I laugh. ‘Not a lot.’
His lips twist into a rueful smile. ‘It was all I could find. I’m not big on decking the halls. I wouldn’t know where to start.’
I glance through the patio doors and my eye catches the group of fir trees to the right of the house. ‘You’ve got all the decorations you could ever need right out there. We could bring in branches and fir cones and sprigs of holly, and twine them all the way up the banisters.’ I look out into the hall, imagining how beautifully festive it could look.
Jed shoots me a querying look. ‘Is that an offer of help?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. Sorry, I was just getting carried away.’ I feel myself colour up in confusion. What on earth am I thinking, advising the client on how he can improve the look of the house? I’m not usually that forward.
‘Don’t apologise. To tell you the truth, I’d be delighted if you’d help. What about tomorrow? Are you free? Could you do an extra day for us?’
My mind goes into instant overdrive. I’m off during the day tomorrow, so that’s no problem. What I’ll do after that, I still have to work out.
‘So, what do you think?’ Jed asks, arms folded, leaning his shoulder against the big stainless-steel fridge as he studies me.
My eyes meet his. ‘I love putting up Christmas decorations. It would be a pleasure.’
‘That’s brilliant.’ He breaks into a slow smile, his green eyes crinkling at the corners.
We spend the next ten minutes talking about menus, and he says that his Uncle Bob will love Christmas with an Italian flavour.
‘Does he know Italian cuisine?’ I ask, a little alarmed.
‘He’s eaten all over the world in the best restaurants, and he has a brilliant Thai chef to cook for him at home. He could probably be a food critic if he wanted to be.’
I swallow. ‘Gosh.’
‘I haven’t put you off the idea, have I?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I lie, smiling brightly. ‘I do like a challenge!’
Jed chuckles. ‘I have a feeling Bob will like you.’
He takes me through the French doors out to the patio and we walk across the grass, past the hot tub which is currently covered over, down to the lakeside. I find myself transfixed by the little whitewashed cottage on the opposite side of the lake. It looks rundown and sad, the windows bare. My heart squeezes painfully.
It was a little B&B last time I saw it; the place Alessandro stayed when he came to visit all those years ago. But I recently read that the owners went through an acrimonious divorce and it lay empty for years before eventually being sold to a small hotel chain. The company planned to develop it into a luxury country hideaway hotel, but then shortly after buying the property, they went bankrupt. So the cottage is still here, looking in urgent need of a buyer to lavish it with love and attention.
Jed is also gazing over at the far shore. ‘When the sky is clear, the landscape behind us is reflected in the lake. A perfect mirror image.’
I nod, remembering. ‘Shimmer Glass Lake. You get the best view of it from over that side. I think I have a photograph somewhere.’
I know I have a photograph. It’s hidden away inside my little red notebook.
Jed looks at me in surprise. ‘You’ve been here before?’
My heart lurches uncomfortably, but I force a bright smile. ‘Yes. We – I swam in the lake one New Year’s Day, actually. When I was just a kid.’
‘Of course.’ He nods. ‘I’d forgotten about the New Year Plunge. They usually get quite a turnout, don’t they? Perhaps all of Uncle Bob’s house guests should take part this year.’
I grimace at the thought.
Jed grins. ‘We could have a prize for the person who manages to get Ryan to loosen up a bit and dive in.’
*
Erin’s response that evening when I reveal the exciting news that I’m going to be cooking for seven at the Log Fire Cabin is to squeal. Very loudly.
This would be fine. Except we’re in the village pub, and several tables of people we vaguely know turn to peer over at the two hooligans currently lowering the tone of the place.
Erin is oblivious. ‘Have you got enough recipes for that length of time?’
I laugh. ‘I wouldn’t be much of a caterer if I couldn’t vary the menu for a fortnight.’
‘Will it be all meals? From breakfast right through to after-dinner coffee?’
I shake my head. ‘Jed and I agreed that I’d provide a three-course dinner each evening and bake a cake every day for tea.’
