Christmas Kisses at the Star and Sixpence

by Holly Hepburn

  The regulars were the same as they always were; perhaps a little more concerned than usual, yet mindful of her privacy. She thought Henry’s brusqueness had been tempered by a gentler quality, and Father Goodluck had squeezed her fingers when he’d paid for his cappuccino. Sam hardly left her side throughout the morning, fussing around her with the kind of well-meaning concern that only made it harder for Nessie to settle. It wasn’t until she asked Sam to give her some space that her sister realised she was overdoing the TLC.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, a stricken look on her face. ‘I thought you might not want to be left to your own devices.’

  ‘You’re great company,’ Nessie said sincerely. ‘But I feel like you’re watching over my shoulder in case I make a mistake or something. And I’m really fine.’

  ‘Good,’ Sam said. ‘And no one has stuck their nose in where it isn’t wanted, have they? They’ve all behaved?’

  ‘Impeccably,’ Nessie replied. ‘In fact, they’ve all treated me as though nothing has changed. It’s easier that way.’

  Sam touched her arm. ‘I’m glad.’

  Nessie looked around, taking in the decorations. ‘It’s gorgeously festive in here. I see you got a tree that fits this year.’

  Her sister grinned. ‘Yes, I made sure it was the right size. There shouldn’t be any snarky comments from Franny.’ She paused and gave Nessie a long look. ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about the next few days. I know you did the carol service last year, but I thought – well, maybe you wouldn’t fancy it this time. So why don’t I go instead?’

  Nessie blinked in surprise. It was a long-standing village tradition that the licensee of the Star and Sixpence attended the Christmas Eve carol service at St Mary’s; last year, it had been the moment Nessie had realised she was in love with Owen. The entire village would be there, unless they had a very good reason not to be, technically overseen by the twinkling gaze of Father Goodluck, but it was Franny whose displeasure everyone sought to avoid. Sam had the perfect excuse to stay away – there was a Christmas Fayre outside the pub each year and the wine needed to be mulled and chestnuts roasted – but she was now offering that to Nessie and the simple gesture meant more than she could convey.

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it,’ she said slowly, probing the idea of gathering with almost everyone she knew to celebrate the birth of a baby so many centuries earlier. ‘Are you sure you’re willing to step in?’

  ‘For you, yes,’ Sam said, without hesitation.

  Nessie pressed her lips together, determined not to cry. ‘Let me think about it,’ she said, once she was certain her emotions weren’t going to get the better of her. ‘It’s a lovely thing to offer, Sam. I know how much you hate the religious stuff.’

  ‘I don’t hate Christmas,’ Sam said. ‘But I do hate seeing you in pain. And I can go along and mumble to carols if it saves you some heartache.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Nessie said, digging her nails into her palms. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem,’ Sam replied, and a wistful look crept over her face. ‘And hey – maybe I can sit at the back and have a cheeky snooze.’

  Nessie thought back to the rousing candlelit service the year before and smiled. ‘Maybe. Just make sure you don’t set fire to the pew.’

  *

  It was late when Owen finally brought the yule log over to the Star and Sixpence. Nessie had given up expecting him, even though Kathryn had assured her over the dinner table that he and Luke had brought two logs home. But Owen himself had been absent, busy in the forge, and so Nessie had taken refuge of her own in the pub. She’d sent an exhausted-looking Sam to bed, waving away her objections, and got on with cleaning the bar ready for the following day. Anything was better than going back to an empty bed at Snowdrop Cottage.

  So she was surprised when the door creaked open just after 11.20 p.m. and Owen pushed his way in with what looked like half a tree trunk in his arms.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, stopping when he saw her taken-aback expression. ‘Didn’t Kathryn tell you I had this for you?’

  Nessie couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him. He didn’t seem to have any idea how painfully the distance between them cut into her. ‘She did. But it’s so late that I assumed you’d changed your mind. I’ve let the fire die down now.’

  An awkward silence formed. Owen shifted his grip on the log and nodded towards the still glowing embers in the fireplace. ‘There’s plenty of life in it. All it needs is a little encouragement.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ Nessie muttered under her breath as he eased the log onto the rug in front of the fireplace. Was it wrong of her to feel a little resentful of his assumption that almost-midnight was a perfectly reasonable time to appear with a yule log to burn?

