What Happens at Christmas

by Evonne Wareham

  How bad was it? He tried to order his thoughts as he started to strip off his soiled clothes. He couldn’t imagine that anyone was watching the hut to make sure he didn’t get away, although there might have been a camera in the woods. The thought sent a cold spike down his spine. He shook his head. No – if they’d been watching, someone would have been banging on the door by now.

  The thought steadied him.

  The whole thing was much more casual than that. From the outside it was meant to look like he’d either organised it himself for more publicity – he shuddered at the thought – or that someone had played a practical joke on him. Either way it was intended to appear that somehow everything had gone disastrously wrong. He’d reached that conclusion during all those hours in the hut. He’d wondered too what sort of spin Philmore had managed to put on it. He’d have found something. The man was a master.

  But if anyone else became involved, it would be a whole different ball game.

  His gut told him he was meant to die there, despite the debate between Mr Right and Lefty. An ‘accident’ was one thing. He couldn’t see either man going in for wholesale murder. But whoever was behind them …

  His gut twisted again. Had he brought trouble here, to a woman who’d only tried to help him? A woman with a child.

  He really should get out now.

  He leaned one hand against the wall. Instinct told him that if he attempted to leave, his hostess would hunt him down. Never argue with a woman who packs a loaded screwdriver. If he got cleaned up, then maybe he could sneak away later, after Lori and Misty were asleep? He lurched towards the shower, hoping that hot water would make his brain work faster.

  Outside the wind was picking up. A soft flake of white spiralled down and settled on the cold ground on the shadowy side of the barn.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Christmas Eve, Evening

  Lori looked over the banister from the gallery, to check on Misty, relieved to see the little girl had found her colouring book and was totally engrossed, colouring in a picture to leave for Santa, with the mince pie and carrots for the reindeer. Griff sprawled watchfully beside her. Both would be wanting their tea soon, but in the meantime …

  She dithered for a moment. The Cwtch or the bedroom?

  She chose the Cwtch, speeding along the corridor. It was unlikely in the extreme that Andrew Vitruvius would come along here before morning, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She scooped up the evidence of her writing – a thick pad and a bundle of pens, mostly culled from writing courses and festivals – dumping it in the wicker basket that held the ring binder with her notes, her thesaurus and her dictionary. Her travelling writer’s toolkit. She shoved the basket behind the chair and felt better.

  She wrinkled her nose at the row of Vitruvius’s books on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. She’d like to hide them too, but there wasn’t time and she didn’t have anywhere to put them. She belted back along the landing, checking on Misty again on the way. Still colouring. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom, so she had a few minutes.

  Shaking up pillowcases and wrangling with the duvet gave her some time to think, but she wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. She’d brought a complete stranger into the house, with her small niece, just because he was a best-selling author. She thumped a pillow to make it lie flat. That was as bad as thinking you knew characters in Coronation Street or EastEnders as friends. And what the hell is the man mixed up in? Had he really brought something dangerous with him?

  Involuntarily she glanced over at the curtained window. Without immediate neighbours, Paulie had installed good locks and bolts for his gran, and in a borrowed house Lori was meticulous in making sure they were all engaged and locked before she and Misty went out. They were still locked. No one was going to be breaking in here tonight and Vitruvius would be gone in the morning, taking whatever trouble he was in with him.

  She still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure he hadn’t engineered the whole thing himself, but if he had, someone had messed up, and he had paid for it.

  And could you really have left him there? The state he was in?

  He hadn’t wanted to come with them. You were the one who insisted. Unless he was a master double bluffer, she took that as a sign that he wasn’t a threat to herself or Misty. She didn’t have trouble under her roof, although he might bring it to the door. I really hope you’re not being a fool here.

  She smoothed down the surface of the duvet and straightened up, looking her guilt in the face. Remembering. It wasn’t just concern for the man that had prompted her in those first seconds. She could still feel it. That leap of excitement, avarice – she didn’t know what to call it – when she’d recognised who he was. A writer, and a famous writer. The kind who might launch careers …

  How low can you get?

