Christmas at Hope Cottage: A magical feel-good romance novel

by Lily Graham

  Not today, thought Emma, getting up with some difficulty. She shrugged into her fluffy pink robe, which clashed rather magnificently with her badly-in-need-of-a-brush red hair, and hobbled away with her crutch. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk,’ she said pointedly, Pennywort following at her heels.

  ‘No, stay,’ said Evie, patting the chair next to her.

  Emma snorted. ‘That’s okay, thanks,’ she said, shuffling into the living room where she closed the door and leaned against it, fighting the sudden wave of nausea from her hazy vision as well as something else, a feeling that always came whenever she was here: the urge to get involved despite her better judgement; but she wasn’t going to get sucked back in to the family madness – not if she could help it.

  She made her way to the sofa and closed her eyes. Waking up only to need a nap seemed like a bad sort of joke, but that’s what her life had turned into lately.

  * * *

  Emma woke up a few hours later when Pennywort started to scratch at the door to be let outside. Emma got off the sofa with some difficulty, crossing the flagstone floor into the now mercifully empty kitchen. When Emma opened the back door though, the breath caught in her throat; there across the low wall of their garden, next to a lolloping black Newfoundland dog, who looked almost as big as a baby bear, stood Jack Allen. Despite her hazy vision, she’d recognise him anywhere.

  She felt her throat turn dry. Her knees turn weak. It had been four years since she’d seen him last, since she’d left Whistling in a storm of hurt and pain, with the vow that she would do whatever it took to get over him.

  She’d almost succeeded – or so she’d thought. It was most unfortunate, she realised, standing there in her fluffy pink, dog-hair-covered robe, with one arm and leg in a cast, hair a wild, rust-coloured mess, to discover that somehow, despite everything, she still felt exactly the same way about him as she always had.

  Chapter Three

  Jack was gaping at her from across the garden wall, where he’d come to a complete stop, his dog barking at his heels.

  Emma closed her eyes, fought for calm and lost. She’d been thinking of this moment for years, and what she’d do when she saw him again. Somehow it had never included standing in her fluffy robe, looking like an extra from The Walking Dead, wincing in sudden pain as her broken foot started to throb when she put pressure on it as she shifted on her crutch.

  She’d hoped to get back inside the cottage before he saw her but it was too late. He’d already opened the low garden gate in a rush, his mouth forming her name in shock.

  It didn’t help that, despite her fuzzy vision that still showed her most things in repeat, he looked, if possible, even better than she remembered. It wasn’t fair that age did that to men. As he neared she saw that his face was leaner, his features more defined. But it was the familiarity that made the ache in her chest bloom, an ache that was separate from her injuries. He was still the same, same trim, athletic build, same dark blond hair that he used to twirl with his fingers whenever he was thinking of something, same hazel eyes that crinkled around the corners and made her feel like the only girl who’d ever existed; a dangerous trait, because, as she knew, that wasn’t always true, was it?

  Jack’s beautiful eyes were wide with concern now as they trailed over the purple bruises on her face, the scabs from where her face had grazed the road and the casts on her arm and leg. His hand reached out as if to touch her, then stopped, as if he remembered himself. ‘Emma! I heard you’d been in an accident but I had no idea it was this bad. What happened?’

  She cursed Pennywort for needing to go outside at this exact moment. What was Jack Allen doing here now? This was not how she had wanted him to see her. If she had pictured seeing him again it was with her looking happy, dressed in something glamorous and in the arms of Pete, not in her pyjamas, with a face full of bruises, unwashed hair and a head full of scrambled senses.

  She explained about the postal van, though she didn’t go into detail about her other injuries. There just wasn’t a casual way to bring up brain damage.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, staring at her.

  She felt her stomach flip, wishing he wouldn’t look at her that way.

  She bit her lip, looked away.

  ‘Thanks.’

  There was an awkward silence, in which neither of them knew what to say to the other after how they’d left things four years before.

  ‘Look—’ he started but was interrupted by his dog, who was trying his best to mount Penny, to the old bulldog’s utter horror.