‘Jed and I?’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Jed as in Mr Sexy Voice?’
I flush at her expression, wishing I’d never mentioned the message he left on my landline by mistake. ‘He’s the one who’s hosting Christmas, yes. At his uncle’s holiday home. You should see it, Erin.’ I plunge into a description of the cabin to get her off the subject.
She beams at me.
‘Well, you will see it,’ I add. ‘If Mark doesn’t mind you helping me?’
The light in her eyes dims a little. ‘I don’t think he will. Mind, I mean.’
‘Didn’t you two have things planned, then?’
She shakes her head. ‘Not really. I wanted to go away for a few days over Christmas, just the two of us, but Mark was distinctly lukewarm about the idea. Last Christmas, he was almost as excited as me to be spending it together. I don’t know what’s happened.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe he just fancies chilling out at home with you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Hey, what’s this?’ I laugh. ‘Usually you’re love’s young dream, you two. I never get tired of telling people how you waited such a long time for the perfect man to come along. But come along, he did!’
She grunts but I can tell she’s pleased. Then she shrugs. ‘It’s just a feeling I get. I honestly think the “honeymoon period” is over,’ she says, doing quotes in the air. ‘We don’t seem to have as much fun as we used to, and Mark is always having to stay late at work these days, to finish something or other. I keep telling him he needs to play as well as work, but he just shrugs it off and says it won’t be for long.’
‘He’s probably tired if he’s working so hard. The Christmas break will do him the world of good.’
‘I hope so.’
An image of Mark emerging from the matching agency doorway flashes into my mind, but I brush it away.
‘Did he get his hair cut the other day?’ I ask on impulse.
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. I just thought I saw him coming out of a hairdresser’s, that’s all, but it obviously can’t have been him.’ To cheer her up, I add, ‘But listen, about the honeymoon period being over – every couple gets to that stage eventually, don’t they? However loved up they are at the start? I think Harrison and I got to that stage about three days after we met.’
Erin bursts out laughing. ‘Poppy Valentina Ainsworth! Poor Harrison. What a terrible thing to say.’
‘No, it’s not,’ I protest, at the same time feeling a touch guilty. ‘I just mean that Harrison and I have never really gone in for the hearts-and-flowers sort of romance that you guys do. We’re both far too practical for that.’
Erin looks gloomy again. ‘I don’t like practical. Hearts and flowers suit me just fine.’ She grabs my hand. ‘Oh, Poppy, what if Mark’s going off me?’ The look in her eyes is pure anguish.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Erin. Mark absolutely adores you. You don’t need flowers as well.’
‘I suppose.’ She laughs. ‘God, listen to me. I’m sounding more grouchy than Ebenezer Scrooge.’ She bangs the table. ‘I need my sparkly reindeer antlers and a glass of Auntie Noreen’s horrible eggnog to get me in the Christmas spirit!’
*
It feels strange having the whole king-size bed to myself tonight. I prop up the pillow, intending to read, but find myself thinking about Harrison, wondering what the temperature is in Spain, and thinking how pleased his mum will be to have him with her. He doesn’t believe in p
honing long-distance. I keep telling him that these days, it’s included in your phone package, but I don’t think he quite believes it. He’s adamant that a brief text is all you need.
Harrison’s texts are always short and to the point, but I’m used to that now. At first, I used to send him long, chatty messages and end up asking something like: ‘Do you fancy the cinema on Saturday?’ He’d send back a one-word answer – ‘yes’ or ‘no’ – and I’d be a bit disappointed. But now I just figure it’s part of his charm.
So far, I’ve had the following text: Flight fine, Mother okay. Will text tomorrow. Love, Harrison xx
I sent one back, although I debated for a long time whether to mention the job at the Log Fire Cabin. In the end, I thought it was a bit too complicated to explain in a text, so I just sent a message saying I was missing him. I’ll phone him soon to tell him about the new catering job. Otherwise, if I don’t and he happens to phone me one evening (stranger things have happened!), he’ll wonder where on earth I am, out so late.
