An Accidental Christmas

by Diana Fraser

  “Good point. I’ll bear that in mind.”

  He leaned toward her. “Trouble is, they may cast a spell over you, even if you do pick them up. Especially if you pick them up.”

  His face was close now, and her heart thumped heavily. He opened his lips as if to speak again, but no words came. She licked her lips. “I’m no apparition, no witch.”

  He shook his head. “Then, what are you?”

  “I’m a woman.”

  “What kind of woman?”

  “A lonely woman.” She sat back suddenly, shocked and embarrassed by how easily the truth had slipped out.

  He picked up her hand and studied it as if it held the answer to everything. His thumb swept the back of her hand, his fingers moving sensuously over her palm. She closed her eyes briefly as a wave of longing swept through her. She didn’t want this need, but it was too powerful to stop now.

  “I can’t understand that. You have everything. Beauty, poise, intelligence, charm. Why are you sitting here in our farmhouse at Christmas?”

  “You invited me.”

  The shift from the real to the superficial broke the tension, and he sat back and smiled. “So I did. And I’m not being an attentive host. Your glass is empty.”

  He rose and poured her another glass of wine. She took a deep breath. “I should be going to bed. It’s been a long day.”

  “And have I convinced you with the age-old tradition of getting a baby to sleep, that you should stay another three nights?”

  “Three?”

  “Well, one was for the fire, another for Christmas Eve dinner and thirdly, little Lorenzo. All good solid traditions, you have to admit. And you also have to admit you enjoyed them all.”

  Ursula laughed. “Especially the crying baby.”

  “You were very good with Lorenzo—very patient and caring.”

  “I wasn’t too bad, was I, considering I have absolutely no experience of babies?”

  “Maybe some things are known at a cellular level. Instinctive.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Sort of ‘every woman knows how to be a mother’ thing?”

  His lips quirked. “Something like that.”

  “No way.”

  “Why are you so against having children?”

  She halted the glass mid-way to her mouth, the red wine just close enough for her to smell its fruity aroma. “It’s simply not for me. I don’t know the first thing about children.”

  “You know how to comfort them when they’re teething.”

  “No, I don’t. That was just, well…”

  “Instinctive?”

  She smiled. “Well, maybe comforting anyone, a baby or an adult, demands the same response.”

  “So, are you going to give me an extra day of your company? Three traditions, three extra days?”

  She shrugged. “If you’re sure I won’t be in the way.”

  “Sure, we’re sure. We can return your hire car, and I’ll drive you to Florence. I have some work I need to catch up on anyway.”

  Ursula couldn’t be certain, but she sensed he’d had no plans to return to Florence so soon. “That would be nice. Very nice.”

  “Good. Now that’s settled, tell me a bit more about yourself. Tell me what you were doing in Napoli.”

  “Returning from a friend’s wedding.” She paused as she cast her mind back to Alessandro and Emily. It was only a few days ago, but it felt much longer. The distance wasn’t only in miles. Something had happened here, something which had given her a sense of perspective, an ability to look back on her relationship with Alessandro with a detachment she hadn’t felt before. “My ex-boyfriend’s wedding to be exact.”

  “Ah, I’m beginning to understand. And this ex-boyfriend, do you still love him?”

  She shrugged. “I love Alessandro like a friend. I guess I’ll always have a soft spot for him but we weren’t right together, and his new wife is lovely and perfect for him in so many ways that I could never be.”

  “But you are perfect for someone else.”

  “I hope so. One day.”

  He reached out to take the glass from her hands, and their fingers tangled momentarily. She felt a flush of heat rise through her body. His unnerving gaze didn’t leave hers.

  “But, for now,” he said quietly. “We should go to bed.”

  Her heart thudded against her rib cage. She wondered if Demetrio had been thinking the same as her. He smiled as if he understood her thoughts, and raised an eyebrow. “I have to rise early tomorrow, look after the farm before our visitors begin arriving. Yes, Ursula, another tradition. Christmas Day.”

  “I’m going to run out of time. I can see that.”

  He nodded slowly, a warm smile spreading across his face. “Then maybe you’ll have to come here again.”

  Her heart leaped at the idea before her mind had any chance of controlling it. She had to draw in a deep breath before she trusted herself to reply. “Maybe.”

  She rose and turned off the side-lights as he turned his attention to the fire, and together they walked up the stairs, the old wooden treads creaking underfoot. At the twist in the stairs, a round window revealed the moon, peeping between scudding clouds. She stopped and looked out. When she turned back, he was close. He stooped quickly, and his lips swept hers in a kiss that was as fleeting as it was enticing. She gasped as the breath left her body. But when she opened her eyes he was descending the stairs. He stopped at the bottom.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed our traditions and that you’re staying longer.”

  “So am I. Although I hadn’t expected so many traditions in one night.”

  “I never said the traditions had to be spaced evenly over the days. You agreed.” He smiled. “Goodnight, Ursula. Sweet dreams.” It was all he said, but his dark eyes expressed so much more.

  She walked to the door and began to open it.