  ‘Sorry – he’s a bit too friendly,’ he said with a laugh, breaking the tension and pulling the bear-like dog away from Pennywort, who looked deeply affronted. Emma couldn’t help snorting at the bulldog’s outraged expression.

  ‘Well, I should probably go…’ said Jack hesitantly, his eyes darting past her to the door, which stood open behind them. ‘Don’t want Evie to come out and curse me,’ he joked.

  She couldn’t help the furrow that appeared between her eyes. ‘You think she would?’

  He looked embarrassed, his mouth opening, perhaps for some wry comeback that never materialised.

  ‘I thought the Allens didn’t believe in any of that.’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah, well—’

  There was a sound from behind and they both started.

  ‘Emma!’ said a voice she didn’t recognise.

  She blinked, looking for the source. With the usual confusion of sounds and senses since her accident, she pictured stretches of long sandy beach, sunshine and cocktail umbrellas and tequila sipped out of short glasses. Then a tall handsome man, with an unruly mop of dark curly hair and large, laughing brown eyes, stepped out in front of her. He seemed to have been drawn in bold black lines; despite her patchy double vision, he, unlike everyone else so far, appeared in sharp relief. He was wearing black, from his long-sleeved V-neck sweater to his jeans and low, leather boots, yet somehow it was like he was in technicolour.

  He came forward and squeezed her shoulder, as if they were lifelong friends. She blinked, trying to find speech, but her mouth just hung open somewhat stupidly.

  The stranger winked at her. ‘I heard a lot about you,’ he said. His accent was mild and lyrical, Spanish, she realised. He gave her a knowing sort of grin as if they were sharing a grand old joke. ‘Looks like The Book did its magic after all, eh? They – what’s the word – oh yes, dithered!’ He laughed, throwing his head back, as he slapped a knee. A dimple appeared in his tanned cheek, making him handsomer still. ‘They dithered for a long time before they finally sent it.’

  ‘What?’ she breathed, shooting a nervous glance at Jack, who seemed to have taken an unconscious step backwards. The stranger didn’t appear to notice. He just kept staring at her in utter delight.

  ‘What are you taking about?’ she asked, blinking.

  He grinned, showing off very white, even teeth. Making the dimple grow deeper. ‘It worked. I mean, you’re here now, eh?’

  ‘I’ll see you soon Emma, I better take Gus away,’ said Jack, indicating his dog. ‘Come on,’ he said, separating Gus from Pennywort again. ‘I – er, hope you get better soon,’ he said, then turned and left.

  Emma opened and closed her mouth, stopping herself, just in time, from asking him to stay. The strange man regarded her with an amused look for a little longer, and then he winked and headed inside the cottage, Pennywort following, devotedly, at his heels.

  Emma blinked, watching Jack leave, feeling torn for a moment, then turned to follow the stranger inside, too. She crossed an arm over her cast, hoping that she looked a little more intimidating than she felt. ‘I’m sorry – not to be rude, but who the bloody hell are you?’

  The stranger stopped in his tracks. ‘I’m Sandro,’ he said, a slightly confused look on his face, as if that name should have meant something to her.

  ‘Sandro,’ she repeated, recalling, distantly, something that Evie had said about someone named Sandro… though she couldn’t remembe
r what, exactly. ‘Okay? And what exactly are you doing here?’

  His brown eyes widened. ‘I live here.’ He smiled, and the dimple appeared in his cheek.

  She blinked, wondering if her ears had played tricks on her again. They were wont to do that sort of thing since her accident. Music could sound like lawnmowers and people’s voices could sound like swarms of insects.

  ‘You live here?’ she repeated.

  He cocked his head to the side, frowned. ‘Didn’t Evie tell you?’

  Slowly, she shook her head.

  He smiled at her sadly, his dark eyes trailing over her injuries, clucking sympathetically while he muttered something in Spanish. Something that sounded a little like ‘Pajarita’, as he shook his head.

  Emma ignored this. ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Scuse?’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’ she asked, shuffling to the kitchen table, where she took a seat, balancing her crutch against the table edge, her unhurt leg shaking. She could feel a headache coming on.

  ‘In the annexe.’

