by Lucy Coleman
SNOWFLAKES OVER HOLLY COVE
Lucy Coleman
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About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.ariafiction.com
About Snowflakes Over Holly Cove
As the snowflakes start to fall, the village of Holly Cove welcome a new tenant to the beautiful old cottage on the beach…
For lifestyle magazine journaist Tia Armstrong, relationships, as well as Christmas, have lost all their magic. Yet Tia is up against a Christmas deadline for her latest article Love is, actually, all around…
So Tia heads to Holly Cove where the restorative sea air, and rugged stranger Nic, slowly but surely start mending her broken heart.
Tia didn’t expect a white Christmas, and she certainly never dared dream that all her Chiristmas wishes might just come true…
Set in Caswell Bay on the stunningly rugged Gower Coast, the cottage nestles amid the limestone cliffs and the woodlands; the emotions run as turbulently as the windswept sea.
As cosy as a marshmallow-topped cup of cocoa, fall in love with a heart-warming festive story from the bestselling author of The French Adventure.
Contents
Welcome Page
About Snowflakes Over Holly Cove
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Four months, three weeks and four days later…
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Wednesday, 21st of December…
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
About Lucy Coleman
Also by Lucy Coleman
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
To Mark and Jim
Thank you for bringing sunshine into my life every single day, even when the rain is hammering down outside.
Love you always and forever. x
Prologue
Mum and I link arms, faces turned upwards towards the heavens. Our eyes scan the dense and strangely opaque grey sky, as a flurry of large snowflakes rain down upon us. Like a feather pillow which has burst its seams, we are bombarded by a cascade of soft, white clusters of icy crystals. Having to constantly blink away the fluffy white particles as they hit our eyelashes, we hug each other and begin laughing, totally enthralled.
With cheeks starting to glisten as the ice melts on contact, already the heavier flakes begin to settle on our hair and thick winter coats. As carefree as children, we survey the scene in awe. The street outside our boutique hotel is being turned into a winter wonderland in front of our eyes.
The combination of a heavily-laden sky and the soft carpet beneath our feet muffles every little sound; even our footsteps no longer echo as we head off in search of the bright lights. I know that this is a memory that will be etched on our minds forever, as Mum squeezes my arm and turns to smile at me. I feel like Santa dispensing a little Christmas magic, as what I see reflected in her eyes is a moment of almost child-like happiness and joy. And to me that is priceless.
As we turn the corner, ahead of us is a cacophony of sounds softened by the backdrop that is almost a mini blizzard now – a snow globe brought to life. The traffic has slowed, but horns still toot and sirens still screech; a city that never sleeps cannot be stopped.
With last-minute shoppers and people now eager to make their way home, the sidewalks are so busy that the pitching snow is quickly trampled underfoot. Being swept along with the crowd, as if we are New Yorkers and not merely visitors, it’s easy to soak up the ambience.
Suddenly, a guy wearing a Santa outfit appears in front of us ringing a small hand bell and holding up a bucket, part-filled with coins. He’s an older man and his beard and moustache appear to be real. I’m guessing the flowing white hair is a wig, as it’s as white as the snowflakes that continue to fall. It looks like some of that padding around the middle might not actually be padding, though. He’s even wearing half-moon glasses, perched low on his nose. Everything about him embodies the Santa images I remember from my childhood.
‘Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas, ladies. Do you have a few coins to spare to make my bucket a little fuller? Help the homeless at Christmas.’
Mum turns her head to look at me, a bemused smile on her face. We immediately dive into our handbags to pull out a handful of coins each, that clatter as we throw them into the bucket.
‘Merry Christmas and I hope it’s a truly wonderful one for you both.’
‘Thank you, Santa, and good luck filling that bucket.’
His eyes crinkle up when he smiles back at us and for some reason he reaches out to place his gloved hand on Mum’s shoulder.
‘The season’s blessings upon you, my dear. Enjoy this special holiday.’
With that he moves on past us, leaving Mum and me to stare after him as he continues to greet people and accept donations. Even when Mum and I link arms and begin moving forward again, the tinkling sound of that little bell seems to float on the air.
‘It’s like another world,’ Mum exclaims, totally captivated and more than a little overwhelmed by the skyline that towers above us.
‘So good, they named it twice – the city and the state!’
Ahead of us a Starbucks offers a chance to warm ourselves up a little and we hurry inside. There’s a table for two in the window and I settle Mum down before I head off to order our coffees.
In the background the sounds of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree add to the lively and festive atmosphere. Most of the people who are seated have a pile of carrier bags stuffed beneath their seats and there’s a real buzz in the air as the holiday season is about to begin.
‘Eggnog Latte or Chestnut Praline Latte?’
