A Mistletoe Miracle

by Emma Jackson

  I took his hand and led him over to the piano. The seat was a long one, so we could sit side by side. I just had to push it to the right a bit so that I was still central.

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s been tuned recently,’ I warned him.

  ‘Better to find out now, than in front of everyone later.’ He pressed his arm against mine, warm and firm and steady.

  ‘Good point.’ I winced at the thought of everyone plugging their fingers in their ears and storming off to bed with a headache. When I glanced at him, his lips were pressed together so hard they turned white, and it was obvious that my imaginary humiliation was nothing compared to the internal battle he was fighting. ‘So, what do you want me to play?’

  He released his lips and a tiny puff of air escaped, a cross between a gasp and a sigh. ‘What anything? You can play anything? Like a jukebox.’

  ‘I’m the human jukebox and you’re the human vending machine.’

  ‘Only for women with PMS.’

  ‘Right. Not as versatile as me.’ I wiggled my fingers over the keys, and he smiled. Every time I managed to get him to smile it was like I should receive a Girl Guiding badge for the achievement.

  ‘That’s so impressive,’ he said, still contemplating me.

  ‘You haven’t heard me play yet, to be fair.’

  ‘I heard your student play in the band at the Christmas festival. That has to count as evidence.’ His mouth tilted with gentle affection as he looked at me. ‘That was why you weren’t able to stay still, wasn’t it? You were bursting with pride. And rightly so – what a gift to be able to share your talent with people and then see it grow.’

  My heart was getting too big for my chest again. He really understood how much it had meant to me and wasn’t judging me for it. That pay-it-forward mentality was instilled in me from my dad, the joy he’d found in sharing his love for music with me. I’d never questioned that following in his footsteps was the right thing to do… Until I faced Peter’s resentment on a daily basis. He’d made me feel like such a silly little girl dreaming that I was special when in reality I was just being pretentious. But in this moment with Nick, who’d asked me to play because the music would help him, and who could see the value in what I had done – and could do – I knew Peter had been wrong. People needed music, just like they needed art and books and films, to connect with and express themselves and Nick got that.

  ‘Thank you,’ I murmured, then cleared my throat. ‘Have you thought of a song yet? I can give anything a try, if I know it well enough.’

  He shook his head. ‘Every song I’ve ever heard has disappeared from my mind.’

  I laughed. ‘Okay, grab your phone. What was number one when you turned fourteen? Apparently, it’s meant to sum up your childhood or life or something?’

  ‘Says who?’ He raised his eyebrow but still pulled his phone out of his pocket, necessitating him leaning back and lifting his shirt, so a strip of his stomach was revealed above low-hanging jeans, the contours of his muscles deepening as he flexed, nearly making me slide off my chair in a pile of drool.

  ‘The experts. On Twitter.’

  ‘Oh, the experts on everything.’ He unlocked his phone and tapped away, then snorted. ‘Busted’s version of “Thunderbirds Are Go”.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a fool-proof system.’

  ‘No.’ I put my hand on his leg as I tried to stifle my giggles. ‘No. I think there’s something to it. You’re a pilot. The Thunderbirds flew things.’

  ‘Let’s check yours then. See how accurate it is.’

  ‘Fine. October 1st,’ I leaned in and whispered the year in his ear, pretending to keep it a secret, but there was no one in the room and even if there was, I didn’t care if they knew my age. I was being a shameless flirt.

  His long fingers tapped the tiny keyboard and he shook his head. ‘Scissor Sisters. “I don’t feel like dancing”.’

  I chewed my lip. ‘I’m not sure I even remember that.’

  ‘No?’ He broke into a high falsetto, of which I could barely understand any of the words. I just about caught the tune and the song came back to me and I started to play along to his exaggerated version, hitting the piano keys quickly to match the honky-tonk vibe of the song. Eventually he had to stop because the high-pitch induced a coughing fit. I stopped playing, tears streaming from my eyes in laughter and I rubbed his back as his chest heaved, ribs moving under my hand, spine flexing. I couldn’t help but stroke my hand up as he was able to breathe again, sliding my fingers through the short brush of hair at his nape.

