by Lucy Carey
Her mother’s eyes widened.
“Don’t worry,” Saoirse said. “I brought ingredients for a plain stuffing, too.”
Her mother’s expression softened immediately again and she went back to pulling and stretching out the dough in the bowl.
Saoirse was spooning coffee into a mug when her mother spoke out of nowhere.
“You know, I thought that concert was just lovely last night. You were all so wonderful.”
Saoirse stopped pouring water onto the instant coffee and looked at her mother. It wasn’t often she started a conversation, much less one where she was so confident in what she was saying.
“Thanks, Mum,” she said finally.
“And I thought your friend—that Roche girl whose mother is not well—she was just wonderful.” She stopped pounding at the dough and looked at Saoirse. “Will you tell her I said that?”
Saoirse nodded dumbly. It took a second for her mouth to catch up to the conversation.
“I will. Of course I will.”
Her mother started to worry the dough again slowly, but she kept talking as she worked. Saoirse abandoned her coffee on the counter so she could sit in front of the breakfast bar to give Clare her full attention.
“You know, I always liked that little girl. So funny and sure of herself. It’s a nice way for girls to be. I hope Suzanne teaches your niece to be the same.
“And her mother, June, she was always so kind to you. You were always happier when you came home from spending a day at their house.”
Saoirse waited for her mother to go on, but from somewhere upstairs, they heard a creak—maybe just a floorboard tightening. It was enough to stem her mother’s conversation again.
Saoirse gave it a few more moments until she was sure her mother wouldn’t speak again, and got up to finish making her coffee.
“Back in a minute, Mum,” she said but she knew her mother wouldn’t talk again for a while. She picked up her coffee and walked to the backdoor, pulling her phone out with one hand as she brought the coffee up to her mouth to sip with the other.
There was still a frost on the ground as she stepped out into the expansive, landscaped garden, and it crunched pleasantly under her foot as she made her way to the garden table to rest her coffee mug.
A few hardy birds were chirping in the trees, a robin landing on the bird feeder to pick at the offerings there.
Saoirse took a big breath of the thick, cold air. It filled her lungs and woke her up, the breath on exhalation white and fluffy as it met the air again.
She took out her phone.
Merry Christmas, Carolyn. Tell your mum I said so, too. xxx
She watched the robin hop off the feeder and onto the white, stone birdbath that had been there as long as she could remember. It dipped its beak in for a drink and then flew onto the grass.
The chill was starting to cut through her clothes now, so Saoirse turned to walk back inside. Her phone beeped, and she looked at the screen. Carolyn had messaged back.
Merry Christmas to you, too, Saoirse. I’m so glad to have found you again. On my way to see Mammy now. She wouldn’t stop talking about you after you left. Says I’m to bring you round to see her whenever you like. xxx
Carolyn smiled and put the phone back in her pocket. Tomorrow, when she went to see June and Carolyn, she’d count that as her Christmas Day. That was when she knew she’d only be around people who cared about her and had her best interests at heart.
She picked up her coffee mug again, grasping it between both hands. It was warm and comforting on her frost-chilled fingers.
She couldn’t even begin to guess how many potatoes they’d peeled by now. Her mother was still not talking much, except to ask whether something was done. They were roasting potatoes, mashing potatoes, making croquettes (no shop-bought ones for her father), and making a gratin.
They had a multitude of vegetables to make, too—mashed ones, glazed ones, boiled ones, and diced ones, of every shape, colour, and size.
About a half hour ago, Tom and Suzanne had burst into the house, loudly announcing their arrival to the hallowed halls of the Barrett House. They’d stuck their head in around the kitchen door—“I see you two are busy at it! We’ll leave you to it.”—before joining Saoirse’s father in the lounge for pre-dinner drinks.
They’d seen the kids for a just a few minutes—Simon had rushed into show them his two new yellow trucks—before Suzanne had shooed them out again.
“Nana and Auntie Saoirse are too busy for you to be bothering.”
Saoirse took her rage at that out on a bowl of mashed carrots. She should be in line for a Nobel Peace Prize with how she kept resisting the urge to kill that woman.
But in the quiet of the kitchen, with just the low hum of the oven and the buzzing of the extractor fan, Clare had started to talk again.
She was mashing butter into potatoes when it happened. She didn’t look up at Saoirse.
“You know, I saw you kissing that Roche girl last night—Carolyn, I should call her.”
Saoirse felt the colour drain from her cheeks as she tried to figure out what to say to that.
“You looked pretty happy to me,” her mother said in her whisper voice. “It’s good if she makes you happy.”
Her mother pounded the potatoes a couple more times before letting the masher drop with a clatter. She looked at Saoirse, her expression intense and searing.
“So what are you doing here with us today?” she asked angrily.
Saoirse put down the grater she’d been using to shower cheese over the gratin.
“What do you mean, Mum? I’m here to help you. I like cooking with you.”
