Holly’s First Noel

by Faye Robertson

  “I’ll make some tea.”

  He nodded, giving her a small smile.

  They pottered around in the kitchen, Holly shivering slightly as she poured the hot water into the cups. Noel’s friend had left the central heating on, but it was a bitter night, and the cold was sending long fingers beneath the doors.

  “I’ll make a fire in a minute,” Noel said, putting the sandwiches onto plates. “You done?”

  “Yep.”

  He picked up the plates and she got the mugs, and he led the way through to the smaller living room.

  There he hesitated. “I thought I’d use this one and you could have the bigger one.”

  She nodded. “Okay.” She put his mug on the table and turned to go.

  “But just for tonight, do you want to stay here, to save lighting two fires?”

  She frowned. She’d planned to play her guitar for a while—she felt tense and achy from the journey and playing always helped her relax, but she didn’t want to be rude. “Um…”

  “Do you know the Beatles song ‘Something’?”

  She stared at him. “Er, yes. Why?”

  He put their plates on the table and bent to start work on the fire. “Can you play it on your guitar?”

  “Sure.”

  “Would you play it for me?”

  She studied him for a moment. He didn’t look up, placing firelighters under the kindling before setting light to them and beginning to load the grate with larger logs. Starting to smile, she turned and walked through to the other living room, retrieved the Gretsch, and brought it back.

  They ate their sandwiches while they read their books and watched the fire gradually spring to life, and then Holly put down her book and unzipped her guitar case. She spent thirty seconds tuning it, watching Noel out of the corner of her eye as he stretched out on the sofa, feet on the arm, looking drowsy but relatively content as he read his book. Then she started playing.

  She sang softly as she strummed, wondering as she did so why he’d requested the song, whether it was one that had special meaning to him and his wife. Perhaps they’d danced to it as their wedding. She glanced over, expecting to find his gaze fixed far in the distance, but to her surprise, he was watching her. He’d removed his glasses, and his eyes were calm and steady.

  When she finished the song, she looked up at him. “Want me to stop?”

  He didn’t answer her at first, studying her thoughtfully. “No. You’re quite good.”

  “Thank you. Throw a few pennies in the case, would you?”

  He gave her a wry smile. Winking at him, she turned in the armchair, resting her legs on the arm, and began to strum.

  After a while, she forgot he was there, forgot about everything but the hum of the wood against her chest and the squeak of her fingers on the strings. She played whatever songs filled her head, The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, and Jackie Wilson, old blues numbers by Robert Johnson and T-Bone Walker, modern folk and blues-rock like Jack Johnson and John Mayer. One song blended into the other, mirroring her butterfly mind, her fingers picking the notes and strumming automatically. She sang the words when she knew them and hummed when she didn’t.

  After half an hour or so, Noel got up, went into the kitchen, and reappeared a few minutes later with a tumbler of amber whisky for himself and a glass of white wine for her. “Want me to stop?” she asked.

  “Nope,” he said, lying down again and opening his book.

  She sipped her wine and carried on.

  Eventually her fingers were too tired to keep playing, and she lay the guitar down and sat back with a sigh. Rolling her head on the chair, she looked over at him to see him watching her, smiling. “What?” she asked self-consciously.

  “You really can play that thing.”

  “You thought I brought it along for show?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Maybe.”

  She finished her wine. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

  “Okay.”

  She nodded, hesitating. “Noel?”

  He looked up at her, his eyes half-lidded with whisky and tiredness, but relaxed and content. “Hmm?”

  “Thanks.”

  He met her gaze. His eyes held admiration, warmth, and something else, something she couldn’t quite catch. “You’re welcome.”

  She tore her eyes away and went upstairs. She brushed her teeth and changed into her pajamas, then stole away quickly under the covers, conscious of the coolness of the night.

  But in spite of the tiredness of her body, it was a while before sleep claimed her. And even when it did, Noel’s warm eyes followed her there.

  Chapter Four

  The next day, when Holly pulled open the curtains and looked outside, she saw that overnight the sky had grown thick with clouds and was now gray and heavy. It was going to snow, she thought, feeling a wave of excitement. It had been a few years since she’d seen a white Christmas, and even then, it had only been a dusting.

  The excitement dulled slightly as she went into the corridor and saw that Noel’s room was empty, his bed already made. Today was the anniversary of his wife’s death, she remembered. Noel hadn’t come there to celebrate but to deal with his pain, and she had to remind herself not to get in the way of his grief.

  She showered and dressed in jeans and a thick sweater over a shirt, then went downstairs and made herself some toast with chocolate spread. Crumbs in the sink told her that he’d already prepared his own breakfast, and when she peered around the corner, she saw the door to the smaller living room half closed. But that was okay. She’d leave him to his own devices today. There was plenty she could do on her own.

  She made herself a mug of coffee and went through into the larger living room, where she curled up on the sofa and flipped through a magazine she’d brought with her while she ate her breakfast.

  After about ten minutes, he appeared in the doorway.

  She looked up in surprise. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a thick, cream-colored Aran sweater over a blue shirt and walking boots.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.” She smiled. “How are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “Okay. Did you sleep all right?”

