If Every Day Was Christmas: A gorgeous and heart-warming Christmas romance

by Donna Ashcroft

  He folded his arms. ‘I was really smart when I was younger. Super smart.’ Meg nodded. ‘I got a scholarship to a private school that was local to my grandparents. I lived with them – my mum pushed off when I was ten, she wasn’t interested in being a parent.’ He recited the words by rote, like he’d said them a hundred times.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Meg said slowly, trying to imagine that. Her parents had been so wrapped up in themselves and their unhappiness, they’d essentially ignored her and Emily most of the time. But being dumped so young, that was a whole different matter…

  Tom’s shrug was nonchalant. ‘She got into drugs when she was a teenager and—’ He blew out a breath. ‘That’s not important. I got bullied when I joined the school. I had a stupid haircut, my eyes were too far apart, I was rubbish at sport.’ Meg looked into his eyes, saw humour there and acceptance. ‘Then after I’d been at the school for about four months I got used to the bullying – learned to tolerate it.’ He shrugged. ‘This music teacher made me try out a guitar in one of our lessons. I’d never played an instrument – aside from a recorder which I was terrible at – and I was embarrassed and annoyed.’ His lips thinned. ‘I wasn’t looking to be the centre of attention and I hated the idea of making an idiot of myself in front of anyone. They didn’t need more reasons to tease me. But… I don’t know, I started to play. I’d been watching the others, studying the way their fingers moved over the strings and which notes made which sounds.’ He paused. ‘It’s the way my mind works. I like figuring things out.’ He pointed to the cupboard doors on the floor. ‘It’s why I enjoy working with my hands. I copied what I’d seen. I wasn’t brilliant. But I was good enough for that teacher to insist I came in at lunchtimes so he could teach me properly.’

  ‘Then you got good?’ Meg asked.

  He nodded. ‘Very – and suddenly, all those kids who’d been bullying me were looking at me differently. People started to talk to me in the corridors. Girls were interested.’ He looked embarrassed. ‘Which, for a teenage boy who’d been left by his mother because he was too much trouble and was living with his grandparents – used to everyone treating him like a pariah – was pretty great. So I practised and practised, became more and more popular…’

  ‘And?’ Meg asked when he stopped.

  Tom exhaled. ‘Nothing. I realised one day that people didn’t like me for who I was. I still didn’t fit. Underneath it, they all disliked me just as much. But I got to like the way being adored felt.’ He pulled a face. ‘It changed the way I was. Turned me into someone I didn’t like very much. So I gave music up.’ There was a finality to his voice but Meg could feel there was more to the story. He turned away so he could stir the sauce.

  ‘Well, I think you’re great on the guitar, but I still don’t adore you,’ she said evenly, keen to make him smile. When he laughed, she did too.

  ‘Which is one of the reasons why I like you,’ he said, turning again so he could look at her.

  At his words, her whole body seemed to shudder to life. ‘You do?’

  Tom’s eyes were warm, less defensive now. He hadn’t completely raised the shutters on his world, but this was progress. He reached out to run a finger down the edge of her face, skimming her cheekbone, stopping at her chin, leaving a trail of tingles which multiplied and fluttered outwards. ‘Yes,’ he said, inspecting his finger, chuckling when he found a few flecks of glitter sparkling on the pad. ‘You’re real. So different from everyone else. You don’t pretend to like people because you like everyone – and you don’t pretend to be something you’re not.’

  ‘I’m not perfect,’ Meg whispered as Tom moved closer.

  ‘Is anyone?’ He swallowed and she stepped forward until their feet were almost touching. Then Meg reached a hand up so she could slide it into his hair and pull his face down. His lips were soft, and at first they moved slowly. Neither of them seemed to be in a hurry. Perhaps they were still exploring each other, intent on holding themselves back. Tom drifted his hand so it caressed the dip in the small of her back, easing her closer. Meg could hear the food bubbling in the pan beside them, imagined the same bubbles rising up inside her as her skin began to prickle. Then he gently pressed the tip of his finger into her back again until their bodies met. She rose up to her tiptoes and slid her arms around his neck. Now she could feel the hard muscles across his chest, could smell the woody shower gel he used, and wanted to tug at the bottom of his T-shirt so she could pull it over his head. Her legs were shaking now as the power of the kiss shot through her, her breathing growing heavier as Tom began to explore, sliding his hand to the slope of her waist, down to the curve of her bottom. He pulled her closer still as their kiss deepened and grew hotter…

