A Mistletoe Miracle

by Emma Jackson

When lunch was over, I loaded up the dishwasher with bowls and spoons, and then consulted Neeta’s list once more. Where there were ticks by the line entries that Henry had obviously completed, there were ominous blank spaces next to the words ‘bake mince pies’ and ‘mull wine’.

  Surely that only meant reheating. Not baking…as in from scratch?

  I searched through the cupboards but there was no sign of mince pies. What I did find were jars and jars of homemade mincemeat. My stomach clenched. Kitchen novice I may have been but even I knew that there needed to be some pastry wrapped around that.

  There wasn’t any in the fridge or pantry. I’d even searched the cupboards, despite knowing full well that uncooked pastry could not be kept in a cupboard. That was what panic did to you, and boy was I panicking now.

  There was nothing else for it, I was going to have to go out and buy some: either pastry or actual mince pies. Mince pies would probably be better, given that time was refusing to stand still for me. How likely was it that I would find enough mince pies at the greengrocer’s in the village two days before Christmas? Not very but I had to try.

  I ran out into the lobby and dashed into the office to pick up all my outdoor clothing from the coat stand – and then added a few of my mother’s garments to it as well. I was still wrapping and buttoning myself up in as many layers as possible as I moved towards the front door. If I paused for too long I would end up rethinking this course of action and I couldn’t afford delays.

  ‘Yes, yes, Nan, I’m fine – I’ll be back soon – just want to grab a jumper and freshen up. Of course – go ahead.’

  Nick was backing out of the doorway to the library with a reassuring smile on his face; right up until the moment it closed. He pinched the bridge of his nose, lifting his glasses so they rested on his knuckles as he squeezed, his eyes shut.

  Something inside me stilled, just like last night when I saw him across the crowd. Not just because the sight of him flicked all my aesthetic appreciation switches but because, when he didn’t know someone was looking, the brokenness he was feeling was plain to see.

  I could feel my Aretha Franklin armour weakening. Ms Independent here wanted nothing more than to throw herself at that hunk of tortured-man-candy and comfort him. I knew what it was to lose a parent. And I genuinely would have offered that comfort to anyone if I thought it would help them, even if just for a moment, not to feel so alone in their grief.

  But two things were stopping me: first, he hadn’t told me about his mum and until he did I had to assume he didn’t want to talk about it, and second, if I did actually throw my arms around him in a hug, dressed up in the number of layers that I was, I was likely to knock us both to the floor and keep rolling like a woollen snowball.

  He dropped his hand, turned around and spotted me in my bulky outdoor wear – how could he miss me really? Shoving his hands in his pockets, he tilted his head to the side. ‘You can’t be going outside. It’s a full-on blizzard out there.’

  I should have played it cool and professional, but a part of me that was feeling just a little vulnerable liked that there was at least one person who was concerned about what I was doing – even if it was only in passing.

  ‘I have to,’ I managed to mumble through my scarf. ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘What kind of emergency?’ He followed me towards the door as I waddled my way over.

  ‘A mince pie emergency.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head.

  ‘No?’ My eyebrows nearly disappeared under my woolly hat.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a mince pie emergency,’ he elaborated. ‘A mince pie is a luxury seasonal dessert-slash-snack. Nothing to do with a mince pie could be an emergency.’

  ‘What if someone were choking on one?’

  ‘That would be a medical emergency, rather than a mince pie emergency.’ He frowned. ‘Is someone choking on one?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why I’m going out for a walk.’ I yanked my scarf down so that he could better hear my sarcasm. ‘I thought it was best to go fetch a doctor rather than perform the Heimlich manoeuvre.’

  ‘So, that’s a “no” then.’ He was biting back a smile and I wanted so much to enjoy a little banter with him, to coax that smile out further—

  No, Beth, no! I had too much to do and I couldn’t let myself be distracted.