  He leaned his head back into my touch and sighed slowly. When he turned to look at me his eyes were shiny-bright blue, but his smile was gone. The look he gave me touched me; reached inside me and touched the centre of me so that I trembled.

  ‘Beth,’ he murmured and took my hand from his neck, to hold between his. ‘Beth,’ he tried again, swallowing, like there was something stuck in his throat. He made a soft sound of frustration, head bent over our hands and I leaned my forehead against his, looking down and waiting. He was trying. He was trying to say it. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard any Agnes Obel?’

  ‘Yes.’ I licked my lips. ‘She writes beautiful songs. I learnt a few of them. It was a couple of years ago though.’

  ‘Do you know “Words are Dead”?’

  That part inside me he’d touched began to ache. I knew this song. It was about a love that had died, that first blush of infatuation that fades out, but that wasn’t why he was choosing it. Or at least, I didn’t think so. The lyrics were full of the hauntingly beautiful imagery of a funeral for words that couldn’t be said.

  I nodded, our heads rubbing together, and closed my eyes too for a moment, recalling the music. When I caught at it, I was sure I had the beginning that would trigger the rest to follow, I sat up and reached out with my left hand, almost central, touching the keys lightly, tripping into it with that deceptive opening, almost frolicking before her breathy voice would normally start. But I didn’t sing. We both knew the words.

  I pulled my right hand free carefully when I needed both to play. He let me go. Transferred his grip to the wooden edge of the seat we were balancing on, his knuckles going white, his eyes focused on my fingers as I picked out the melody and layered it with the chords. Such pure notes, ringing out and a bittersweet joy filled me at the perfection of it. I put everything I had into it for him as I sunk into the music. My arm brushed against his as I stretched for the higher notes, but it wasn’t too great a range. And then it was coming to the end.

  There was quiet in the room and when I looked at him, he had his eyes shut again. ‘Nick?’

  He breathed in deeply through his nose and looked at me.

  ‘Thank you. That was beautiful. You’re beautiful.’ He stroked his fingers over the top of mine and my heart began to race. I knew what song I wanted to play him. What I wanted to tell him but couldn’t. Norah Jones. ‘Come Away with Me’. It would be just as perfect, but the realisation was also completely terrifying. This was not meant to be happening. He was meant to be a fling, but now even the excuses I had for not wanting more were vanishing. Even though he still hadn’t told me about his mother, he was trying. He was trying so hard…

  I moved my fingers so slowly over the keys that his hand stayed over the top of mine, and I found the opening chord. Did I dare?

  ‘Hey, sorry to interrupt.’

  At the sound of Noelle’s American accent, I yanked my hand off the piano. Nick and I both turned, spinning in opposite directions on the stool to face her.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you all over.’ She moved further into the room. ‘Was that you playing?’

  I nodded. Words certainly were dead to me at that moment. My heart was still thundering.

  ‘It sounded amazing.’

  I grimaced at her, because that was all I could manage and she looked between Nick and I again, a small frown tugging at her eyebrows. ‘Should I go?’

/>   ‘No. It’s fine.’ Nick stood up and I felt a little tear inside immediately at the absence of him. ‘I’ve got to go wake up my nan anyway.’ He glanced down at me, his face pale, two bright spots of pink on his cheekbones. ‘I’ll see you later?’

  I nodded again and he made it across the room in a few strides. Noelle watched the door shut behind him and then hurried over to me.

  ‘Jeez, are you okay? There were some seriously intense vibes in this room, and you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or…was he about to propose or somethin’?’

  She reached the piano and I managed to find my voice – and my bones and muscles – again.

  ‘Nothing like that.’ My laugh was high enough to shatter glass. I closed the lid to the piano and stood up, tucking in the chair. ‘Everything’s okay. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Okay, gotcha. Butt out, Noelle.’ She gave me a mock salute. ‘Look, sorry for asking this. I know it’s not the normal way things work around here but I missed breakfast because I was exhausted from last night. Then I went down to the village to check on Rachel and the baby and missed lunch too and nowhere was open, which seems a bit crazy. Anyway, I am starving. You don’t have a snack I could grab, do you?’