  Seemingly oblivious, Owen reached into his pocket and pulled out a fragment of wood. ‘I brought the piece of last year’s log, so we can use it to light this one.’

  It was a midwinter tradition that stretched back centuries, an ancient celebration of the longest night that meant the days would soon get shorter. Most people would recognise the log-shaped cakes that filled the shop shelves from the start of November but few would know what they represented, much less go to the trouble of acquiring exactly the right kind of log to burn. The fact that Owen took the little ceremony so seriously was one of the things that Nessie liked most about him.

  Her mood softened a little. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  That was part of the tradition too; something warming to toast the year that had been and ask for blessings for the year to come. Owen had chosen whisky last time, smooth peaty Ardbeg that Nessie had tasted on his lips many times since then. She waited, trying not to place any significance on his choice this evening. It didn’t mean anything, after all. But it wouldn’t do her any harm to know he was also remembering how things had been twelve months ago.

  Owen’s gaze narrowed in thought as he scanned the shelves behind the bar. ‘Perhaps a Merlot, if you’ve got a bottle open?’ he said eventually.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ she said, trying to ignore the crunch of disappointment. ‘I can’t think of a more perfect night for a glass of red.’

  Neither spoke as Nessie poured the wine. The fire crackled and sparked as the wood caught, loud in the silence. Owen sat in one of the armchairs that faced the fireplace, his face ruddy in the flicker of the flames. She placed the brimming glasses on the table and perched on the chair opposite.

  ‘Ready?’ Owen asked.

  When Nessie nodded, he positioned the yule log in the fireplace, sending a shower of sparks dancing in the air, and gripped the fragment of wood from the previous year in the tongs, thrusting it into the dying embers. Immediately, it caught light.

  ‘Here,’ he said, passing the tongs to Nessie. ‘Hold it under the roots – they’ll burn first.’

  He wasn’t wrong. Before long, greedy yellow flames were licking the roots and creeping along the mottled bark of the log. Owen watched for a few moments more, wanting to be sure that the new log was properly aflame, and then took the tongs back and motioned for Nessie to sit back. When they were both safely on their seats, and the log was starting to burn, he reached for his wine glass.

  ‘To the year that’s passed,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the fire, and the sadness in his voice almost broke Nessie’s heart. ‘We had some good times.’

  She held her breath, waiting for him to say something – anything – that might break the invisible barrier that had risen up between them. But he remained silent. And so she lifted her own glass. ‘To the year ahead. I hope… I hope it brings—’ Nessie stopped, unable to think of a way to express the need in her heart without causing Owen to feel worse than he did.

  ‘Peace,’ Owen said quietly, as the seconds ticked by. ‘I hope it brings us peace.’

  The word hung in the air, punctuated by the crackling flames. Nessie stared at Owen, who was staring at the fire as though it might reach out and grant his wish there and then; it wasn�
�t what she would have asked for, but perhaps it wasn’t a bad place to start. And perhaps once peace came, healing might start.

  Clinging onto that thought, Nessie tapped her glass softly against Owen’s and took a long slow mouthful of wine. ‘To peace,’ she said, once she’d swallowed.

  And hearts that heal, she added silently, watching the flames flicker.

  Chapter Seven

  Christmas Eve dawned frosty and pale; the kind of wintry day that made Sam grateful for her fur-lined boots and thick coat as she hurried to Martha’s for some last-minute mince pie supplies. Even the sky looked washed out – an insipid bluey-grey, instead of the biting brightness Sam usually associated with hoarfrost – and she doubted they would have snowfall the way they had the year before. Although she had to admit the village green looked almost as though it had snowed; the feathery white frost that covered the grass appeared, at first glance, as though a billion delicate flakes had settled there. The rooftops of the houses were glistening white too; the effect was like a living Christmas card and Sam couldn’t help wishing Gabe had seen it before he left for Spain. Although he must have seen frost before, she reminded herself, feeling foolish. And even if he hadn’t, he’d be back in time for the New Year’s Eve party and the current cold snap was forecast to continue well into January. There would be plenty more frosty mornings to come and, judging from Gabe’s cool manner as he’d said goodbye to her, not all of them would be outside the Star and Sixpence.

