A Country Village Christmas

by Suzanne Snow

  He ducked as a cushion flew past his head and she was still laughing as she got up. ‘I’m sure I can always use a bit more experience in that field. I’m going to fetch my phone before you change your mind, I might just have had a marvellous idea for our first choice.’

  Olivia had to search on the shelves in the library for a few minutes for the book she wanted and returned to the sitting room when she’d found it, Tom coming to sit alongside her. She logged into the shop’s Twitter profile, messaging her dad first to let him know what she and Tom were doing.

  For the banner she uploaded an image of the shop’s interior as reorganised by Tom, since there was no inviting window display. It came out well enough, making the shop look comfortable and appealing, if a little crammed. For the profile she went with one of her own snowy images of the building from last weekend, giving it an extra seasonal charm. Bradshaw’s Books also looked good and she chose the words of the bio carefully:

  Sometimes it isn’t only books that need a new home, it can be bookshops too. Welcome to Bradshaw’s Books, no longer on the High St but here in Thorndale and still matching books to people who love them. Visitors welcome.

  Olivia knew exactly what she was going to tweet first. She typed the words, an image of a blustery winter’s day from the gallery on her phone to accompany it, and pressed the blue button:

  For #BradshawsBooksAtChristmas we’re going to feature different Xmas books between now & the big day. For our first we’ve chosen #AChristmasMemory by Truman Capote. Is it the weather for fruitcake yet? We’d love to know what you think!

  ‘There you go. Done.’ She felt a moment of alarm but Tom was nodding.

  ‘Nice. Really charming, it’s a great first choice.’

  ‘So have you got one for our second?’

  ‘Let’s ask your dad, let him choose.’

  ‘Good plan. I was thinking I would Zoom him later so we could do it then. So, tree decorating or baking mince pies first?’ Olivia shook her head. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually saying that, I think you’ve corrupted me.’

  ‘I certainly hope so.’ Tom was doing that thing with his smile and she refused to look away, knowing he was trying to distract her on purpose, and then they were both laughing again.

  ‘Have we even got the right stuff? I doubt my dad has much call for plain flour: Mrs Timms does all his baking for him.’

  ‘I bought the ingredients yesterday so that sorry attempt at an excuse is gone.’

  ‘What about writing, then?’

  ‘Did two thousand words before you even left your bed. And no, Olivia, I’m not telling you what my characters got up to last night.’

  ‘You literally do have an answer for everything, don’t you?’

  ‘I wish I did.’ Tom’s eyes on hers were wretched for a second and she wavered at the softness in his tone. ‘Guess we’d better make a start. Then we can eat the mince pies whilst we’re decorating the tree.’

  ‘More movie research?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I love your optimism: you’re assuming we don’t burn the baking. I’ve never really trusted that oven.’

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later it was clear they weren’t going to need the oven, trustworthy or not. The kitchen was in utter chaos and Olivia was fervently hoping that she would not be the one who would have to clear up. Tom had known where to find the baking trays and they’d put on a pair of aprons she’d found which proved to be pointless.

  It had started when she’d accidentally spilled flour whilst measuring it into a bowl. He’d accused her of being clumsy, pretending to be exasperated, and she’d dipped her finger in the flour, unable to resist smearing it on his nose. He’d retaliated by swiping a blob of butter on her cheek and she’d followed that up with a flick of mincemeat from the jar he’d bought yesterday. It had missed and landed on the floor.

  Tom had then dropped his hand in the flour and run it through her hair. She’d shrieked in protest as some of it had fluttered down onto her face, making her sneeze. He hadn’t managed to duck in time to completely avoid the handful she flung at him, and she’d been delighted when some of it had clung to the darkening stubble he hadn’t yet removed.

  The last of the flour had somehow ended up on the floor and the butter had softened into a clump full of fingerprints. He’d smeared some on the end of her nose and she’d squealed furiously, had tried to fling another blob and missed again when he caught her hand and held it above her head.