  ‘Oh God, of course. Come with me.’

  I led her out into the lobby and into the kitchens. Neeta didn’t even look up at us; she was a blur, moving from workstation to oven. There was a low-lying cloud of steam and things hissing and timers going off. Whoa. Maybe I should be in here helping, rather than playing the piano and making goo-goo eyes at a man.

  I shook my head. ‘Actually, Noelle, could you wait in the office and I’ll bring something in for you?’ As soon as Noelle disappeared, I approached Neeta, but didn’t get too close as I didn’t want to get basted or shoved in the oven by mistake. ‘Can I help you with any of this, Neeta?’

  She shook her head, eyes locked on a long pan she had on top of the hob, and was scraping and mixing, beads of sweat at her hairline.

  ‘Not now. Would take too much time to explain. Easier to just get on with it. No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  I ducked into the fridge, grabbed a plate of leftovers and salad for Noelle and left the kitchen: off the hook, but not feeling particularly great about it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Noelle was sitting on the swivel chair, investigating the stationery on my mother’s desk, but not the notebook or papers. I wasn’t sure whether that was her drawing the line with her own nosiness, or just because she had a fetish for stationery.

  As I came through the door, she dropped the highlighters and spun towards me, eyes wide when she saw the heaped plate of food I had for her.

  I pulled up the straight-backed chair my mum kept in there for staff to sit on when they were having a meeting and Noelle descended on the food. After a minute or two she came up for air, swallowed a large chunk of bread roll and grinned.

  ‘God, that’s better. I was ready to start gnawing at the furniture. Thank you.’

  ‘No worries. How are they all doing then?’

  ‘Rachel and the baby? Oh, they’re great. That girl is a trouper. I love that about doing deliveries. It’s always the cute, quiet ones that are absolutely stoic and just get the hell on with it y’know? Although, I don’t blame a single woman for screaming and swearing and demanding all the drugs available. I certainly will if ever I have kids.’ She crunched down on a carrot stick.

  ‘How many babies have you delivered then?’

  ‘Oh, wow, I have no idea. Hundreds. First, I was assisting and then I got to deliver them myself. But it wasn’t for me. I always knew I wanted to write – my parents just insisted I have a back-up career and it’s true, of course, you gotta pay rent. Ain’t no long-lost relatives leaving me a pot of money unfortunately. Plus, I can always go back to being a midwife, if the writing dries up. Babies and death are two industries that will never go outta business.’

  ‘No. I suppose not.’ I propped my elbow on the edge of the desk and leaned my chin on my hand. ‘You earn enough now from writing to do it full time then?’

  ‘Yeah – but it’s taken years. My parents still think I’m an idiot but they’re not really readers.’

  ‘So, you juggled both to begin with?’

  ‘Sure. It’s what most writers do.’ She waved another carrot stick in my direction. ‘You look pensive. What are you thinking about?’

  ‘I’m not sure actually. I think my brain’s shutting down.’

  Her mouth crooked up in a sly smile. ‘Is that why you were serenading Nicholas?’

  ‘It wasn’t really a serenade.’ The song he’d asked me to play hadn’t been. The song I almost played him would’ve been though.

  ‘Well, it was gorgeous anyway. I truly am sorry for interrupting.’

  ‘It’s fine. Probably for the best.’ I restrained a sigh and pinched a cherry tomato from her plate. ‘You’re quite the celebrity in the village because of last night. I reckon you could set up a signing in the bookstore and shift a lot of copies.’

  ‘Aren’t you the little entrepreneur? It’s a great idea, but a) the copies have to be in the store for me to sell them. And b) I fly back the day after Boxing Day, so there’s no time.’

  ‘Oh, that sucks. I’ll miss having you around.’

  ‘We’re going to keep in touch though,’ Noelle said with such assurance it was like I’d forgotten a conversation we’d already had about it. Possibly I had. I wasn’t kidding about my brain beginning to melt down. ‘Maybe you could come visit me next year? Everyone loves New York at Christmas time.’

  ‘How come you’re here then?’