  Then there was a bang as the front door opened, a crash as it closed and the quick splatter of paws as they hit the floor and Cooper entered the kitchen. They sprang apart with surprise. Emily followed Cooper inside, her face pink and her hair wet. ‘The walk was wonderful – he’s a clever thing and good company. That smells amazing.’ She must have picked up on the atmosphere because she stopped and then began to back away. ‘I was thinking I’d go and practise on the guitar. See if I can be even ten per cent as good as you, Tom.’ She stopped in the doorway. ‘I got a text from Mum as I reached the garden. She asked where we were. I told her we wouldn’t be back for dinner.’ She turned and headed into the sitting room.

  Meg looked at Tom again. Her heart was thundering now. He gave her a crooked smile. Should they discuss what had just happened?

  ‘How are your parents?’ Tom made the decision for her.

  Meg smoothed her fingertips across her hair, trying to iron it into submission or to give her shaking hands something to do. ‘Fine.’ The words were automatic, and when he frowned she grimaced. ‘In the interests of being real, I will tell you I don’t know.’

  Tom stared at her, his eyes fixed on her face, as if committing every tic and pulse to memory.

  ‘They don’t always get on.’ She let out a sigh and shut her eyes briefly. ‘It’s usually so much easier to pretend.’ Her gaze scanned the kitchen, imagining how it would look with tinsel hanging in the window, or some small reindeer figurines sitting on the windowsill with candles flickering inside. She had a silver Christmas tree that would look perfect on the kitchen counter, and that hook in the ceiling should definitely be holding sprigs of deep green mistletoe.

  ‘Reality has a habit of catching up with you,’ Tom said, watching her. ‘Why are they in Lockton?’ he added, before she could ask what he meant.

  ‘I don’t know. I only know something’s changed – but somehow nothing has. They’re very different. Perhaps they always were. I don’t want to make the same mistake.’ Which begged the question, why had she just kissed Tom? Worse, why did she want to do it again?

  ‘I think mistakes are part of life. You can’t avoid them. The only thing you can do is stop yourself from making the same ones.’ Tom turned away from her, back to the pan. He looked sad and she felt sorry for him. Her mind flicked to the small boy whose mother had left him, the child bullied at school – was that why he hated Christmas? Could she do something to change that? As Meg watched him she began to warm to her idea. Maybe Tom would hate Christmas less once he saw just how beautiful it could be. The cottage was a blank canvas, begging her to paint it with glitter, baubles and fairy lights. She had a sparkly star which would be perfect over the fireplace. She could come into the house when he was working – use the key – put up a tree, some mistletoe and sparkles. There was something so comforting about a bauble, the smell of a Nordmann fir and the twinkle of fairy lights. If she could give Tom a little Christmas magic, show him he wasn’t really alone, then that’s what she’d do. But she wasn’t going to let herself think about why his happiness mattered so much to her.

  Fifteen

  Apple Cross Inn wasn’t open yet because it was early, but the kitchen was busy. Tom put a couple of leftover lemons from the pile he’d been chopping for the bar into the fridge a
nd watched Johnny battle with a pile of carrots. They were perfectly diced and reminded Tom of the crazy shapes Meg had created when she’d been in his kitchen yesterday evening. He sighed as Lilith wafted in through the back door, bringing with her a rush of cold air. This was the third day she’d visited the kitchen since the flood.

  ‘It’s the talented Miss Tiramisu.’ Johnny barked his new nickname for her as footsteps echoed on the stairs and Davey appeared, his face flushed and his eyes sparkling bright blue.

  ‘Woah…’ He stopped dead when he saw Lilith. She’d dressed up in a pink silk shirt which set off her olive skin, and a pair of jeans that she must have needed a shoehorn to get into. Her heels were spiky and added a good few inches to the length of her legs. Tom wondered how on earth she’d made it to the pub from her car – not to mention why she looked so glamorous for a morning in the kitchen. ‘Wow.’ Davey gaped before shaking himself. ‘You look very… it’s…’

  ‘Are you here to make another spectacular dessert?’ Johnny jumped in, saving his brother from stuttering anymore.