  “Yes, thanks. You?”

  “Not bad.” He glanced over at the window. “Did you see the sky?”

  “Yeah. Reckon it’s going to snow today.”

  “Looks like it.” His gaze came back to her. “What are you doing?”

  “Riding a bike.”

  “I meant, what are you doing next?”

  “Don’t know. Haven’t thought about it yet.”

  “I was going to go for a walk.”

  Holly sipped her tea. He looked back out the window, his eyes far away, and she knew he was thinking of his wife.

  Suddenly, he glanced back at her. “Want to come?”

  A smile spread across her face. “Sure.” She finished her tea. “I’ll get my coat and shoes.”

  …

  They traced the loch northward, eventually reaching Fort Augustus after about an hour, and they wandered through the village, stopping for a cup of tea and a cake before continuing to follow the path for another hour or so. Then they turned back.

  It was bitterly cold, and their breath misted before their faces in clouds of icy white. But they walked swiftly, and even though her nose and ears were cold, Holly could feel a trickle of sweat between her breasts every time they picked up the pace.

  For a long time, they walked in silence, enjoying the peace and quiet, seeing squirrels and deer in the woodland and once a fox, his coat a flash of dusky red in the undergrowth. Woodpeckers and siskin finches flitted in the bushes, and overhead, sparrowhawks hunted for mice in the fields.

  Holly kept her thoughts to herself and enjoyed the burn of cold in her lungs and the presence of the tall, brooding man next to her. Even though he wasn’t talking, she found being with him strangely comforting, and wondered whether he felt the same way about her.
Was that why he’d asked her to go with him instead of spending the day on his own? She’d thought he wouldn’t want anything to do with her, especially today, but she hadn’t suggested the walk—he’d asked her to accompany him.

  Eventually, however, she forgot that she wasn’t supposed to talk and said, “I wonder if she gets lonely?”

  Noel raised an eyebrow. “The moon? Lady Macbeth? The Queen?”

  “Sorry, I meant Nessie. Or do you think there’s two of them?”

  He looked at the loch, which was now an icy blue-gray color underneath the lowering clouds. “I would imagine if there were creatures, there would have to be more than one. There’s probably a whole family down there. Aunts, uncles, cousins, you name it.”

  “All coming over for Christmas dinner, and Nessie’s down there wishing she could swim off on her own for a bit of peace and quiet.”

  He gave a soft laugh. “You have a strange way of looking at things, Miss Jones.”

  “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “I’ve called you that in my head since you started at the school.”

  “Oh.” She digested that information. “I didn’t think you’d noticed me.”

  “Oh, I noticed you.” He looked over the lake and didn’t elaborate.

  They walked in silence for another five minutes.

  Then he said, “Tell me about Jackass.”

  She pulled a face. “You don’t really want to know about him.”

  “I want to understand why he let you go. I met him once when he came to pick you up after a parents’ evening. He didn’t look like a lunatic.”

  She laughed. “I’m no angel.”

  “The best women aren’t.”

  She met his amused gaze and then glanced away, biting her lip.

  “Go on,” he said. “Tell me.”

  So she told him. About how she’d met Jackson when he’d brought his younger brother to the fete her previous school had run. About how it had been good for a while, because he was so like every girl’s dream guy—fit and energetic, good-looking, strong and heroic. The sex had been terrific, she told him, lowering her eyes as she said it.

  And then, after the first few years, she tired of the incessant parties and the immature behavior of his friends at the station. They started spending more time apart, him going out, her staying home, doing the quieter activities she enjoyed. Gradually, they drifted apart. The sex grew less regular and less enjoyable, eventually becoming mundane, with a feeling for both of them of going through the motions.

  “So, it wasn’t really a surprise when he rang me,” she finished. “But it’s strange how sometimes you refuse to see the truth, you know? How you hide it, even from yourself.”

  Noel nodded but didn’t say anything. It was nearly lunchtime, and she saw with surprise they were only ten minutes or so from the house.

  She sighed. “I’ve been talking for ages. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. You have a very soothing voice.”

  “Is that a nice way of saying I’m sending you off to sleep?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled.

  “Ah, but you’re such a gentleman, you wouldn’t tell me I was boring even if I was.”

  “Holly, you’re not boring me.”

  It was the first time she could remember him saying her first name. Her cheeks grew surprisingly hot considering it was so cold.

  When they got back to the house, they stripped off their coats, boots, scarves, and gloves, and Noel made up the fire again while she prepared lunch—a simple affair of French bread, cold meat and cheese, and a beer for them both. As she worked, she wondered how he was feeling. He hadn’t talked about his wife at all, and although Holly knew that Christmas Eve was the day she’d passed away, she wasn’t sure what time. She sensed it was late, though, could almost feel his apprehension as he waited for the moment to approach.

  He came into the kitchen and washed his hands. “The fire’s going.”

  “Great.” She gave him a smile and pushed his plate and beer over to him. “Now, be honest with me. What do you want me to do? I’ve got books to read, puzzles to do. I’ll be quite happy curling up in the other room. You only have to say.”