  “Ursula?” She looked down at him, hoping he was going to run up the stairs and kiss her again. “And I never said I’d play fair.”

  She walked inside unable to prevent a smile from spreading over her face as the door clicked closed behind her.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning Ursula descended into the kitchen a little warily. She’d slept soundly but had awoken early, her mind full of Demetrio.

  She couldn’t remember ever having been so drawn to a man—physically or emotionally. Her last boyfriend had been everything she’d wanted—on paper—but he’d never affected her like Demetrio. And Alessandro had always kept his distance emotionally. She’d always known exactly where she was with him, which was nowhere close to having a long-term relationship. But with Demetrio? Even after only a few days, she felt the intense pull of his personality, drawing her to him, not giving her a chance to reflect or to deny her feelings. But she had to deny them. They weren’t real, they couldn’t be real. She had to think of them as something she could appreciate for the next few days, and then they’d be a memory she’d always cherish. And she would leave. She had no choice. This wasn’t her world.

  She pushed open the kitchen door and was immediately assailed by the smell of delicious food cooking. Marianna was already busy at the kitchen counter, chopping and slicing vegetables. She turned around with a welcoming smile. “Sleep well?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve never slept better, thank you. And you?”

  “Si! All the better for having the little ones sleep in. They’re still asleep. Come, help yourself to coffee and give me some sane conversation before everyone else surfaces.”

  Ursula poured herself a coffee and leaned against the kitchen counter. “Can I help?”

  “No. Everything is in hand. Most of it is prepared. These are just a few last-minute things. We’ll exchange gifts after lunch, mostly for the children.” She indicated the pile of prettily wrapped gifts displayed around the pyramid-shaped ceppo, along with candles and other decoration. “Although we keep our special gifts until the Epiphany. Nonna prefers it that way. Twelfth Night, you know?”


  Ursula nodded. She knew about Twelfth Night but had never experienced its significance first-hand. She sipped her coffee and wandered over to the ceppo. It was a tiered box in the shape of a tree, decorated with greenery. On the bottom shelf was the family’s treasured and slightly battered Presepio—its Nativity scene. Decorations, fruit, nuts, and presents filled the remaining shelves. An Angel sat at the top, backlit by a pulsing electric light.

  “The fruit represents gifts of the Earth,” said Marianna. “The presents, gifts of man, and the Presepio, the gift of God.”

  “It’s beautiful. And, sort of complete, if you know what I mean. We had presents when I was growing up, and I remember a tree when I was very young, but now my parents and their new spouses prefer to take a vacation somewhere warm.”

  “Ah, that’s the difference.” Marianna dried her hands on a cloth and turned to Ursula. “We don’t see it as a vacation, but as a celebration of family, of life.” She struck a match and lit the candles which were arranged either side of each tiered shelf. Then she stood back and admired it. “There, the Tree of Light. My mother likes it lit. It reminds her of the old days before they had electricity.”

  A lump came to Ursula’s throat, and she was unable to speak.

  Marianna glanced at her. “I doubt you have such things in your house.”

  Ursula shook her head.

  “What’s your house like?” continued Marianna.

  Ursula cleared her throat. “It’s very Scandinavian. Wooden floors, high ceilings, plainly furnished. Quite austere really.”

  “Ah, like in magazines.”

  Ursula bit her lip. “Yes, like in magazines. Like somewhere no one with a real life would live.”

  Marianna touched her arm. “I didn’t mean that.”

  Ursula lay her hand over Marianna’s. “No, I know you didn’t. But it’s what I feel, looking at this. I can’t help comparing it to my life, and my life comes up wanting.”

  Marianna squeezed her hand and then reached up to a shelf and retrieved a small present. “I was going to give this to you later, but I’d like you to have it now, before the screaming hoards arrived.”

  “Thank you!” said Ursula as she turned the small gift in her hand. “You really shouldn’t have. You and your family have already given me the gift of your company this Christmas. I feel like a cuckoo in the nest.”

  Marianna laughed. “A very welcome, and a very beautiful, cuckoo.”

  Ursula opened the small gift and laughed.

  “I hope you don’t mind my sense of humor,” said Marianna.

  Ursula inspected the wooden spoon, decorated with the direction “turn repeatedly.”

  “Of course not. It’ll be a wonderful reminder of my time here. And, hopefully, with these instructions, I’ll be able to improve my cooking skills.”

  Marianna hugged her. “You won’t need them. But I’d like you to remember us when you’re gone.”

  As Marianna’s words lingered like the toll of a funeral bell in her mind, the door opened, and the children came rushing in, followed by a sleepy looking Demetrio. His first glance was at Ursula. He looked incredibly sexy with his eyes still full of dreams, his hair tousled and his shirt half-buttoned. And then he smiled, and she felt it deep inside her, spearing her with lust and something else, something that she knew would last well after she’d left Italy.

  * * *

  Christmas dinner began with a spread of antipasto, followed by pasta in broth, followed by several courses of meat, including boar buglioni. Chestnuts were included in everything, from the polenta through to the bread. There was panettone for dessert along with other traditional sweets, and plenty of wine with which to wash it all down. It lasted hours. It would have lasted even longer if the children hadn’t been impatient for their presents, much to Nonna’s disapproval.