My mind is still buzzing too much from the events of the day to fall asleep immediately, so I lie there thinking about lurking at the station that morning, hoping to get a look at Jed and Clemmy, and the embarrassment of being totally rumbled by Jed. But I’m glad I went because otherwise, I might never have landed such an exciting new job over the Christmas holidays.
The only thing that slightly spooks me is the location of the Log Fire Cabin. I can’t believe it’s situated right across the lake from the cottage where Alessandro stayed. I mean, what are the chances?
He let me down big time by never returning, and throughout the years since, I’ve resolutely turned my back on all the memories I once cherished. I thought I’d succeeded in almost blocking them out – until an incredible twist of fate led me back to the lake today.
Now, lying here in the dark, I’m powerless to stop the memories of that long-ago Christmas tumbling back into my head.
I stare into the blackness, listening to a smatter of hail rattling at the window, my thoughts drifting to the old cardboard box that I haven’t opened in years but that I know is somewhere at the back of my wardrobe, buried under a heap of shoes and scarves. I know I should leave it well alone. But some stronger impulse is urging me to take a look … just a little look. What harm can it do?
I climb out of bed and open the wardrobe. Then I fumble around in the depths of it until my hands close round the box. Drawing it out, I kneel down and set the box on the floor in front of me, staring at it. My heart is in my mouth. How mad it is that an old Clarks’ shoebox, tatty around the edges now, should fill me with such trepidation.
I draw a deep breath and tell myself not to be so ridiculous. What is there to be scared of? Only my feelings. And they’re bound to have faded in strength during the years since I last looked in the box.
But what if they haven’t?
On an impulse, I shove the box back in the wardrobe and slam the door.
In bed, I lie on my side staring at the wall. I told Harrison about my real dad but he thinks I should leave things be because otherwise, I might be disappointed all over again. I wish it were that simple, though.
For a long time, during my teens and early twenties, I had fantasies about going in search of my real dad and actually finding him. Mum would never talk about him, except to say that she had no contact details for where he was living. She would get quite agitated when I asked about him and I realised she didn’t want to build my hopes up that I’d ever find him again. I guess she felt guilty that in choosing to bring me up alone, she’d deprived me of my real dad, and she didn’t want me pining for someone who was quite possibly lost to me forever. With no address or phone number, she couldn’t contact him even if she wanted to.
But secretly, I could never quite give up on him. I had only one clue as to Alessandro’s possible whereabouts - and it wasn’t much. I remembered him talking fondly about the beautiful Island of Capri, off the coast of Italy near Naples, and how he wanted to live and work there some day.
That was how I found myself travelling to Italy with my friend, Clare, on my first holiday abroad without Mum, at the age of eighteen. We booked a holiday to Sorrento and, even as we left the travel agent’s, I was already planning to find out about organised trips from our hotel across to the island.
It had all felt so unreal when the plane touched down in Italy. This was the country where my roots lay – and where my real dad presumably still lived.
Later in the week, when we finally set foot on Capri, a place so close to Alessandro’s heart, my stomach was churning – and not because of seasickness. It felt wonderful to be there, but terrifying at the same time. I walked around with Clare in a dream. I already knew so much about the island, I could probably have given guided tours! When we ordered lunch at a little pavement café overlooking the harbour, I sat watching the passers-by, unable to eat a thing, I felt so on edge and excited. What if he walked right past our table? I hadn’t seen him since I was twelve. Would I recognise him?
Then my eye caught a street-food vendor, pitched just a short distance away. He was tall and slim with dark, curly hair, and there was a definite similarity. I showed Clare the photo and she wasn’t so sure. But I sat there, watching him, growing more and more convinced that it was him. Alessandro was passionate about food – it made perfect sense that he’d be selling his homemade delicacies on Capri, the place he loved.
I wanted so badly to walk over there and ask him if his name was Alessandro Bianchi. But the thought of finding that it wasn’t him was almost too much to bear. Eventually, Clare went over to talk to him, while I sat there, feeling sick, my heart drumming so loudly I thought all the people in the café would hear it.