  ‘Look, it may not be a nuclear-power-plant-exploding type of emergency, but I have two dozen guests expecting a special mince pie and mulled wine evening in less than three hours’ time and I haven’t got any mince pies because our chef is…not here. So I’m going to have to go into the village and try to find enough to feed everyone so I can get back and mull some wine, and set up the bar and put on a cocktail dress and dig out the Michael Bublé CD and host a stupid-festive-heart-warming-gathering, okay?’

  My chest was heaving by the time I was done word-vomiting on him and I was beginning to burn up in all my layers.

  He blinked at me and then scratched the curl of blond hair at his temple with his thumb. ‘Okay. I hear you. Just…um…why don’t you make some?’

  ‘Make them? I don’t have time to make them…do I?’

  ‘I don’t think pastry takes that long. It’s pretty basic ingredients, so long as you have the stuff that goes inside.’

  ‘I’ve got truckloads of that. Can you make pastry?’ I grabbed both his arms and was almost too excited about the prospect of my problem being solved to appreciate how firm they felt, even through his shirt and my gloves.

  ‘No,’ his mouth ticked up at the corner, ‘but I know a woman who can.’

  I was just unwinding the last scarf from my neck when Nick’s nan breezed into the kitchen with her gorgeous grandson just behind her.

  ‘Nicky tells me you’re having a culinary crisis. Where are all the other staff?’

  ‘Ill or stranded,’ I admitted. Seeing as I wanted this woman’s help, it really didn’t seem worth it to lie. ‘At the moment I have Elise, who was waitressing at lunch, but she’s leaving in about half an hour. Our other chef should be in tomorrow morning, as long as she doesn’t get stranded too.’ I tried to say this in my most matter-of-fact voice while I fetched the spare wooden bar stool we kept in the kitchen and motioned for Dorie to sit. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could keep this to yourselves as well. I don’t think most of the guests would be keen to hear this hotel is a one-woman show.’

  I could feel Nick’s eyes on me and when I glanced at him, he was frowning and biting his lip.

  The possibility that he was the Hotel Hopper popped into my brain but it was too late to worry about that. I was on a damage-limitation manoeuvre now and it was a risk I needed to take.

  Dorie hopped up on the stool and crossed her legs.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Now, Nicky said you need to make some pastry. How many mince pies are we talking about?’

  ‘I dunno.’ I looked up at the ceiling, mentally trying to count up all the guests and how many mince pies they might like to eat. ‘Maybe…four dozen?’ My voice went a little squeaky at the end.

  ‘We’ll make six dozen just in case they get greedy. You can always freeze the leftovers.’ Her assessing gaze roved over the cupboards. ‘I’m sure you’ll have everything we need.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I directed the thanks at her but took another look at Nick who was rubbing the back of his neck and still frowning at me. I wished he would stop looking all brooding; it did nothing to help my concentration. ‘I’ll make sure you get a discount for your stay—’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Dorie waved away the suggestion. ‘Just bring in a bottle of red to keep my throat lubricated while I give you the instructions and we’ll be all square.’

  ‘Okay, it’s a deal. Will this take long? Will we get them all baked in time?’

  ‘We will if you get a wriggle on with that wine.’

  Dorie did exactly as she said and sat sipping wine whilst giving me and Nick directions on how to make pastry. I hadn’t realised he
was going to stay too, but an extra pair of hands was not something I could afford to turn down at the moment, even if those hands made my mind wander with disturbing regularity.

  I don’t think either of us really knew how to be in front of his nan after our moment together last night and being caught out by a clearly cranky Stephen. So, we both ended up acting super-awkward and overly polite as we stood side by side at the kitchen island.

  We made a production line surrounded by ingredients and equipment. Nick measured all the amounts and I made the dough, rubbing butter into flour, adding sugar and egg before quickly forming it into dough. Nick rolled it out and cut the cases and then filled them before we chilled them, ready for baking.

  He was concentrating intently on rolling out the next slab of dough, in backwards and forwards motions only, exactly as Dorie instructed, before turning it ninety degrees and rolling again. His blond hair was hanging forward, a strand caught in his glasses and he’d turned up the cuffs of his shirt to reveal precisely how wonderful it was when his muscles bunched and flexed in his forearms. He wasn’t a beefy guy by any stretch of the imagination, but he was definitely toned and I was definitely becoming ridiculous.