  ‘The order for the New Year’s Eve party menu will be arriving on 29th,’ he’d reminded her the day before as they’d stood in the bar, a small suitcase at his feet. ‘Don’t pack it away – I’ve arranged for Olivia to come in and inspect it. She’ll put everything away, ready for New Year’s Eve.’

  There hadn’t been a problem with the quality of the ingredients she’d ordered since his run-in with Laurie, but he obviously wasn’t taking any chances if he was making one of his sous-chefs come in especially to check the delivery. But Sam had merely nodded. ‘I understand.’

  He reached for his case. ‘I’ll be back on the 30th, but you’ve got Olivia’s number if there are any problems before then.’

  ‘Have a good trip,’ Sam said. ‘Feliz Navidad.’

  He almost smiled then. ‘Merry Christmas, Sam. I hope you get what you want.’

  Unlikely, Sam thought as she watched him walk away. Christmas might be a time for miracles, but even Santa couldn’t bring her the Gabe she’d known before Franny’s wedding.

  She shrugged the memory away as she pushed back the door of the bakery. A cloud of cinnamon-spiced warmth enveloped her and the warm voice of Michael Bublé singing ‘White Christmas’ lifted her mood.

  Martha beamed at her from across the glass counter. ‘And here she is – the very woman. We were just talking about you, Sam.’

  ‘Really?’ Sam said, glancing from the baker’s smiling face to old Mrs Harris and even older Miss Hudson. ‘All good things, I hope.’

  Miss Hudson nodded. ‘Of course, dear. We were just saying how very good you are at bringing attractive men to Little Monkham – first that lovely actor chap – what was his name again?’

  ‘Nick Borrowdale,’ Mrs Harris supplied promptly, her iron-grey curls bobbing with enthusiasm. ‘The one from Smuggler’s Inn.’

  ‘That’s him,’ Miss Hudson agreed. ‘And now Gabriel.’

  ‘The angel Gabriel,’ Martha said, with a distinctly unholy wink.

  Mrs Harris sighed. ‘I do love a man who can cook. What’s your secret, dear? How do you tempt them here?’

  Sam laughed. ‘I don’t have a secret. It’s the Star and Sixpence they come for, not me.’

  It wasn’t strictly true; Nick had only ventured to Little Monkham because she’d asked him to, long before they’d become an item. But he’d still tirelessly given his time to support the pub, so Sam told herself it wasn’t much of a lie.

  ‘Well, we’re very grateful,’ Martha said. She paused in the act of wrapping up Sam’s order. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much of either of them over Christmas.’

  Sam shook her head. ‘Gabe flew back to Seville yesterday, I’m afraid. And I don’t actually know what Nick is doing at the moment – the last I heard, he was filming in Morocco. You’ll have to make do with Micky Holiday.’

  Now it was Miss Hudson who sighed. ‘If only.’

  ‘He’s performing at the New Year’s Eve party,’ Sam said, lifting the boxes of mince pies from the counter top. ‘Nessie and I will make sure there’s plenty of mistletoe around if it helps?’

  ‘Just make sure Ruby isn’t looking,’ Martha said. ‘Now, I don’t suppose we’ll see you at the carol service this afternoon, will we?’

  Sam shook her head. ‘No, Nessie has decided she wants to go, so I’ll be mulling the wine and warming the mince pies ready for you all afterwards.’

  ‘Very important work,’ Mrs Harris said approvingly. ‘Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the fayre on the green.’

  ‘Very true,’ Miss Hudson said. ‘But don’t let us keep you, dear. I’m sure you still have lots of preparation to do.’

  ‘I have,’ Sam said, wondering if anyone in Little Monkham thought she was capable of doing her job. She dredged up a cheery voice and smiled as she left the shop. ‘See you later, ladies. Happy carolling!’