  ‘Sì.’ Lilith nodded, her eyes sliding from Davey to the counter. ‘What are you cooking?’

  Johnny tossed the carrots into a pan. ‘Cottage pie. It’s a pub favourite. Easy to make and popular with the customers – I might be the expert in the kitchen, but Davey has a few tricks up his sleeve, including a secret ingredient for this dish which he’ll add to the pan when I’m not here. It’ll make it taste even more…’ He kissed his fingers dramatically. ‘I might have to pay you to find out exactly what it is later.’ He gave her a teasing grin as he stirred the contents of the pan.

  Lilith looked back and forth between the brothers. ‘You don’t share your recipes?’ She frowned. ‘I thought you shared everything. Isn’t that the way of things in Lockton – family and community above everything else?’

  ‘Not since Johnny stole my formula for the perfect custard to go with rhubarb crumble, and used it to steal the heart of the girl I’d fallen for,’ Davey joked, relaxing into easy banter as his tongue untangled itself.

  ‘You were in love?’ Lilith’s neat eyebrows met, lining her smooth forehead.

  ‘He was sixteen at the time,’ Johnny said dryly. ‘And the girl dumped me two days later for a boy who’d just passed his driving test. So all the subterfuge and heartache weren’t worth it.’ He thumped a hand over his heart. ‘I never got over it. I haven’t been able to eat custard since. Although the whole experience got me into cooking, so I suppose it was worth it in the end.’

  ‘I think you deserve a broken heart for stealing your brother’s love,’ Lilith said without humour, her dark eyes darting back to Davey.

  ‘It’s almost time for you to do your magic.’ Johnny grinned and patted a hand on Davey’s shoulder. ‘Need us all to disappear into the bar so you can add your secret ingredient?’

  ‘Tom and Lilith can hide their eyes,’ Davey said, blushing as Lilith continued to stare at him sympathetically. ‘You have to turn your back.’ He pointed at his brother. ‘I don’t trust you not to look and try to use my recipe to steal another of my girlfriends.’ Lilith shook her head as Johnny turned, making a performance of leaning his head onto one of the shiny silver cupboards hanging on the wall. She put a hand over her eyes – she had tidy pink nails which were free from polish. Tom watched her move one finger a few millimetres so she could watch Davey, before she slid it back into place when he yelled, ‘No peeking!’ in Johnny’s direction. Tom put his hands over his face too, and listened to the clatter of a cupboard and the sound of the fridge door opening and closing. Then Davey said, ‘You can look.’ He was standing by the hob and stirring the pan. He handed the spoon back to his brother with as much gravity as a gymnast passing the Olympic torch. ‘It’s okay, Lilith, I forgave him a long time ago.’

  Lilith nodded and watched as Johnny pretended to punch his brother on the cheek, and Davey countered before they ended the exchange with a big affectionate man-hug. Her expression was bemused but he saw longing in her eyes. Then Davey took a teaspoon out of one of the drawers and scooped some of the mixture up, before handing it to her. She savoured the meat for a moment.

  ‘Bene.’ She nodded. ‘It is very good.’ She cocked her head to one side and flashed Davey a megawatt smile, which even from this distance Tom could see had an immediate and almost nuclear effect. ‘Perhaps we can swap our secret ingredients. I will share my family recipe for tiramisu and you can teach me how to make this?’ She put the spoon in the sink and leaned back against the counter. ‘I could surprise my parents. I think this would even satisfy Papa, and he usually only eats Italian food.’

  ‘Um… okay.’ Davey’s eyes darted to his brother. ‘You’ll need to leave the kitchen if I do tell her,’ he said.

  ‘Ah yes, if I’m to share my family recipes I won’t be able to have you in the room either, not now I know you’re not to be trusted.’ Lilith looked serious. ‘Perhaps we can meet here again tomorrow?’ she asked Davey.

  ‘Sure.’ He beamed.

  ‘For today’ – Lilith wiped her hands onto her jeans and headed for the fridge – ‘I have some crab. I will make a linguine sauce when I get back to the hotel. I wondered if I could put together a minestrone soup here? I have containers in the car.’ Her eyes scanned the main counter. Johnny had spread himself out; there were half-used ingredients, pots and pans everywhere. He was a great chef, but not the tidiest worker.

  ‘I’ll help you clear up.’ Davey picked up a saucepan and put it into the dishwasher.