  That she’d discarded the impulse in the next minute, didn’t make it go away. Which is why there wasn’t going to be any sight nor mention of her own writing. And he would be gone in the morning. Hold that thought.

  The bed was finished. She trotted over to the chest of drawers. Paulie had left a few clothes here, shirts and a pair of old cargo pants with paint stains on both knees that matched the colour of the kitchen walls. There were a couple of unopened packets of cheap boxer shorts and a new toothbrush too. Left, she guessed, from when Paulie was staying over with his grandmother to help his mother out. In the early days before the dementia got too great a hold, when she’d still recognised her grandson.

  Lori rummaged, pulling out a shirt and holding it up. It looked okay. Drew Vitruvius was big, but Paulie still played rugby and had the build to match, so that was no problem. She dropped the clothes on a chair and looked round. Water. He’d demolished a whole bottle in the car. There was an unopened litre bottle in her room. She fetched it, dropping the clothes beside the bathroom door as she passed and returning to put the bottle beside the bed, along with the first aid kit that lived with a fire extinguisher in a small cupboard on the landing. She wasn’t planning on playing Florence Nightingale, but there were antiseptic and plasters in there, if they were needed.

  She’d got close enough to Vitruvius helping him get here. She could still feel the tingling in her fingers from holding on to that well-muscled arm. Once he was out of the shower, smelling good and looking at her with those deep brown eyes … It might be Christmas Eve, but she wasn’t helping herself to that sort of present. The man was attractive, even bruised and battered. More attractive in the flesh than looking macho on the back of a book jacket. She’d always been a sucker for a wounded hero.

  Wounded, not totally screwed up.

  With a silent whisper of thanks that they would only be under the same roof for a few hours, she went down to see about food for Misty and Griff. She’d deal with food for her unexpected guest later. The presence of a strange man in the house meant there wouldn’t be any cuddling on the sofa tonight in Christmas pyjamas, but she could still break out the mince pies and amaretti biscuits.

  They’d eaten cheese on toast and shared a mince pie and now Misty was inspecting the room, inch by inch, deciding on the best place to hang her stocking, with Griff pacing solemnly beside her. Lori sat on the sofa, nibbling on an almond biscuit and wondering what had become of their unexpected guest. She’d heard the bathroom door open, followed by a waft of damp, soap-scented air, which had rolled down the staircase when she’d been cutting up the cheese, but since then, nothing. She swallowed the last delicious crumb of biscuit and stood up. ‘I won’t be a minute, sweetie.’

  She knocked softly on the door. ‘Hello?’ before cautiously putting her head round it. The bedside light was still on. Drew was flat out on the duvet, face down. He didn’t stir as she moved to stand at the foot of the bed. She waited, to see if he’d sit up, but nothing happened. She looked round, taking stock. The level in the water bottle had gone down; he was dressed in Paulie’s shirt and one of the pairs of
underpants. She kept her eyes away from a sturdy pair of legs, furred with dark hair, walking round to stand at the head of the bed. His hands were splayed out either side of his head. He’d done a workmanlike job with plasters and a bandage to tether the cuff and chain in place.

  She rescued the first aid kit, still open and balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. Gingerly she put her fingers on the side of his neck. His skin was warm and his pulse was even. She pulled her hand away quickly as he moved one of his, to rub where she’d touched him. He let out a muted puttering noise and dropped his hand again.

  The tension in her shoulders eased away. Not unconscious, just asleep. She picked up a heavy knitted throw from the chair and wrapped it around him, leaving the light on, but pressing the base so that the brightness dimmed a little. It might help if he woke up later, disorientated.

  Everything was done. The stocking was in place, displaying interesting bulges, the foil container from the mince pie artistically arranged on a plate, next to the empty Bailey’s glass. Misty’s colouring book, with the completed picture, was propped open beside it. Misty was upstairs, fast asleep, with Bunny on one side and Griff on the other. When Lori peeked in, Drew Vitruvius was still out for the count, although he had turned on his side, burying his face in the pillow.