As I watched, Clare engaged him in conversation. He was smiling and chatting, and my heart rose in expectation. How amazing if, after all this time, it really was him.
Clare turned and pointed at me and my heart lifted. He looked over and I prepared to smile and wave. But then I saw the puzzled look on his face and the slow shake of his head.
The rest of the holiday is a blur.
I’d been a fool to think that my fantasy of finding him was ever going to be that easy. I hardened my heart after that. No more searching for a father I barely knew and who clearly wasn’t in the slightest bit curious about his long-lost daughter.
Now, I dash away a tear, wishing Harrison were here to give me one of his lovely bear hugs.
I can’t avoid the little cottage across the lake with all its memories, but I mustn’t allow myself to get distracted and take my eye off the ball. The food I produce at the Log Fire Cabin needs to be the best I’ve ever conjured up.
I will not allow the ghosts of the past to sabotage my new future …
Chapter 13
As soon as I wake, I remember Harrison’s cooling-off period and I lie there thinking of other qualities about my soon-to-be fiancé which make me keen to marry him. After a while, I grab my notebook and write:
Eleven days until I’m engaged! Harrison is one of the most genuine, straightforward people I know. He never plays games and he’s not in the least bit pretentious. What you see is what you get and there’s something very reassuring about that. He’ll talk to people about his manhole-cover passion without being in the least worried that they’ll think he’s boring and that it’s a bit of a weird hobby to have. He never pretends to be someone he isn’t.
Thinking of his honesty makes me feel a bit bad. I’m going back to the Log Fire Cabin this morning to help Jed decorate the house – but I still haven’t told Harrison about it. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. It’s just that it’s a bit difficult putting everything in a text. I’ll phone him later instead, and we can chat.
*
I arrive at the Log Fire Cabin just before ten, my mind buzzing with ideas for turning the place into a Christmassy winter wonderland.
Jed greets me at the door, looking slightly the worse for wear in worn jeans and a T-shirt. I sus
pect the bottle of Laphroaig single-malt whisky Ryan brought with him yesterday might have something to do with it.
‘We had a lot of catching up to do last night. Haven’t seen my brother properly since the summer.’ He grins sheepishly, then half-yawns and stretches out his big, well-toned arms, revealing a flash of washboard-taut stomach as his T-shirt rides up.
I swallow hard and fix my eyes on his face, stepping over the threshold to the scent of frying bacon. ‘You’ve managed breakfast, then.’
‘Oh, yes. Bacon and eggs. Hit the spot beautifully.’
‘So, Ryan came up trumps with the full English breakfast?’
He laughs. ‘Sadly not. He’s probably going to need at least a week to acclimatise to rural life here. Apparently the dead silence kept him awake all night. He could barely manage a coffee this morning.’
I follow Jed into the kitchen, trying not to notice the way the pale, worn denim of his jeans hugs his rear end just perfectly. ‘How’s Clemmy?’
‘Fine.’ He turns and my eyes flick upwards, guiltily. ‘She stuck to wine and soda, wise girl. She was up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by nine, singing the score of Oklahoma while crisping the bacon. Great singer, actually. Ryan’s borrowed my car and driven her into Easingwold to meet friends for the day, so we have the place to ourselves. Now, first things first. Coffee?’ He grabs a mug from the dresser.
‘Great, thanks.’
While Jed is busy, I stare out through the patio doors. It’s a cold, blue-skied day, very still, not a ripple on the lake. The cottage on the opposite shore is reflected perfectly in the water, along with the snow-covered fir trees that flank it on either side. The forecasters were right about the weather. We’ve been plunged into a cold snap. More snow fell overnight, making the scene I’m gazing at look just like a Christmas card.
‘Take a seat.’ Jed indicates the breakfast-bar stools and I choose the one nearest the window so I can angle it with my back to the cottage. He passes me coffee and a jug of milk. ‘Hope you’re feeling creative.’ He grins, perching beside me with his own mug.
Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin Page 10