  There was no butter or flour left now and the jar of mincemeat had fallen over and leaked onto the table, a steady trickle widening into a gooey puddle. They’d given up the fight and were sitting side by side on the floor, backs against a cupboard and staring at the mess all around them.

  ‘Shop-bought ones it is, then. I told you we should’ve done that in the first place.’ Olivia shook her head and stopped abruptly when another cloud of flour fluttered down. She didn’t dare touch her hair for fear of what else she might find, she was sure there was butter in there somewhere. She wasn’t sure either how she was going to make it upstairs for a shower without leaving a trail of havoc and flour in her wake. ‘I am definitely not attempting mince pies again if this is your idea of baking.’

  ‘I did warn you yesterday. More mess, less baking. Although I was aiming to have something edible to eat at the end.’ Tom ran a hand through his hair and pulled a face at what he felt there. That second chunk of mincemeat had been her best shot and she was proud of it. ‘You’re absolutely right, though, you’re a nightmare in the kitchen, not safe to be let loose. Microwave meals, useless at baking, horribly messy.’

  ‘I am not. I made you a wicked cocktail last night and provided supper, even if it did come out of a packet. And you started all this.’ Olivia gestured to the state of the room.

  ‘I did not start it.’ Tom’s eyes were lazy on hers and she felt that jump in her pulse again. ‘You stuck your hand in the flour first as I recall.’

  ‘We’d never be in this mess if you hadn’t suggested baking, so it is all your fault.’ She was triumphant, happy to have found a reply to counter his truthful one. ‘And I’m pulling rank. You’re clearing up.’ She edged away from him, trying not to make her escape too obvious. She really wanted that shower now.

  ‘Not alone, I’m not.’ He caught her leg and slowly tugged her back. ‘Don’t you dare leave me in here with this.’

  Olivia was past caring about the chaos on her clothes and the dust in her hair. She had flour on her face and she could feel butter stuck to her skin. She gave in to Tom’s grasp, one she knew he was keeping deliberately casual, allowing her to escape if she chose.

  ‘Maybe you could put this in your book,’ she gasped, her leg resting on his now, his hand light on her calf. ‘Is there much call for baking in thrillers?’

  ‘Or not baking, you mean.’ His stare was weighted with a desire mirrored in hers. ‘I wouldn’t write a scene like this. Costello’s more of a “don’t get involved” kind of a guy. Avoids intimacy. Too many complications.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her breath caught again. ‘Are you saying we’re involved, then? Complicated?’

  ‘We’re definitely complicated, Olivia.’ Tom gently lifted her leg from his and she saw the flash of sorrow in his face as he stood up, offering her a hand. ‘I’m trying not to get involved. Come on, shower. You go first. I’ll clear up.’

  ‘Not a chance.’ She let him pull her upright, attempting to attach relief to the disappointment that their fooling around was over. ‘Nice of you to offer but it did take two of us.’

  * * *

  When Olivia came down from her shower there was a box of mince pies sitting on the table and she laughed. Tom was upstairs showering now too, and she hoped no one had recognised him when he’d run out to buy them in such a state. She went into the sitting room to lay the fire and light it. He stuck his head around the door a bit later and she noticed at once he had shaved.

  ‘The decorations are in the shop
, I won’t be long.’

  ‘I’ll come and help.’

  ‘No, I’m fine. It’s cold, you stay there.’

  She’d made them a coffee and added whisky to it by the time he dropped four plastic boxes on the floor. Suddenly nervous of what she might find and the memories of home it might trigger that she had filed away, she took the lid off the nearest box, pulling away a tangle of tinsel. Tom helped her empty the box and Olivia set aside the things she didn’t want to keep: broken ornaments, baubles that were cracked, a reindeer without a head.

