozen Lockton residents squeezed around the six tables clustered into the small space. ‘I propose this year’s Christmas Promise is to fix the village hall roof,’ Morag declared with another triumphant whack. ‘Does everyone agree?’
‘The roof has to be a priority,’ Fergus McKenzie growled. He was a handsome man in his late sixties with a silver beard and dark grey eyes. He grimaced at his coffee, which Morag had forbidden him to add whisky to earlier. ‘The Jam Club has been coming into Apple Cross Inn every Thursday evening since the village hall closed, and they’re disturbing my alone time with all their blethering.’ Beside Fergus, Agnes Stuart’s green eyes twinkled as she jabbed him gently in the ribs. They’d started dating over four months before and Meg knew she was used to his curmudgeonly ways.
‘A lot of clubs have been forced to close since the roof started to leak, and loads of events have been called off,’ Cora said quietly. ‘We were going to have my new grandbaby’s christening there next spring because our house is too wee – now I’ve nowhere to host the party.’
‘Unless the roof gets fixed soon, I hear the building may be irreparable. There’s talk of damp in the walls and cracks appearing in the ceiling,’ Grant Stuart, a local sheep farmer and Agnes’s son, said balefully.
There was a rumble of surprise from the assembled group.
Morag nodded. ‘Then I think we’re all agreed.’ She didn’t wait for a response, and instead whacked the salt shaker onto the table again.
For hundreds of years, the inhabitants of Lockton, a village set deep in the picturesque Scottish Highlands, had made a promise to do something for the community in December. The promise was then handwritten on crisp paper and hung on the twenty-foot Nordmann fir in the village square which had sprouted in an ancient wishing well. Legend had it that any promise hung on the tree would be helped along by the various spirits who were said to live in the surrounding mountains. Whether it was through magic or the sheer determination of the locals, every pledge made by the village in almost two hundred years had been kept. Over time, the villagers had begun to hang up their own personal promises as well, and the tradition had grown.
‘How much do we need to raise?’ Meg asked.
‘Davey knows someone in Morridon who quoted fifteen thousand for the roof,’ Morag said, and Grant let out a whistle of shock.
‘And that was mates’ rates,’ Davey Becker – owner of Apple Cross Inn – interjected. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much some people charge. But the offer only stands until February – after that he says there’ll be way more work.’
‘We need fundraising ideas.’ Morag took her seat again and glared at the assembled crowd when no one spoke. ‘Anyone?’
Davina Magee, who lived on a farm located a few miles outside Lockton, cleared her throat. ‘Cake sale?’ she suggested, and went bright pink when Morag groaned.
‘Not sure it’ll raise enough. Besides, we did that four years ago when we were building the children’s playground, remember. The whole village had to go on a diet in the new year. Anything else?’ she snapped, wielding the salt shaker menacingly.
‘A naked calendar?’ Matilda Tome, who occasionally worked behind the bar in Apple Cross Inn and boasted an hourglass figure, suggested, with a gleam in her eye. Morag let out an irritated huff and checked the top button of her cape was firmly secure.
Davey slurped his cappuccino before licking his lips. He was a wiry, athletic man in his mid-thirties with bright blue eyes. Like Meg, Davey was a transplant from London and had moved up a few years before, leaving behind a successful career as a music producer. No one knew why he’d made the abrupt life change, but the events he put on in his pub were legendary – and attracted customers from far and wide. ‘We could host a concert on Christmas Eve in the pub? There are a few bands who owe me a favour, and a couple who’ve been promising to come to Lockton for a while. The ones I have in mind would draw a big crowd and I think we could charge at least fifty quid for a ticket.’ There was a collective gasp. ‘If we sell food too, we’ll get close to our target.’
‘Aye, we could offer festive cocktails and cakes.’ Agnes dipped her chin, looking excited. She was in her late sixties, a pretty woman with silver hair, and she had adopted Meg as her own. Meg adored her like a mother, which, for a woman used to doing everything in her power to avoid her own family for most of the year, was a revelation.
‘I know someone who runs a marquee shop in Morridon who’ll give us a good price.’ Grant gave the group a thumbs up. ‘And I’ve a few heaters at Buttermead Farm we use in the winter. Set that all up at the back of the pub and we’ll be able to rival Glastonbury.’
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br /> Meg clapped her hands. ‘With snow and glitter instead of mud? That sounds perfect. I’ve got loads of things in the shop that we can use to decorate.’