  ‘I’ve finished all my prep. Now it’ll just be baked potatoes and sandwiches – so I’ll get things cleared up in a tick.’ They watched as Johnny picked up more pans and helped Davey straighten everything. As they worked, Lilith looked through the cupboards, picking out a large copper pan and testing the weight of the knives before selecting one. By the time the men had finished, she’d chosen her tools and lined them up by the sink. Johnny finished wiping the surfaces and flashed them a grin. ‘Time for me to put my feet up until the rush arrives. Unless you need a sous chef, Miss Tiramisu?’

  ‘I’m… I’d like to help. I mean, if you need anyone,’ Davey stumbled, his eyes darting from Tom to Johnny as if only just remembering they were still in the room. ‘I’ve always wanted to know how to make a decent minestrone.’

  ‘Tom, I noticed the fire in the bar is almost out.’ Johnny jerked his head towards the door and winked. ‘I’m going to put my feet up.’ He waved and left the kitchen without waiting for anyone to respond.

  ‘That’s true.’ Tom cleared his throat. ‘I noticed we were running low on wood.’ No one spoke, and Tom watched Lilith pick up the equipment and vegetables she’d assembled earlier, so she could lay them on the large metal counter. She slid a chopping board towards Davey – her cheeks pinkened as their eyes met.

  ‘You can slice?’ she asked, and Davey nodded.

  ‘I… um, I’ll go now. I guess I’d better hurry, we’ll be opening the pub in half an hour.’ Tom grabbed his coat, disappeared into the hall and through the back door, before either of them had noticed he’d gone.

  Snow had stopped falling a few hours before, but there was plenty piled up at the edges of the pub cark park. Tom crunched through a drift on the right, past a few parked cars belonging to the staff, to where Davey had a small locked shed tucked away behind a long brick wall. Tom slid off his coat and hung it on a hook inside the shed. Here, a small silver axe had been fixed on the wall and he grabbed it, before picking up a large tree branch from a pile of uncut wood laid out on a plastic sheet on the ground. Outside, well away from the cars, a tree stump had been set into the snow. He placed the branch on the stump and brought the axe down in a satisfying whack, splitting it in two, feeling his shoulders loosen as he chopped another few pieces. As he worked, he tried to keep his mind off Meg, blocking that look on her face when he’d kissed her, ignoring the tune that kept popping into his head and the desire to write it down so he wouldn’t forget. He’d always found phys
ical work helped him to think; the easy, unconscious movements got his mind racing and artistic juices flowing. Marnie had once teased him about disappearing to his ‘creative place’ in the earlier days of their marriage – but by the end she’d hated it, calling it his mistress. A mistress that had all but destroyed their relationship. Now that place felt bad and he forced himself out of it. When he had a large enough pile, he grabbed a canvas bag from the shed to carry it in before locking up. As Tom crunched his way towards the car park and back door of the pub, he noticed a blur of prints on the ground leading from the woods. Perhaps someone going for their daily dog walk?

  Curious, he followed them, making his way along the edge of the pub towards the high street and the front of Apple Cross Inn. As he approached the pavement, he saw shards of tinsel and three baubles lying in the snow. Tom picked up the baubles, frowning, and took a few more steps, following the abandoned tinsel around the other side of the pub. Here, a string of solar lights had been ripped from the wall of the building and lay in the snow in two halves. As Tom fully rounded the corner, he saw a tall man dressed in a policeman’s uniform talking with Agnes.

  ‘The dunderheads have been vandalising decorations all round town!’ Agnes picked up some red and green baubles from the snow and hung them by their ribbons back onto the hooks Davey had banged into the pub’s facade. She was dressed in black boots, thick trousers and a dark coat. The only splashes of colour in her outfit were from a knitted bright pink bobble hat and matching scarf and gloves. ‘Morag told me someone pulled her fence right off its hinges. We’ve not had any trouble on Buttermead Farm, but I’ve felt like something’s off. Like someone’s been watching me when I’ve been walking around the fields.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Perhaps it’s ghosts. There are legends about them, although I don’t know why they’d be bothering us at Christmas. The only folklore from this time of year concerns the Promise Tree.’ Her attention flashed to Tom as he joined them. Beside Agnes, the policeman scribbled notes onto a pad. He was a tall man, with a round belly and ruddy cheeks.