She jumped a little at the strength of her mother’s voice when she spoke again; she’d never heard her mother speak so loudly or forcefully before.
“Well I don’t want you here, Saoirse Barrett. I want you to leave.”
Saoirse shook her head, desperately trying to make sense of what was happening, but she couldn’t figure out an answer.
Her mother wiped her hands on a tea towel and grabbed onto Saoirse’s arms. Though she was much smaller than Saoirse, her grip was strong.
“I’ve consigned myself to this prison of a marriage, to putting up with this horrible house and your father. But I don’t want that for you, you hear me? I don’t want you to make yourself miserable on Christmas Day because you want to help me.”
Saoirse stood frozen to the spot.
“But, Mum, this is too much work for you to do on your own. How are you going to get everything finished if I’m not here?”
Her mother thought hard and her voice shook on her next words. “Fuck it,” she said softly, and then louder, “Fuck it!”
If she’d never heard her mother speak loudly before, she’d certainly never heard her swear before. Saoirse stayed rooted to where she was, unable to process a response.
Her mother reached into one of the kitchen drawers and pulled out some tinfoil. She started wrapping dishes with the vigour of a mad chef.
“You bring all of this nice food over to that girl’s house and you have yourself a nice Christmas, do you hear me?”
Saoirse nodded dumbly.
“But Dad will want the gratin—”
“Fuck what your father wants!” Clare declared. “If he wants it so bad, he can try cook it for himself.”
She gave Saoirse a tight hug and leaned up on her tippy-toes to kiss her forehead.
“Now you go and enjoy yourself,” she said.
Five minutes later, after passing Trevor, Tom, and Suzanne’s confused faces in the dining room, Saoirse was sitting in her car, a big dish of gratin buckled into the passenger seat.
* * * * *
Carolyn was shoving a tiny roast chicken into the oven when she heard the doorbell ring. She looked at the clock as if that might give her some clue as to who was at the door—but there was no one due to visit her at all today.
She’d left her mother a little over an hour ago, chatt
y and energised from the fun the night before. Her mother had made her promise not to visit that evening and Carolyn had agreed, if only because June asked so little of her.
She clattered the oven door shut and walked to her front door. She was surprised when she opened it to see Saoirse with a stack of tinfoiled dishes; Saoirse looked almost as surprised to be standing there.
“Room for one more for dinner?” Saoirse asked, craning her head round the stack of dishes, and Carolyn laughed. She grabbed some of the dishes from the top.
“Of course. Come on in.”
Saoirse followed her into the kitchen and they put the dishes down on the counter. There were far too many for just the two of them; it would take days to eat it all.
“Tea?” Carolyn asked, and Saoirse nodded. Carolyn flicked the kettle on. “Not that I’m not delighted to have you, but what are you doing here?”
Saoirse held up her hands.
“I don’t even know. My mother kicked me out of the house and told me I was to eat dinner with you. I actually don’t know what’s happened to her.”
Carolyn quirked an eyebrow and shook her head. She wasn’t exactly dressed for guests; she’d changed into her pyjamas as soon as she’d gotten home, while Saoirse looked dressed for a catwalk in blue jeans, black knee-high boots, and a tailored white shirt.
“You’ll have to excuse the state of me,” Carolyn said apologetically.
“No need,” Saoirse said. “You look as beautiful to me as you always do.”
Carolyn brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and felt her stomach do a little tumble. Saoirse’s gaze did funny things to her.
“Oh, but I haven’t got you a present. I wasn’t sure if we were there yet.”
Saoirse shrugged.
“I haven’t got you anything either. Figured I’d pick something up before I came over tomorrow.”
Carolyn grinned and they stared at each other a few moments. On the counter, the kettle rumbled and shook as steam burst from the spout, before the button clicked off again.
“You know, there is one thing I can think of that we haven’t given each other yet,” Saoirse said in a throaty voice that sent darts of excitement straight to Carolyn’s knees.
Saoirse bent down to kiss Carolyn on the mouth, pulling at her pyjama top as she did, until it was over Carolyn’s head and on the floor.
Saoirse kissed her again and Carolyn’s skin prickled, from the desire that rippled through her and from the touch of the air on her bare skin.
“Merry Christmas, Carolyn Roche,” Saoirse said breathlessly as they broke from the kiss.
“Merry Christmas to you, Saoirse Barrett,” Carolyn replied as she took Saoirse by the hand and led her upstairs.
About the Author
Lucy Carey is thirty-something-year-old woman who was born and raised in a small town in Ireland. She writes sweet romances that focus on lesbian and bisexual women. In her spare time, she drinks too much tea, tries to hold onto her youth by listening to too-old rock, metal, and alternative music, or binges on films of every genre.
Carolyn for Christmas is her second lesbian romance novella.
Email: [email protected]
Facebook: facebook.com/lucycareyromance
NineStar Press, Ltd.
www.ninestarpress.com
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