Mum looks up at me, raising her eyebrows and giving a shrug of her shoulders. ‘Surprise me!’
‘Eggnog Latte, then. Why not?’
When it’s cool enough for her to take that first sip, a little smile creeps over her face.
‘This reminds me of my father. He always made eggnog at Christmas. It was his only contribution, as my mother even carved the turkey.’ She laughs to herself, transported back to a special moment goodness knows how many years ago.
‘I’m not even sure how it’s made,’ I admit. I’m pretty sure it’s a drink I’ve never tried.
‘The secret is in the nutmeg, he always said. It’s milk, cream, a little cinnamon and vanilla mixed with eggs, sugar and bourbon. It was a luxury in those days. Even the smell of it conjures up Christmas, to me.’
It’s wonderful to sit here and hear her talking about Christmases from her own childhood. ‘This is truly magical, Tia, thank you so very much. My wonderful, darling daughter, what would I do without you in my life? Spending time with you is gift enough, so today I’m doubly blessed.’
I vowed
then, that in future we’ll celebrate every Christmas Eve in style at a very special destination. I can’t think of a better way to repay her for all those wonderful Christmas memories from my childhood. Losing my father, and then a family row distancing my brother from us, has blighted far too many Christmases already.
Our first trip had to be New York; home of the iconic yellow taxi cab, Central Park and the Statue of Liberty. And, of course, the setting for one of the greatest Christmas movies of all time: Miracle on 34th Street. But who knows where we’ll be this time next year? My only wish is that the snowflakes will begin to fall, as that’s the little bit of magic that makes Christmas special, no matter what age you are.
1
Christmas Past
Tiredness from a long, foot-wearying but exciting day sees Mum sinking into a deep sleep almost as soon as her head touches the soft, one-thousand thread count Egyptian cotton pillowcase.
In the semi-light, I glance across at her bed on the far side of the room and wish I could see her face, but her back is towards me. I wonder if today was too much for her, and whether tomorrow we should be a little less ambitious in our plans. I forget that time marches on and with it come the aches and pains she says are only natural at her age. Not wishing to spoil the festive mood I push aside my worries and indulgently allow my thoughts to wander.
So, what was the best Christmas you can remember, Tia? I ask myself. Gazing up at the ceiling, I find myself smiling as images flash across my mind. Like little vignettes, curiously colourless for some reason, as if each is merely a shadow. But the emotions I feel as I become a voyeur of my own memories are powerful. Tears begin to form in the corners of my eyes and I have to suck in a deep breath, for fear of letting out a howling sob. Dad and Will’s faces appear and my chest constricts with anguish for what has been lost.
As I concentrate on sorting a random collection of clips into some semblance of order, I begin to realise that the best Christmas was actually the one shortly after Dad had been made redundant. The company he worked for had closed their doors overnight; it was a family concern going back three generations and the news came as a bitter blow to everyone. I didn’t really understand what was happening at the time, only that money was suddenly very tight. Every interview he attended in the days leading up to Christmas was dispiriting. He would come home with a deep frown on his face and I clearly remember him talking about which of his ex-colleagues were at the same interview. But Mum and Dad counted their blessings; they had some savings and Mum knew how to make a pound stretch.
‘Waste not, want not as my mother used to say,’ was her favourite little quote in those days.
But our Christmases had never been about over–indulgence, partly because Mum’s parents weren’t well-off and her upbringing had made her appreciate the small things in life. The things which really matter because it helps to raise your spirits and spread the joy. So, our holiday celebrations were all about family and friends we welcomed into our house to join in the singing and general merriment. Mum cooked everything herself from scratch and we ate well but the focus was on feeding many, not overly indulging a few. The presents were never extravagant, with my brother and I each receiving one special present and then sharing several smaller things with which we could both play. Mainly books and board games which could be passed on once we’d tired of them.
But the year of Dad’s redundancy Mum gathered us all around the kitchen table, poured out a cup of tea and placed a slice of Victoria sandwich cake in front of each of us.
‘This year I think it would nice if we made the gifts we give to each other. What do you think?’
I was nine at the time and thought I was very grown up; the Santa thing was no longer a part of my vocabulary but looking back now I missed the impact that rite of passage had on Mum. She had kept that little bit of Christmas magic going as long as she could and Will later told me she’d warned him not to spoil it for me. Ironic then that the year it was over for me was also the year of great upheaval and uncertainty for our future. Her head must have been in a spin and her heart heavy, but she didn’t show it.
Anyway, Dad had nodded, his own head too full of anxiety about his latest interview and the long wait over the Christmas holidays to find out whether he’d been successful. Whether his luck was in, as he referred to it.