  ‘Inspiration. Well, partially. I have a big family. My fabulous, cosmopolitan lifestyle takes a real hammering at Christmas when I have to go home and cope with all my brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles. I become little miss helpful and it is so tedious.’

  ‘How many siblings have you got then?’

  ‘Six. I’m the second oldest. I’ll be an aunt soon myself. No way I’m delivering that baby though!’

  I wanted to stay in there and keep chatting to her, but my mind was already moving on to what I needed to do next; another note for the bar, to explain it was closed and offer the carolling evening as an excuse/alternative; set up the dining room; try to call my mum; pick up the voicemail messages that were blinking on the phone; speak to Mrs Henderson who was now standing at the reception desk…

  ‘Sorry, Noelle, I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll see you later at dinner and I’m doing this carolling thing this evening if that’s not too provincial for a cosmopolitan girl such as yourself?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ll be there. Gotta pick up where I left off last night – I only got to speak to the old biddies and cross them off my list. Not entirely surprising.’

  ‘Ah, the investigation for the blogger.’

  ‘Yeah, have you seen the latest?’ She chewed her lip.

  ‘No. I’ve misplaced my phone. What’s it say? Or don’t I want to know?’

  She pulled her own phone out and quickly brought up the webpage, refreshing for the latest. I saw the title of this post ‘Still No Bar, Lose a Star’, with a date and time stamp from an hour ago and that was all I needed to see.

  ‘Yeah, I guess I don’t want to know.’ I swallowed and stood up, starting for the door. ‘Look, don’t worry yourself about it too much.’ I shrugged, fighting off the jangling feeling of being judged. ‘Whether I know who they are or not, I’ve still got to try and keep everyone happy.’

  ‘That’s not possible, sweetness.’ Noelle clicked her phone off.

  ‘No.’ I noticed Julius Mundey now lingering behind Mrs Henderson at the front desk. ‘It’s not really, is it?’

  Dinner service nearly broke me. I’d managed breakfast and lunch easily enough, but between every guest in the hotel descending nearly at the same time because they had nothing better to do and the extra courses and my creeping lethargy, I could barely keep up. The disgruntled looks and whis
pers between the guests showed that they were starting to question why a dishevelled, weary and now somewhat forgetful member of staff – i.e. Me – was the only person they’d seen all day.

  I was almost ready to cancel the carolling evening and just open the bar up. Most people would be content to drink themselves into Christmas Day and it would probably please the Hotel Hopper but the kids were excited and Mrs Henderson had come to talk to me about what I’d said to her little girl and arranging to leave out cookies and bring their Santa presents downstairs for them in the morning. Nick’s nan also caught me as I was clearing tables, to tell me what a lovely idea it was, with her eyes all twinkly.

  I dumped armfuls of plates and bowls in the kitchen, without even bothering to start loading the dishwasher. Neeta and I looked at each other from across the island with matching fed-up, worn-out expressions.

  ‘Go home, Neeta,’ I told her, when she reached an exhausted arm out towards a dirty plate. ‘Don’t touch a thing. You’ve gone above and beyond today.’

  ‘But, Beth, all this mess…’

  ‘Forget about it.’ I forced some energy into my voice and rounded the island to take her by the shoulders. ‘It’ll get sorted. Just get yourself home to your family, sleep and enjoy a lovely Christmas Day. Okay?’

  She nodded and gave me a hug. Her hair was a grease slick and she reeked of meat and onions and spices. Being a chef was a glamorous business.

  ‘Thanks. I’ve written down the instructions for the goose. I couldn’t get it in the oven today but it won’t take long. It’ll make the place smell good too.’

  I patted her on the back and kept my concerns about how detailed her instructions were to myself.

  Once Neeta was gone, I necked a coffee, washed my face, brushed my hair and headed for the library.

  It was like the perfect Christmas card scene: oak beamed ceiling, a real Christmas tree decorated in red and gold, fire crackling in the hearth (I’d remembered to light it earlier), a green garland draped over the mantel, candles flickering around the room and a group of guests in their cosiest jumpers sitting in armchairs, kids crowded around the piano, snow piled high outside, everyone waiting for me to lead them into song.