  The kitchen grew warm and perfumed with the heady scent of fruit and alcohol as the first batches went into the oven. After the first two dozen, we really didn’t need Dorie’s instructions anymore and an industrious silence settled over us.

  Nick reached across the counter for the bag of flour and I leaned back, lifting my sticky hands from the bowl of crumbs I was working on. As he stretched across, he rested the heel of his hand against my lower back – for balance I suppose, or to keep me still, I don’t know. I do know goose bumps erupted up my spine and spread out over my scalp.

  I froze, his body at a right angle to mine, giving off heat and that scent of his – how many times did he shower a day? I could’ve stepped away – I should’ve stepped away – to give him room to get to the flour but instead I stood there absorbing the tantalising nearness of him and realising that this brief moment of barely touching was lighting me up in ways that no kind of intimacy with Peter had for a very long time. And that was the reason for all this lusting, I was sure: I was on the rebound.

  Except that I hadn’t felt like this about Stephen.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  I blinked at the sound of his voice, low-pitched and so close that when I looked up his head was bent over mine and the bright blue of his eyes trapped me. I swallowed hard.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine thanks.’ My assurance came out embarrassingly husky and his gaze dropped for a moment to my mouth. My stomach leapt with the sudden, instinctive knowledge gathered purely from body language: he liked me back. And once the euphoria of that ego trip faded slightly, my heart began to pound, not just from excitement but fear.

  If he liked me back, ignoring this was going to be ten times harder. Case in point, I was still staring up at him, inside the semicircle of his arms, rather than moving away, and the compulsion to lick my lips was getting impossible to ignore. All the while he kept staring too.

  Then it got even worse. I looked at his mouth. I hadn’t really studied it, other than when I was seeking those big, panty-melting smiles, but wow; that right there was a bottom lip that begged to be bitten. Imagining my teeth giving it a firm tug made my legs go all watery. I leaned in towards him; he leaned towards me—

  ‘Ssnnooorrrrcccchhhh…’

  I jumped back, my heart somersaulting inside my chest at the unholy noise, which had come from neither of us. Nick released a few impressive and not commonly used swear words and a cloud of white puffed up around us as he dropped the bag of flour he’d been reaching for before we’d got distracted.

  Coughing and blinking, we both looked straight over to the corner where Dorie was sitting, chin propped up on her hand, elbow planted on the other side of the kitchen island to us, eyes firmly shut and nose/mouth emitting the violent snoring.

  Somehow, I’d completely forgotten she was in the room with us. I gave a nervous chuckle. ‘Whoever would’ve thought such a disturbing noise could come from such a small person?’

  Nick gave a short laugh and pushed his glasses back up his nose with the back of his hand. He threw a quick look at me and stepped away slightly, that tinge of pink rosying up his high cheekbones. When he looked back at his nan though, a crinkly line formed between his eyebrows.

  ‘I should take her up to her room before she falls off that stool.’ He picked up a tea towel and started wiping his hands.

  ‘Or you could just wake her up?’

  ‘Something tells me she won’t be easily woken.’

  I followed his gaze to the bottle of wine I’d given her. It was half empty and Nick and I hadn’t drunk any. Hmm. ‘Yeah, you might be right. Well, thank you for your help.’ I brushed at the mixture of butter and flour caked to my fingers.

  ‘I can come back afterwards.’ He folded the towel in half and then once again before returning it to the edge of the counter.

  ‘That’s okay. I’ve got it from here.’

  He opened his mouth to object but I forced a smile and went over to the sink to wash my hands. I needed all the help I could get but some internal alarm bell was warning me that being alone with Nick would not be sensible or productive.

  When I finished at the sink and turned back around, he had scooped his nan up in his arms like she was a child. He was so gentle with her, I almost couldn’t stand to watch. I hurried over to open the swing door for him and caught that brooding look on his face again.