  He met her gaze. His glasses had flecks of ash on them, and she resisted the urge to reach out and brush them off. “I was going to watch a film,” he said eventually, running a hand through his hair. “Paul’s got quite a selection. You can join me if you want.”

  He didn’t want to be alone. She could sense it, and also his unease, because he felt that he should want to be alone.

  She picked up her plate and beer. “Okay. But no horror movies. I scare easily.”

  His lips curved and he picked up his plate. “So no Alien, then?”

  “Absolutely not. You want me to have bad dreams?”

  “Maybe. With my snoring and your screams, Nessie won’t stand a chance.”

  Laughing, they went into the living room. They stood in front of the shelves of DVDs and Holly told him to choose one. He settled for Die Hard, and she placed it in the DVD player before curling up in the armchair, while he stretched out on the sofa, feet crossed on the arm.

  The fire crackled and danced in the grate, and they ate their lunch and watched John McClane fight terrorists in his vest, and then when the film finished, Noel told her it was her turn to choose. So she picked The Bourne Identity, and they watched Jason Bourne outfox the CIA while they ate mince pies and had another beer.

  Next, he picked Casino Royale, and she ogled Daniel Craig, and Noel ogled Eva Green while pretending to ogle Judi Dench, giving Holly the giggles.

  Halfway through, he went into the kitchen and reappeared with a tumbler full of whisky and a glass of wine for her, throwing himself back onto the sofa without another word. Holly said nothing, curling up in the chair to watch the rest of the film as she sipped the chardonnay.

  When Casino Royale finished, she could sense a change in his mood and wondered whether she should migrate into the other living room, but he gestured to the shelves and told her it was her turn, so she shrugged and picked Ocean’s Eleven and slotted it into the DVD player, happy to stay for as long as he wanted her.

  Ten minutes into the film, he went into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of Laphroaig and the rest of the chardonnay and poured them each a second glass, leaving the bottles on the table. Holly drank her wine and watched him slowly unravel. First, the Aran sweater came off as the room grew warm from the fire, and he undid a few buttons and rolled up his sleeves. As Danny Ocean organized his team to outwit Terry Benedict, Noel’s hair grew more ruffled and he slumped lower in the seat, topping up her glass along with his so that she wondered if it was refilling itself, as it never seemed to grow empty.

  By the time Danny’s eleven started the heist, Holly had migrated to the sofa next to Noel, tired of contorting herself in the chair, and they both stretched out with their feet on the coffee table, poured themselves another drink, and bickered amicably about which film had been the best.

  By the end of the film, her legs were across his lap, and he was stroking her feet as if they’d known each other for twenty years.

  And then the film ended. Holly was feeling decidedly tipsy and hazily relaxed, but she could see the tenseness reappear in his shoulders as he gently moved her legs off his lap and stood to look out the window.

  “Is it snowing?” she asked drowsily.

  “Not yet. But it will soon.”

  She looked at her watch—it was just after nine. She watched him come back and sit in the armchair. His glass was half full, and he swirled the liquid around the base, looking at the fire.

  She cleared her throat. “You want to watch another film?”

  He shook his head.

  “You want me to go, Noel?” she asked gently. “It’s okay—I understand.”

  He met her gaze then. She could see the pain deep in his eyes like stones at the bottom of a river. But, to her surprise
, he gave a small, almost unnoticeable shake of his head.

  So, she poured herself another glass of wine and stretched out along the sofa. “Tell me about her.”

  He stared at her, blinking. “I don’t know if I can.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  Holly shrugged. “Nothing deep. What did she look like? What was her favorite music? What job did she do?”

  He took a deep breath. And then he started talking.

  …

  Once he started, Noel thought he’d never be able to stop. He talked for hours. He talked about when he’d first met Ella that day outside the cinema, and he’d told her she looked just like Julia Roberts in the film he’d been to see. He described how beautiful she was, and how much she enjoyed her job illustrating children’s books. He explained how they’d talked about having a large family—she’d wanted at least four kids. He related the moment they’d found out she had breast cancer, about how they’d gone home and she’d fallen apart, but he hadn’t been able to believe it.

  And he told Holly how hard it had been at the end, and how he’d held his wife as she died. By the time he finished, his throat was tight, his cheeks were wet, and his glass was empty again.

  The terrible thing, though, was that he wasn’t really upset because of Ella. He’d told Holly the anecdotes about his life with Ella as if he were looking at photos in an album, but that was all they were becoming. Memories he could flick through in his head like a slideshow. Emotionally, he felt strangely numb. He could remember the pain, the loneliness, the grief he’d felt when she died. But now...

  “I’m starting to forget her,” he said.

  He took off his glasses, wiped his face, and leaned his head on the back of the armchair, looking up at the ceiling.

  Holly had listened to him ramble, interjecting occasionally with a question but mostly just listening, her beautiful face filled with compassion. Now he heard her get up and refill his glass, and then she walked out of the room. He was surprised at how disappointed he felt, and he raised his head slowly, wishing he wasn’t so drunk so he could go after her and thank her for listening.

  Then, to his surprise, she came back. She was carrying her other case, and he watched as she unclipped it and took out her sax.