  ‘Some of this stuff is mine, I can’t blame it all on Dad. Look.’ She was holding up a hand-stitched garland in red and green, the letters spelling Merry Christmas. ‘Ellie made this when she was still in primary school, it must have got mixed up with some of our things when our house was sold, after she left for university. Christmas decorations hold so many memories, as though you’re relearning their stories every time you open a box. I remember her rushing home with this, so excited to hang it the minute she came through the door.’

  ‘You’ll miss her, not being with you for Christmas.’

  Tom was devouring a mince pie, making Olivia smile as she sipped her coffee. There was a wistfulness in his tone and she thought of his own marriage, the children he’d wanted and didn’t have, and her heart ached for him in a way she really wasn’t used to.

  ‘I will.’ Sorrow lingered in her tone and she strove to sound brighter. ‘But she’ll be with family and she’ll love it, both her and her dad. Her other grandparents are there. Much as I’d like to keep her close, I want her to fly, find her way.’

  Olivia picked up a strip of silver wire bent into the shape of a miniature Christmas tree and she stood it on a coffee table, liking how it looked on top of a couple of old hardbacks that hadn’t found their way back to the library. She unearthed the nativity figures given to Ellie by her Caribbean grandparents to mark her first Christmas and arranged them on the mantelpiece.

  Olivia was sensing the thread between her and Tom altering, drawing them closer. She felt more connected to him in a week than with anyone else ever before and she had to think of her career, of the New Year and settling her dad into a different life. Not their laughter, their teasing, the unspoken desire and everything they’d already shared. They would move on separately into the future. Home for the holidays in Thorndale would be the beginning and the end for them.

  Tom had made headway with the lights, and he stood up to plug them in. She held her breath, half expecting a flash and a flurry of smoke, but the lights flickered obediently into life and she saw his grin. Her own smile was more troubled, caught up in thoughts of where he would go after Christmas, what he would do when the book was written. She watched as he wound the lights around the tree, his hands deft and sure. She turned her attention to the next box and pulled out some decorations, trying to stifle a gasp.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Tom paused with the lights, looking at her with concern.

  ‘My mum made this.’ Olivia lifted a row of white sheep, all wearing different tiny hats, the scratch of tears suddenly threatening. ‘Knitted every one of them herself. Wow.’ Despite the quick shock of grief pressing against her chest, Olivia couldn’t help feeling a warm sense of wonder. ‘She was a really talented crafter and she made a new decoration for the tree every year. I was obsessed with animals and I’d asked her to make me some sheep. Look at their little hats, and their faces are tiny Christmas jumpers.’

  ‘They’re lovely.’ Tom had left the lights to crouch down next to her. ‘Are you happy for them to go on the tree? I understand if you’d rather not.’

  ‘No, they definitely should be up there. She would absolutely love that they still had a place in our lives all these years later.’ Olivia sniffed, reaching into the box to find a miniature ship in a bottle, turning it over in her hands.

  ‘She made this for Dad. He collected them and she wanted him to have his own tiny one for the tree. Christmas was her favourite time of year and she adored finding ways to represent our lives in her decorations. I haven’t seen these in forever. I didn’t really question it, but Dad must have found it too sad to put them up once I’d left home.’

  ‘She must have been very special, Olivia.’ Tom touched her arm. ‘Your dad talks about her sometimes and I always got the impression that he adored her.’

  ‘He did.’ Olivia swallowed. ‘He really must like you, Tom. Trust you. He hardly ever talks about Mum with anyone.’ She put the ship in its bottle down, lifted out another bauble. ‘This is a miniature of his shop, it was his absolute favourite.’ Tom took it from her, let it spin carefully in his hand. ‘You can even see the window display and his name above the door.’

  She leant back against the sofa, gulping back a rush of sadness as a tear escaped. ‘Suddenly it’s like I’m a kid again and she’s still part of our lives. Christmas was perfect then, just the three of us, and somehow you think it’ll be like that forever. Then everything changes and you realise life’s just not fair.’

  ‘She’s still a part of your life, in everything she gave you.’ Tom settled on the floor beside her. ‘The bauble of the shop is so perfect, I’d recognise it anywhere. That yellow paint.’