  Yeah, it definitely wouldn’t be sensible to be around Nick on my own whilst in my current emotional state. He was like a big red button with a sign over saying: ‘Do Not Press’. And I’d never been much good at resisting that kind of impulse.

  I picked up the bottle from where Dorie had been sitting. The guests really did love a bit of booze. And they would be expecting the bar to be open soon. But I couldn’t manage all the prep for dinner and the Mince Pie Evening and be in the bar at the same time. I’d have to put a notice on the door that it was shut this afternoon because of the festivities – that was plausible.

  After I put another batch of mince pies in the oven and one in the fridge to chill, I went out to the reception to type up a notice for the bar. I’d just pressed send when I looked up from the computer at the front desk and saw Julius Mundey.

  ‘There you are,’ was how he greeted me.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Mundey. Can I help you?’ I glanced at the clock on the monitor and it told me I only had ten minutes to deal with whatever his problem was before my mince pies started burning.

  (I couldn’t believe I’d got to a stage in my life where that wasn’t a euphemism.)

  ‘I’d like to go for a walk into town.’

  ‘Urr…okay. I’m not quite sure how I can help with that…’

  ‘The hotel is responsible for the road, is it not?’

  ‘The road…?’

  ‘The road from here into the village.’ He let out a sharp puff of hot air and I could’ve sworn I saw flames sneak out from his pursed lips too. ‘It should be shovelled and then gritted.’

  By who? Was this man serious? Who was I kidding – he was always serious. I took as deep a breath as I could manage without being obvious. ‘I’ll look into it for you.’

  He stared at me expectantly. ‘Well? Get to it then.’

  Oooh, he wasn’t the only one who wanted to breath fire at that point. He may as well have snapped his fingers at me.

  ‘I’m afraid I have other duties to attend to at the moment and until the snow stops falling that heavily, none of our staff will be going out there to clear the road.’

  He started to bluster but I excused myself before I lost my cool altogether. Leaving a guest at the front desk disgruntled was not fantastic but it was better that than strangling him. I was pretty sure he wasn’t the Hotel Hopper. Although he was finickity enough to be a critic, he spent far too much time here to travel to other plac
es too and I assumed he would’ve reviewed us already.

  I made it back into the kitchen with five minutes to spare before the timer went off on the mince pies. I pulled my phone out quickly to check up on my aforementioned friend the Hotel Hopper and see what he or she was saying now.

  ‘You Can Get Too Cosy

  ‘The Dickensian Festival had everything you could wish for from a Christmas Fayre. Music, food and a location straight off a Christmas card or from your favourite festive film. (You will love the photos when I upload my final review.)

  ‘What it was lacking, however, was the space to truly enjoy it. Loganbury’s quaint village fayre has become such a success the tiny roads and quirky establishments are flooded with not just locals but visitors from all the nearby towns as well. If you are someone who values a little personal space and a quiet spot to soak up the atmosphere, as I do, this one might be worth a miss.’

  I let out a low whistle. The blogger’s woolly mittens were off now. Even though the disapproving tone wasn’t about the hotel, it left me feeling like there was a knife dangling over my head. It didn’t help knowing that the reviewer had raved about our food either, and I’d just sacked one of our chefs.

  I spent the last couple of minutes before the timer went off productively, staring out of the window and wondering how my mother managed to run this place without murdering someone and why she thought it was worth the hassle.

  When the last of the mince pies were done it was already starting to get dark outside. I was completely covered in flour and smears of butter, so another change of clothes was in order before I got onto the business of setting up the dining room with the cold buffet. I didn’t pick something from my own wardrobe though – I was running out of skirts and blouses – so I went into my mum’s room and raided hers.

  I didn’t usually borrow clothes from my mum. For one thing, I’d bypassed her in height when I was eleven, and for another I didn’t really want to dress like my mum. But tonight, I had a feeling it would help for me to look a bit more mature, a bit more serious, perhaps to give off the impression that I had everything under control.