‘I’ve a friend coming to stay in December.’ Davey looked thoughtful. ‘He’s good with his hands and he’ll be working in the pub until Christmas. He might be willing to help set everything up.’
Morag scratched her chin as a hint of a smile moved across her round face. ‘We could work with this idea. Cora, can you make posters and tickets?’
Cora nodded. A schoolteacher before she’d retired and started to work in Meg’s cafe, she had the ability to create almost anything from multicoloured paper, highlighters and a Pritt Stick.
‘We could get the Lockton knitting club to make some instruments to put around the village, to advertise the event.’ Agnes nodded at Matilda, who winked.
‘Then that’s settled.’ Morag whacked the salt shaker onto the table for the final time and Meg let out a sigh of relief when it didn’t shatter. ‘I’ll make a list of extra tasks. You can come to the post office over the next few days to pick yours up. If you bring all the tickets to me when you’ve made them, Cora, I’ll distribute and start signing people up.’ Knowing Morag, she’d have the event sold out in a week. ‘Meg, could you sell the tickets in your shop and add them to the website? And I know it’s only November, but can I leave it to you to hang the village promise onto the tree too?’
Meg nodded. Her shop sold clear baubles into which promises could be inserted for that exact purpose. Besides, she wanted to hang her own Christmas Promise up tonight – and had already set the ball in motion to make sure she kept it. As if reading her mind, Meg’s mobile vibrated in her pocket again.
‘Are we done?’ Fergus suddenly pushed his chair back and stood. ‘Because there’s a whisky in Apple Cross Inn with my name on it.’
‘Literally.’ Agnes laughed softly. ‘Davey just got a batch of your new recipe from the distillery.’
‘We’ll need to settle up with Meg first.’ Morag gave Fergus a hard stare.
‘It’s on the house.’ Meg waved away the offers of payment for the refreshments from the villagers as she ushered them through the cafe and shop towards the exit, kissing each one in turn as they left. When the last person had gone, Meg let out a long breath as Cora flipped the sign on the door to read ‘Closed’.
‘You’ll be bust by the end of December if you keep giving the stock away like that,’ Cora complained.
‘It’s fine.’ Meg grinned. ‘Business is booming and I can afford to feed a few of my friends. Isn’t that what Christmas is all about?’
‘Not if it’s every day.’ Cora shook her head.
This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Meg loved giving gifts, loved the buzz in her stomach she got from simple acts of kindness, and nothing else – not even her ex-boyfriends or lovers – had ever come close. She leaned back against the door and looked around the empty store. It was a long room with a till at the end and a door behind that led up to her flat. The walls were lined with shelves filled with all kinds of Christmas fare, including baubles, tinsel, wrapping paper and festive jam, as well as local guidebooks and whisky. Running along the centre were tables piled high with sparkly decorations, model reindeer, snowmen and an array of popular gifts. Outside the shop in the darkness, hand-carved wooden Christmas trees, which she’d bring inside soon, were lined up like soldiers in front of the glass. They’d sold a few today – and once they hit December in another couple of weeks, she’d get some real trees. Meg adored her shop, which she’d set up in homage to her favourite day of the year so she could experience it over and over again. It was the antithesis of her life when she’d been growing up – the glitter, sparkle and sheer joy of the space usually made her feel content and safe. Perhaps it was all the phone calls from her father, but today something felt off, as if an ill wind were gathering momentum, getting ready to spoil everything.
‘You going out with the new boyfriend tonight?’ Cora asked, heading back towards the cafe so she could gather empty plates and cappuccino mugs from the tables and pack them into the small dishwasher behind the counter. Meg would have told her to go home, but knew she’d be wasting her breath. Cora had the work ethic of an entire ant colony.
‘Nope, that’s finished.’ Meg picked up the salt shaker that Morag had been maltreating and checked it for fractures.
‘Ach, already, lassie? I thought he might be the one.’ Cora sounded disappointed. ‘He lasted over three weeks, and you even introduced him to your hamster.’
‘He was nice, but we disagreed on movies and he was really grumpy about it.’ Meg frowned when Cora let out a sigh as she slammed the door of the dishwasher closed and switched it on. ‘Everyone knows The Holiday is the best Christmas film ever. He thought it was Die Hard and refused to watch what he referred to as romantic tosh. He didn’t like Christmas much either, I should have seen that as a sign…’ She shook her head, feeling a mixture of disappointment and disgust. But she should have expected it. She’d been searching all her adult years for a man she could spend time with without being disappointed, someone who’d accept her as she was. Had come close a few times, but something always made her realise things weren’t right – and Meg wasn’t prepared to give her heart to someone who didn’t understand her, someone with whom she wasn’t perfectly in tune.