  Olivia huffed a sad little laugh. ‘Dad chose the colour, said it made the shop stand out and everyone knew he was there.’

  ‘They certainly did, it was distinctive.’

  ‘Do you think it was a mistake, him closing it?’ Her voice was suddenly small. ‘I know he still misses it.’

  ‘He accepted it, Olivia, if that’s what you mean. He knew he couldn’t be there six days a week and it was time to let go. He couldn’t keep it for ever.’

  She didn’t reply at once. ‘It’s like you said. That I’m never really there for him and I don’t give him enough of my time.’

  ‘Olivia, what I said was…’

  ‘No, don’t, Tom.’ She held up a hand, dropped it down. ‘I know there was some truth in it. I was always busy with Ellie and my career, and left him to get on with his life, alone. We popped in when we could, flying visits to the shop, but he must’ve been so lonely.’

  ‘I’m not sure he was, not really, after the conversations we had.’ Tom squeezed Olivia’s fingers, let go. ‘He enjoyed being in town, part of the festival, having people here. Even before I met you he told me about his wonderful daughter, how proud of her he was.’

  ‘He did?’

  ‘He absolutely did. He loves your independence, how you just see something and go for it, whether it was your marriage, your career or making a home for Ellie. He told me you were an unstoppable force and lived life on your own terms, just as your mum had wanted for you.’

  That did make Olivia cry then and she brushed at the tears trickling down her face, appreciating his thoughtfulness when Tom stood and busied himself with the lights on the tree to let her have a moment. She got up too, gathered some of the decorations and he held out a hand.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Please.’ She couldn’t prevent a smile when he chose the homemade miniature of her dad’s shop and hung that first, giving her a wink.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Perfect. Not sure we need any more.’

  ‘I know the tree is small but that’s taking it a bit far. We definitely do need a few more.’

  They carried on, each decoration they hung a memento of her life as gradually the tree filled up. They didn’t need conversation now; there was an ease to the quietness as they worked together, and Olivia liked it. Liked having him there, sharing the task.

  ‘So you’ll be with us for Christmas, then.’ She made sure it wasn’t a question. ‘You might be amazed to know that a roast dinner is my speciality.’

  ‘Olivia, I’m not going to presume,’ Tom said softly. ‘It’s a time for family.’

  ‘And friends, and goodwill to everyone.’ She hadn’t expected the fierceness in her tone. ‘Don’t even think about it unless you’d rather be with someone else. That’s different.�
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  ‘Almost everyone I’d like to spend Christmas with is already here.’ He shrugged helplessly as she caught his gaze.

  ‘Good, because someone’s got to clear up after me and my dad’s not great at standing for ages.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take long.’ Tom hung another decoration on the tree and they stood back to admire their work. ‘I’ve never seen anyone pierce the film on a Christmas dinner before.’ Olivia had already picked up a mince pie and he caught her wrist, holding it gently. ‘Don’t start that again,’ he warned. ‘Sometimes I think it would be easier to share the house with a bunch of students.’

  ‘Good job you’ll get your chance, then,’ she told him smoothly, falling into the playfulness he was suggesting. ‘Ellie and Logan are coming up at the weekend and they’re messier than me.’

  ‘How is that even possible?’

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Zoom call Olivia had with her dad later also included Tom, and Hugh was so excited about Tom’s Christmas hashtag idea that Olivia was almost ready to cry again. Thorndale seemed to be having a very strange effect on her and she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t enjoying it. The book Hugh chose to come next was one she’d never read before, more familiar as she was with Dickens’ famous festive classic, A Christmas Carol.

  Nevertheless, Tom found the 1848 first edition hardcover exactly where her dad had said it would be, buried in a box with other Dickens works in the annexe. New and old Twitter followers were already speculating on what the shop’s next choice for the hashtag might be, and their friendly author chap from Saturday had retweeted Olivia’s A Christmas Memory tweet, creating yet more interest.

  * * *