  Ursula had bought a few bits and pieces in the square on Christmas Eve, so she wasn’t entirely empty-handed. And she’d supplemented these gifts with a few of her things for Marianna and the children. A small crystal bottle of perfume for Marianna, which Ursula had bought duty-free and was still unopened, a pretty mirror compact engraved with flowers for Carolina, and a small book of stories she’d picked up in Abbadia for Tomasso. After giving her presents, she glanced over and saw Nonna and Demetrio deep in private conversation as Nonna handed him something. Demetrio looked moved and, for a moment, Ursula wondered what it could be before she was caught up in the children’s excitement once more.

  After dinner, while young and old were either asleep or resting, Ursula cleared up the kitchen as best she could. She turned around to see Demetrio leaning against the counter watching her.

  “You look as if you belong here,” he said. His words gave her a rush of pleasure quite out of proportion to his light-hearted tone.

  She wiped down the countertop and rinsed the cloth under the ancient tap which must have been older than Nonna. “I have a feeling that Nonna and Marianna will be searching for things for months to come.”

  He smiled. “That’s okay. It’ll keep my mother occupied. Do you want to rest, or would you like to go for a walk?”

  Ursula was tired, but most definitely not that tired. “A walk would be lovely. I need to exercise off all that food.”

  “I don’t think you need to exercise off anything at all.”

  She raised an eyebrow in query. “Really?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I think you’re fine as you are.”

  “I’ll be a few pounds heavier after that meal.”

  “I think you’ll be just as fine with a few pounds added.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “And when I return to Sweden, of course, I’ll lose the weight I’ve put on since I arrived in Italy.”

  He shrugged. “A few pounds lighter, and you’ll be just as fine.”

  “I think I see a theme emerging here.” She grinned.

  “That you’re fine?” He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Come on, let’s go out.”

  * * *

  The medieval square of Abbadia was quieter than the previous evening, but people still filled the cafés which offered food in case people were hungry after their mammoth lunches at home. But Demetrio didn’t take Ursula to one of the cafés. Instead, he led her toward the abbey itself, after which the town had been named. He unlocked a side door in the high walls which surrounded the abbey, and locked it again behind them.

  Immediately on passing through the high stone walls, they entered into a different world—an ancient, hushed world, far from the rush and noise of the present day. Snow lay undisturbed all around.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Ursula.

  “Everyone else is outside these walls. Here, we’re on private land. The monks gave me a key because I’ve been working on a long-term plan for their estate. I’ve been coming back and forth over the past six months, doing test plantings, watching how things are growing, or not.”

  “That’s very modern thinking.”

  “For monks?”

  “Yes, I suppose I think of monks as living in the past.”

  “They’re traditional, but then so am I. The monks don’t want to turn their backs on the past, but, equally, they’re not ignoring the future. Bringing the best of the past into the future, in a sustainable way, is something I’m passionate about.”

  He stopped walking, and Ursula took the opportunity to look about her. The impressive medieval abbey and surrounding buildings gave a solemn air to the place, making Ursula feel transitory and unimportant beside them. Some rooks, disturbed by something unseen, cawed, and flew from a copse of trees, dark against the blue sky. And all around, brilliant sunshine made the bright snow sparkle. It was a timeless scene, and Ursula knew that other people had stood where she stood, and had seen the same things she was looking at, a hundred, even a thousand years ago. There was a sense of continuity here which she’d never before experienced.

  “I can see why you’re passionate about this place, and about the farm. I’ve been all over
the world and have never seen such a place as this.”

  Demetrio frowned. “I can’t believe that. There are many such beautiful places in the world. In your own country, for example. You’re simply being polite.”

  She shook her head. “No, no, I’m not. That’s how it feels to me.” She considered for a moment. “Sure, I’ve been to many beautiful places, but there’s a different quality here.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s something that grips me and won’t let me go.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  His words hung in the air.

  “I have to. I have a job, a life, apartments, family. Things to return to.”

  “Ah,” he said. “So tell me about your life.”

  They began to walk toward the trees. “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about your job. Do you enjoy it?”

  She shrugged. “I used to. While I was at university studying to be a lawyer I worked on social issues in a large Stockholm law practice. I loved it. We worked with youth with problems.” She shook her head. “Some of them had such terrible lives. It was a real eye-opener for me. And I felt guilty about my privileged upbringing. I decided there and then to do something about it.”

  “And did you?”

  “For a while. For around five years I worked on youth issues. In France, as well as Sweden. But then”—she shrugged—“you know, life got in the way. I followed a man to New York and took a different job.”

  “How did that work out for you?”

  “The man didn’t work out, but the job did. I got promotions, began moving into different legal areas and I bought into a practice. It was good. But…”

  “But it wasn’t what you were passionate about?”

  “Nowhere near. I met fascinating people and dealt with interesting issues, but none of them gripped me. Not in the same way.” She clenched her fist and held it against her heart. “None of them got me, here.”

  “Why don’t you return to the kind of work you’re passionate about?”