  It was just off the kitchen, a small one-room studio with a view of the garden.

  She stared at him. None of this made any sense. Why hadn’t Evie told her? Part of her couldn’t help being annoyed that he’d chosen that moment to come home, just when she’d seen Jack again, though she knew this was ridiculous; she hadn’t wanted to see Jack anyway, right? And she certainly hadn’t wanted him to see her, not like this.

  There was a swarm of excited babbling, and Emma heard three familiar voices bickering slightly as they made their way into the kitchen.

  ‘I told you she’s resting,’ came Evie’s voice.

  ‘Excuse me,’ huffed a throaty voice, ‘my niece was hit by a bloody van, the least I can do is come and see if she’s okay—’

  ‘Exactly, Evie, we’re her family too, if you don’t mind. It’s just like when she first came to live here all over again, how you tried to keep her for yourself…,’ came a voice like runny honey.

  ‘Keep her to myself?’ huffed Evie. ‘She’d just lost her parents you bubble-head. I was trying to ease her in and you barged in then too, overwhelming her with talk of the recipes and—’

  ‘Barged in? Barged in!?’

  Sandro looked at her. ‘I’d offer to hide you, but I don’t think we’d make it,’ he said, indicating the path to the front door.

  Despite everything, she found herself grinning with him as her aunts, followed by Evie, came tearing inside. Dot’s plump, cheerful face paled. She clutched her chest when she saw her. Aggie’s eyes looked like they were about to pop.

  ‘Hi,’ said Emma. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’

  They blinked. Dot’s glasses grew foggy as tears pricked her eyes. It obviously looked pretty bad.

  Ten minutes later, after Sandro had retreated with a mild ‘adios’ and a sandwich, Aggie looked at her, across from her cup of cold tea. She’d tried to escape to the sofa three times, but no such luck. They wanted details. All of them.

  ‘So, we heard, you’ve literally lost your senses?’

  ‘I didn’t say it like that—,’ began Evie at the same time that Dot protested ‘Aggie!’ at her sister’s bluntness, then looked at Emma, her eyes magnified enormously behind their thick lenses. ‘Is she right? Evie said they were a jumble?’

  Emma nodded, though it was painful to nod.

  ‘But how can you hear or see us, then?’ she asked with a frown.

  Looking from one to the other was making her eyes strain even more; she massaged her temples, and closed her eyes.

  ‘They’re not all lost, exactly; essentially they’re just a mess. I can see, just not clearly, things go in and out of focus,’ she said thinking of Sandro and how, strangely, he’d seemed as clear as glass, whereas everything else looked like it was shrouded in a fine mist. ‘I can hear, but it can get confusing when people talk at once. I’ve got rather good at reading lips. But, I can’t smell or taste anything,’ she said glumly. This last was the worst.

  ‘Nothing?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘And touch?’

  ‘Things don’t always feel right – it’s like a muddle at times… Things that are usually soft can feel hard, like, say, the wind on my skin, which can sometimes feel like a burn, or I may feel nothing at all when really, I should,’ she said, thinking of the blood tests that had been taken before she left the hospital and how surprised she’d been to see a needle sticking out of her arm. Perhaps what made it worse was that things weren’t always muddled – but that was also a concern, because there was always the surprise, sometimes painful, when they were.

  ‘Do they know how long before you recover?’

  ‘No, all we can do is wait and hope,’ answered Evie. ‘And make sure she gets plenty of rest,’ she said pointedly, though of course they both ignored her and made no move to leave.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she told Evie with a small smile. ‘Honestly, it’s like I’m tired either way – when I sleep or when I don’t, I feel about the same really.’

  Dot clucked sympathetically. Then she gave her a wink, jerking her head in the direction of the annexe. Her eyes, behind their jam-jar lenses, wide. ‘That should make you feel a bit better though, I mean you can still see him, right?’

  ‘Imagine all of that, on your doorstep,’ agreed Aggie, her eyes going slightly misty.

  Emma narrowed her eyes, and then looked from Dot to Evie, pointedly. ‘Actually, I want to have a word with you about that.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Evie, her tone mild, as if they were discussing the weather and not some relative stranger living in their home.