Will and I had raised our eyebrows and exchanged a glance. I don’t think either of us were thinking about ourselves, but what on earth could we possibly make to give as gifts? Usually we saved our pocket money and Mum would take us into town a week or so before the big day. It was fun hunting around for something small but meaningful we could wrap up and lay beneath the tree.
‘Bet I can make something better than you can,’ Will had chided me and the challenge was on.
Mum made us each a personal hamper. Simple baskets purchased from the Saturday market but filled with our favourite homemade biscuits and sweets. Mine had marzipan fruits, shortbread biscuits with lemon zest and fudge.
Dad utilised his love of working with wood and I had a box in which to store my treasures. He’d carved apple blossoms into the lid and it’s still one of my most treasured possessions. Mum received a blanket box and Will an ornate shelf to display some of his sports trophies.
Will invented his own board game and I have to say it was pretty good. Based on the old snakes and ladders concept, he’d brought it up to date by using a space setting with black holes and jet packs. Well, at the time we all thought it was rather good and it passed many a happy hour over the holiday.
Me? I knitted everyone a scarf with oversized knitting needles the thickness of cotton reels. The results were like something out of Dr Who’s wardrobe but in terms of reaction and the amount of laughter generated, my presents won that day. Mind you, I can’t ever recall seeing any of them wearing the fruits of my labour. Just this one memory alone is enough, though, to put a smile back on my face and remind me that even the hard times were good. I just didn’t have enough life experience to appreciate that fact.
Mum had somehow rescued what could have been a rather dismal Christmas just by being a source of constant inspiration and positivity for us all. She made sure our home was filled with love and laughter; her family always came first.
It was early in the new year that Dad was offered the position and we all breathed a sigh of relief. However, it was tinged with sadness because so many of the families around us were still counting the pennies. Men desperate to work were going from one interview to the next on a rollercoaster ride of rejection after rejection. We constantly had school friends to tea as Mum and Dad kept a close eye on the kids in the neighbourhood. A little hot food was appreciated and we learnt a lot about sharing in times of need from the example our parents set us.
Maybe I’ll dig those old needles out of my treasure box and surprise Mum next Christmas with a new scarf. We can then sit and laugh about old times because it’s true what they say, laughter is good for the soul.
Four months, three weeks and four days later…
2
Life Goes On
‘Welcome back, Tia, you’ve been missed. Glad to see you looking so well.’
Clarissa Cooper doesn’t do sympathy, or empathy. My gut instincts tell me that’s probably going to be the full extent of my back-to-work interview. Even the chief editor can’t ignore HR’s policy for staff returning to work after being out on compassionate leave.
In fairness, Love a Happy Ending lifestyle magazine is a little empire. With its print sales, website and app, it runs like a well-oiled machine. Since Clarissa took over two years ago, sales have steadily climbed and no one could ask for a better mentor.
I suck in a deep breath as quietly as I can, thinking that if I keep my mind focused on getting through this meeting, then I’m less likely to embarrass myself and dissolve into tears.
‘I have an exciting project lined up and the whole team agree that you are the right person to tackle it. How do you feel about three articles, each on
e looking at two very different types of relationship? They are due to run in the November, December and January issues and will look at what makes the relationships work.
‘We’ve already picked the couples from varying backgrounds and age groups. Our readers will be keen to know how they keep the love alive. How does love change as the years go by? What sort of gifts do they give each other at Christmas? I want pages oozing with sentimental festive cheer. And the January one should slant towards New Year resolutions and shared goals for the coming year. It’s going to be our biggest headline this winter and we’re all very excited about it. We’re going to run this in tandem with a series of competitions sponsored by Green Fern Spa Centres and we will be giving away one hundred vouchers for free his and hers pamper sessions.’
I was right. Her employer obligations have been fulfilled; box ticked, now back to the business in hand, which isn’t simply hitting those sales targets, but knocking them for six.
My stomach sinks into my boots. Clarissa Cooper’s steely-grey eyes sweep over me, appraising my reaction rather like a fine-tuned minesweeper in action. If I hesitate now she’ll know I’m not ready to come back yet, and warning bells will start sounding in her head. I can’t risk being side-lined for some younger, smarter version of me, because Mum would be horrified to see me throwing away all those years of hard graft.
‘Great. I love the idea – sounds exciting.’
My mother died four weeks ago today and it’s my first day back. Interviewing loved-up couples gushing over their wonderful relationships is about as surreal to me at this moment as the fact that I can’t pick up the phone and talk to Mum. Still, not bad, Tia, you managed to sound enthused. That’s quite an achievement, especially since you have just waved goodbye to thirty and obviously have no idea at all how to keep a long-term relationship alive. I ease my shoulders back and down, forcing my body not to sag and I seem to have convinced Clarissa I’m up to the task.