  *

  The carol service was every bit as festive as Nessie remembered. St Mary’s was resplendent in red, gold and green, with wreaths of glorious many-berried holly wrapped around the tall candlesticks that flanked either side of the nativity scene on the altar. Father Goodluck was in jolly form as he led the congregation through the readings and much-loved songs. Lit up by the glow of the candles all around her, it did Nessie’s heart good to hear Owen and Luke singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and hers was not the only jaw to drop when Micky stood up and delivered a flawless first verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. Who would have suspected that his raspy rock vocals hid a beautiful tenor voice that caused goosebumps, Nessie wondered as she listened in spellbound delight. Franny would be rubbing her hands with glee at the thought of recruiting him to the choir.

  Eventually, the service wound its way to ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. Nessie had planned to sneak out early to help Sam, but she found herself wedged in between Henry and Martha’s husband, Rob, and she didn’t want to disturb them. So she held her candle high and tried not to worry whether she was hitting all the notes. It certainly didn’t seem to be something that troubled Henry.

  As the final organ notes died away, Henry blew out his candle and turned to Nessie. ‘Merry Christmas, in case I miss you at the fayre,’ he said, pressing his hands on hers and squeezing in a way that conveyed more than he ever could with words. ‘See you on Boxing Day for a lunchtime pint.’

  All Nessie’s hopes of making a quick getaway were thwarted by the kindness of the people around her. Few of them mentioned the miscarriage directly, but the acknowledgement of her loss was present in every smile, every warm word, every hug. By the time the crowd had thinned enough for Nessie to think about making for the door, her throat ached and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. But they weren’t tears of sadness; they were tears born from feeling supported, from being surrounded by good wishes and love.

  Luke dashed past the end of Nessie’s pew, his face alight as he chased one of his friends. She opened her mouth to remind him to take care on the well-worn flagstones, but he was gone before she could get the warning out. And then she saw Owen, head bowed in front of the altar, gazing down at the nativity scene with slumped shoulders.

  ‘Go to him,’ a soft voice urged, and Nessie turned to see Ruby hovering a few feet away, compassion etched across her elegant features. ‘He needs you.’

  ‘I don’t think he does,’ Nessie replied helplessly. ‘He’s shut me out – won’t even talk to me.’

  ‘Because he’s trying to be strong,’ Ruby said. ‘Men aren’t supposed to feel the loss of a baby as keenly as a woman – t
hat’s society’s expectation, isn’t it? But it’s my experience that we all grieve when we lose something we love. Why should Owen Rhys be any different?’

  The words caused a lump to form in Nessie’s throat. She took a slow steadying breath and held onto the cool hard wood of the pew. ‘Kathryn says he was like this when Eliza died too.’

  ‘He was,’ Ruby agreed. ‘But that’s the trouble with the deep ones. They retreat far inside when something hurts and they don’t always see that others are hurting too.’

  Nessie glanced across at Owen again. He didn’t seem to have moved; she wasn’t sure he was even aware that everyone around him had gone.

  ‘The saddest thing is that neither of you needs to struggle alone,’ Ruby went on. ‘Go to him now. Join your pain with his. I promise you it helps.’

  Nessie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  ‘And don’t worry about the fayre, or the pub,’ Ruby finished, with the faintest hint of severity. ‘We’ll cope.’

  But Nessie was already moving, slipping out of the row and making her way down the aisle to where Owen stood as though carved from wood. She waited at his shoulder for a moment, unsure what to do next, then she slid her hand into his and followed the line of his stare.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but understanding hit her like a heavyweight punch when she realised what had him so transfixed: the small wooden cradle, which would remain empty until the Christmas Day service. The cradle she’d worked hard to avoid seeing until now.

  They stood for a few moments, side by side, as the last of the congregation made for the exit. There was a solid thud as the door swung closed, shutting out the cheerful chatter of the crowd, and then the silence settled around them.

  His breathing gave him away. At first, Nessie thought she had imagined the catch, the faint irregularity that reminded her of her own efforts to hold back tears. She forced her own breathing to slow and listened hard, her fingers clutching his. When the second barely audible sob came, she was sure and felt an answering call go out from her own sorrow. Her fingers tightened around his.