‘He doesn’t sound like Prince Charming, but you’re a little fussy, lassie.’ Cora pursed her lips. ‘I’ve told you before. You need a man with his own opinions and ideas. Find yourself a yes-man and you’d be bored within a week.’
‘There’s nothing boring about agreeing with someone or believing in the same things. Quarrels and conflicts get wearing over time. I should know.’ Meg said the last bit under her breath as she picked up a broom, sweeping crumbs erratically off the floor. As she did, she replayed the argument from the night before in her head and her temper began to flare again. She caught the broom on the edge of one of the tables, sending the shaker Morag had been assaulting flying. Meg watched with her mouth open as it shattered on the floor, spraying salt in every direction.
‘Oops.’ Cora grabbed the dustpan and brush from underneath the counter as Meg dropped to her hands and knees to pick up the pieces of broken china. ‘I know you’re not that superstitious. But humour me and throw a little salt over your shoulder to ward off bad luck.’ Cora swept up the mass of white crystals from the tiled floor as Meg followed her instructions. Then she cradled the small pieces of broken reindeer in her fingers and frowned, ignoring the insistent buzz in her pocket from her mobile, wondering if this was a sign. That the peaceful life she’d worked hard to build for herself over the last three years was about to shatter too.
Meg tramped along Lockton High Street in a puffy red jacket and snow boots later that evening, clutching two glass baubles in her hand. In the distance, under the moonlight, she could just make out a mountain range rising out of the horizon with thousands of stars and a half-moon illuminating its peaks. Her cheeks tingled as a chilly wind flecked with snowflakes blew into her face. She blinked as she passed Apple Cross Inn and peered briefly through the window, to see Davey and Matilda serving customers behind a busy bar while a fire roared in the corner. Multicoloured Christmas lights had already been strung across the facade of the pub and icicles dripped from the edges of the guttering and windows, glittering like tinsel in the semi-darkness. Davey had put them up earlier in the week in preparation for December, but hadn’t switched any of the lights on yet.
Meg continued walking, past the red-brick post office where Morag Dooley reigned, beyond the small primary school and neglected village hall which had been roped off from inquisitive visitors, until she reached the village square which was located in the centre of the high street at a fork. From here the road split in two and went in opposite directions. One led to Morridon, a town near the coast, and the other to Inverness. The square itself was framed by iron posts and
metal railings which had been painted white. In the centre, the fir tree towered up towards the sky, rising out of what remained of the ancient wishing well, whose rounded brick sides resembled a reddish-brown plant pot.
Meg took in the three baubles that were already dangling from the lower limbs. Each contained pieces of folded paper which she knew contained villagers’ handwritten promises. Until Meg had discovered the clear baubles in one of her suppliers’ catalogues two years before, everyone had tied their promises directly onto the tree – until the rain and snow throughout December gradually reduced them to congealed pulp. The baubles had proved a big hit, and most of the villagers had collected and reused theirs each year.
Meg got close enough to stretch up and place the village promise onto one of the higher branches. At five foot two she couldn’t reach very far, but she hung it carefully and stood back to select the next spot, pausing for a moment to find the perfect location. Then she stretched a little and hung her own promise next to a bauble filled with glitter, counting that as a good omen. She pressed her eyes shut as she recited the words she’d written earlier.
‘I promise to make my first Christmas alone in Lockton a happy one.’ She felt her stomach clench in anticipation. ‘And I promise, no matter what Dad is calling to say, that I’m not going home this year. I can’t face spending another Christmas on tenterhooks, waiting for the next row. Not again.’ She opened her eyes, noticing how the snowflakes fluttering around her head added a shimmer to the frigid air and how the breeze rustled through the trees, as if it were whispering something to her. She loved this time of year, and was determined to stay in Scotland for it. Her mobile buzzed, alerting her to another voice message. Phone signals were scarce in Lockton, and Meg knew if she didn’t take advantage of it now, she’d have to wait until she got back to the shop. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket, checked the screen and dialled. It went straight to voicemail.
If Every Day Was Christmas: A gorgeous and heart-warming Christmas romance Page 1