  Lori had hauled the presents out of the cupboard beside the front door and piled them under the tree, wondering what the parcels from her sister contained for her abandoned daughter. There was even one from Dan. She recognised his large blunt handwriting on the card. What sort of convoluted route had that taken to get here?

  Lori circled the room, extinguishing lights and setting the burglar alarm. She hadn’t used it since they’d arrived, but tonight she armed it, just in case. Satisfied with the precautions she had taken, she climbed the stairs, carrying the radio so that she could listen to the midnight carol service, hopefully without disturbing her niece. She checked her phone and found a surprising four bar signal, rather than the usual grudging single. Something to do with the weather? Or a touch of Christmas magic?

  She stopped on the landing. Vitruvius was fast asleep. With a signal on the phone, should she be ringing the police?

  They’d made a deal. No police, no contact.

  And no loved ones waiting anxiously for news?

  No one he’d felt the need to get in touch with.

  Isn’t that a little sad?

  That wasn’t anything do with her. It was reassuring to know that she had a phone signal if they did need to summon help, but she wasn’t going to break their agreement.

  Around her the barn was quiet and still, although the wind was moaning a little at the outside corners of the building.

  Christmas Eve and all was warm and safe.

  No one could get into the house without them knowing about it.

  Not even Father Christmas.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Christmas Day, Early Morning

  It was still dark, but Lori’s inner alarm clock told her it was morning. She lay on her back, staring up at the beamed roof of the barn above and wiggling her toes under the duvet. She was thirty-one years old but Christmas morning still had that magical breathless quality. Gratitude to Lark, for the gift of her daughter for the holidays, washed over her. And to Paulie for the gift of the barn.

  Cautiously she raised herself on one elbow, looking over to the other twin bed against the wall. Amazingly, considering what morning it was, Misty was still sleeping. A head popped up though, and a pair of pale eyes gave her a long stare. Griff was awake. Lori put her finger to her lips and flopped back onto the pillow, frowning slightly. The first hint of daylight was creeping around the edge of the curtains and there was something about the quality of the light …

  With a muffled exclamation Lori slid out of bed and over to the window, pushing aside the corner of the curtain. It was getting light.

  And at some time during the night, the whole world had turned white.

  ‘Is it Christmas? Did he come?’ The small sleepy voice from behind her made her turn. Misty was sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Griff jumped off the bed, stretched, paws extended, and stalked over.

  ‘We’ll have to go downstairs and find out.’ Lori pulled the curtain back a bit further. ‘But there’s another surprise. Look.’

  Misty rolled out of bed and scampered to the window. ‘It snowed!’ She looked up at Lori with wide round eyes.

  ‘It sure did, kiddo.’

  Together the three of them stood and watched as light filtered over the pristine alien landscape. Lori let out a long slow breath. She might be mistaken, but she had a feeling that their unexpected guest would not, after all, be leaving today. Misty, having looked for long enough, was pulling on her aunt’s hand. ‘Can we go down now?’

  ‘Get your dressing gown then. And your slippers.’ Lori reached for her own robe, draped at the end of the bed. Her alarm clock said it was just on the hour. On impulse she flipped the button on the radio.

  ‘… overnight a freak weather front left large areas of South and Mid Wales experiencing heavy snow falls and blizzard conditions, with extensive drifting in places. Police are asking people not to travel unless absolutely necessary, as work continues to free motorists trapped in their cars overnight. At the Heads of the Valleys—’

  Lori flipped the radio off again. Misty was darting around, flapping her dressing gown like wings. ‘Freaky, freaky, freaky!’

  Lori shrugged into her own robe, grabbed her niece, got her arms into her sleeves and did her belt up. ‘Right, madam. Slippers?’