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘Who the hell is he? How come you never said anything about him?’

  ‘Oh!’ said Evie, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Haven’t you met before?’

  Emma blinked. ‘No.’

  ‘Didn’t I mention him before?’

  ‘You did not.’

  Dot and Aggie were watching the proceedings with amused shock on their faces. ‘Who could fail to mention Sandro?’ Dot asked Aggie, who shook her head and said, ‘Caramba.’

  Then they dissolved into what Emma could only think of as unhelpful giggles.

  Evie rolled her eyes at them. ‘Well, there’s not much to say really. He’s Sandro, and he’s my tenant, for a little while anyway.’

  Emma thought of how odd he seemed – how familiar he’d been, and how at ease he seemed with the cottage and their mad recipes, how he’d spoken of The Book, so ready to believe that it worked.

  ‘You just let some crazy guy come live here without telling me about it?’

  Evie tutted. ‘He isn’t crazy, love, he’s Spanish.’

  Then, as if the conversation were now closed, she looked at her sisters and said, ‘So I suppose we should start thinking about the plans for Christmas. If it’s anything like last year we’ll need to start planning a lot sooner, particularly when it comes to ordering ingredients, you know how we always get three times as many people coming by for a recipe during the holidays. Ann Brimble said we should think of doubling our flour order, we don’t want to run out halfway through the month like we did last year. And we should probably look into some new pie cutters too – the Appeasement Pie was a popular recipe last year. Oh, and Sandro asked if we wouldn’t mind helping him cater for Christmas dinner down at the Tapas Hut this year. He said that last year it was about thirty people and I said we could manage, I mean God knows we’ve done it informally for years, what difference does it make if we’re a little more formal about it?’

  Christmas at Hope Cottage was always a busy, festive and welcoming affair, the table laden with food, from Dot’s famous glazed ham to Evie’s Yorkshire pudding and fluffy rice drowning in gravy, and Aggie’s laughter booming off the walls. It was always a non-stop party, and everyone was invited. They were always good that way, making sure there wasn’t anyone who was spending the day alone, not if they could help it.

  Emma, though, wasn’t
really paying attention. All she’d heard was something about Sandro…

  They all nodded. Dot took out a small notebook and started jotting down ideas. ‘I agree, tapas just isn’t really Christmassy, sorry to say—’

  ‘Why is he here?’ interrupted Emma, who wasn’t about to let go the fact that Evie had let a stranger come to live at Hope Cottage; not without some explanation at least.

  Evie turned to her with a frown. ‘Sandro? Well, he needed a place to stay while his house is being renovated. He’s bought an old farmhouse see, and it didn’t make sense for him to waste his money at a B&B.’

  Emma frowned. ‘But it made sense to come here?’

  ‘Yes, when we have a perfectly good annexe. He’s paying me a bit of rent if that’s what you’re worried about; I told him not to, but he insisted, and it’s only temporary – just a few months really.’

  ‘What’s he doing in Whistling, though – it seems a strange place for him to end up, doesn’t it?’

  Evie and her aunts shared a look. ‘Was a girl, wasn’t it? Though I’m not sure if she lived here or London really. He said something about getting on a train and finding the Dales, and himself…’

  ‘What happened with the girl?’

  ‘Didn’t work out, never really got the details.’

  Evie turned back to her sisters. ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you, Mr Grigson came round this morning, can you believe it?’

  ‘No,’ breathed Dot in shocked tones. Everyone knew that Whistling’s resident curmudgeon, Mr Grigson, who ran the local hardware store just outside the village, near to her Uncle Joe’s auto dealership, had always been a little wary about Hope Cottage, especially the rumours that always accompanied it, giving any Halloway he saw a wide berth on the street.

  ‘No heart is braver than the one in love,’ Evie said sagely.

  ‘He’s eighty now if he’s a day!’ said Aggie.

  ‘Still in love, his old high-school sweetheart, Moira, apparently. He’s hoping they can rekindle the flame now that she’s single again – well, if only she’ll forgive an old transgression from their youth. It’s why he came, feels like he might need a little help.’