  Grinning, Misty retrieved them from under the bed and put them on. Griff was already standing by the door, waiting to go. Lori wriggled her shoulders – normally the barn felt slightly chilly in the morning, but today it was warm. And there was a familiar scent in the air …

  They processed down the stairs, Griff in the lead and Lori bringing up the rear. Drew was standing at the window nursing a mug of coffee. The snow seemed to be several feet up the glass. He turned at the sound of the footsteps, raising the mug. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

  Lori was unsure whether she did or not, but Misty had spotted her stocking and the presents under the tree and was tripping excitedly down the stairs and Griff was making his morning ‘going out’ and ‘breakfast’ noises and the room was warm.

  ‘I sorted out the wood burner too.’ Drew was looking up at her doubtfully.

  It’s Christmas. Go with it.

  ‘Thank you.’ She nodded. ‘Happy Christmas.’

  ‘And to you,’ he responded solemnly. They stood for a moment, a little awkwardly, she on the stairs, Drew beside the window.

  Misty broke the spell, reaching the bottom stair and skittering across the floor, homing in on the empty plate and glass and the bulging stocking.

  ‘He came. He came. Father Christmas came!’ Misty bounced up and down with excitement, reaching for the stocking. She’d just got it into a firm grip when Griff let out a demanding yowl. The stocking was immediately discarded to meet the needs of her darling. ‘He wants to go out.’

  Lori completed her descent of the stairs. ‘I’m not sure he’s going to be too impressed with what’s out there.’ She cast a doubtful look at the height of the snow outside the French doors.

  ‘I think that’s drifted,’ Drew suggested quietly.

  Lori nodded. ‘Let’s go and see what the back door is like. Don’t open it, Misty,’ she warned as her niece darted ahead. ‘The alarm’s on.’ She met Drew’s dark look of acknowledgement as Griff stalked past them to mew plaintively beside the door. ‘How do you feel this morning?’

  ‘Much better.’ He half turned to take in the snow piled against the windows behind them. ‘Wasn’t expecting this.’

  ‘Neither was the weatherman. We’ll talk about it later.’

  From Griff’s point of view, at least, the situation at the back of the barn, once they got the door open, was better. The vagarities of the wind and the protection of the outbuildings h
ad left only a powdering of snow closest to the house, with patches of dark earth showing. Beyond that, the whole world seemed to be unbroken white.

  And from the look of the low and lowering sky, there was more to come. Leaving a disgruntled Griff to his privacy they trooped back into the main room. Lori fell on the coffee pot and poured Misty some juice and they set to unwrapping presents.

  Once Misty had extracted the contents of the overstuffed stocking, down to the tangerine, shiny pennies and sugar mouse in the toe – Lori had been rather pleased at finding the mouse on a sweet stall in the market at Abergavenny – and had been dissuaded from starting straight away on the peppermint candy canes, Lori decreed a pause for a proper breakfast before they tackled the presents under the tree.

  ‘You must be starving.’ Drew had followed her over to the breakfast island, leaving Misty to show off a new pair of novelty socks to Griff, who had returned from the snow and was contently full of his breakfast. Lori cracked eggs to scramble and slid a tray of rolls in the oven to warm.

  ‘Just a bit.’ He caught her eye and laughed. It sounded rusty, but it was a good sound. His voice had a husky edge. Is it always like that, or is it the effect of a few days shut in a hut in a Welsh wood? She flipped the eggs into the pan and stirred, taking stock of him. Clean, dressed in Paulie’s clothes and with a night’s sleep, he looked a great deal better, even if the heavy stubble, which she suspected may be hiding a few bruises, did make him look like an off-duty buccaneer. A sexy buccaneer.

  The shock of the thought jolted her back to the job in hand, shaking the eggs so that they wouldn’t stick. ‘I should have said, there’s cereal in the cupboard and the milk is through there. On the windowsill.’

  ‘It’s cool. I can wait.’ He nodded to the eggs. ‘They smell exceptionally good.’ He was looking around the kitchen. ‘You don’t have power …’