I'll Be Home for Christmas: A heartwarming feel good romantic comedy

by Karen Clarke

  ‘True.’

  She picked up a cup. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  She nodded at the machine. ‘Make me an espresso.’

  ‘Right now?’

  She stepped aside and made a sweeping motion with her hands. ‘Annabel’s waiting.’

  I approached, feeling as nervous as when I’d taken my driving test. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  Celeste, back with her tray, gave a reassuring nod. ‘You can do it.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, eyeing the mess of crockery on top of the machine, feeling an itch in my fingers. ‘But can I do something else first?’

  By the time I’d rearranged and tidied the area behind the counter, and successfully produced a drinkable cup of espresso (‘Third time’s a charm,’ Dolly had chimed, refusing to let me give in), my temples were throbbing.

  ‘I don’t know what that was all about,’ I said to Charlie when we crossed on the stairs as he returned from the world’s longest break. ‘Your mum made me work the coffee machine.’

  He grinned. ‘She’s proud of Annabel. I caught her showing the postman how to use her one morning.’

  ‘I suppose if she taught all the customers, they could make their own drinks and you could have the day off.’

  ‘It might get a bit crowded behind the counter.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Ryan’s busy massaging his prose.’ Charlie glanced up, as though Ryan might be standing at the top of the stairs. ‘He’s obviously broken through his writer’s block,’ he added. ‘I think you’ve inspired him.’

  ‘Not unless he’s dreamt up a particularly grisly murder.’

  Charlie looked about to speak again when Dolly called his name.

  ‘I’d better go.’ He checked the time on his phone. ‘We’ve a teatime load of elderlies coming in to admire the Christmas decorations.’

  ‘Shame your friend Natalie’s not here to write about it for the local paper.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to,’ said Charlie, assuming a modest expression. ‘Word of mouth and TripAdvisor do that job very nicely.’

  ‘You must get the occasional bad review.’

  ‘Not a single one.’ Charlie tapped his phone screen and held it up. Sure enough, the Café Belle Vie had over two thousand five-star reviews.

  ‘“Delicious pastries”,’ I read out. ‘“Good-looking staff”. That can’t be you.’

  ‘It’s Stefan,’ he admitted. ‘Everyone loves him.’

  When Dolly called him again, he pretended to shrink back and chew his nails in fear, and I smiled as he bounded to the bottom of the stairs.

  He turned to look up at me. ‘I’m eating with Elle’s Aunt Marie this evening, so won’t be back until late,’ he said.

  ‘That’s OK, I’m eating out tonight anyway.’

  I spent ages under the shower after discovering it had different settings, opting for Misty Rain, which enveloped me in a gentle cocoon of water, and finally emerged refreshed and headache-free. Back in my room, I sat in front of the Hollywood mirror and dried my hair, tousling it with my fingers to give it some style. Pleased with how it looked, I rummaged for an outfit and settled for another of Dolly’s gathered skirts with my favourite blue sweater tucked in, and pulled my furry coat over the top before heading out.

  ‘I’ll see you later at Chez Phillipe,’ I said to Dolly as I passed the kitchen, where she was fiddling with the temperature dial on the dishwasher.

  ‘That looks lovely on you.’ She glanced approvingly at the skirt I was wearing. ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘I… er… heading to the library, actually.’ I’d checked on my phone to see if it was open. ‘I’ve a bit of work to do.’

  ‘On your travel blog?’

  I loved how she said it so encouragingly, and felt guilty for lying. ‘Mmhmm,’ I mumbled, hoping my face didn’t give me away. On impulse, I went over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. ‘I love you, Dolly.’

  Her eyes shone as she squeezed my hand. ‘And I love you, gorgeous girl.’

  Fifteen

  I made my way to the library feeling buoyed up, partly because it was impossible to stay miserable when walking through snow that was just the right depth and texture, surrounded by fairy lights strung along shop and house fronts, and also because it was exciting to have a project – even one that came with a dollop of guilt.

  I told myself that, if I discovered something that cast my great-grandmother in a less than flattering light – such as if it turned out she’d had an affair with William Kendall and passed their child off as her husband’s – I’d simply keep it to myself, and neither Dolly nor Mum would need to readjust their memories or rewrite history.

  I breathed deeply, enjoying the scents of pine, sea and salted air, as I arrived at the library, a small, municipal-looking building opposite the beach, charmingly called Beach Library. A small fir tree had been planted in a wooden tub by the door and draped with lights, and, as I stepped inside, I was hit by the twin scents of hot chocolate and well-thumbed books – hot chocolate from a drinks dispenser in a cosy reading zone, and books from the well-stocked shelves fixed along the walls and grey carpeted floor.

  I approached the desk and was directed in softly-spoken English to a computer in the study area, with instructions on how to log on, and after settling beside a pair of earnest students talking in low voices, I pulled my notepad and pen from my bag, then performed the necessary steps to access Google and typed in William Kendall + Scottish + Navy + officer and… nothing.

  At least, nothing that told me he’d existed. I tried a few more sites, but everything required a lot more information than I had. I roughly knew Augustine’s timeline; her dates of birth, marriage and death, as well as the year she’d had her daughter – Dolly and Mum’s mum – but no way of intersecting it with William’s without access to his records, which there was no way of getting. At least, not without inventing a strong interest in genealogy, which I doubted would convince anyone.

  I started again, typing in just his name and Scotland, and this time there was a link to an obituary in a Scottish newspaper, which I clicked on and read.

  William Norman Kendall aged 84 of Dundee, formerly an officer with the Royal Navy, died peacefully on 28th June 1990. He’s survived by wife Margaret and daughter Maggie-Jane. Memorial contributions may be made to a charity of choice.

  I wondered whether Augustine had known – whether she’d kept track of William. She’d had his address, after all, and even if he’d moved, he couldn’t have been hard to find, being in the Navy.

  At least he’d had a long and happy marriage, as far as Gérard was aware, but it was frustrating, not knowing the details of his break-up with Augustine. Had William spent his marriage pining for her?

  Sighing, I shut the computer down, aware the staff were making moves to close the library, and slid my unopened notepad back in my bag.

  Maybe some things were best left alone.

  Chez Phillipe was concealed down a narrow side street lit by lantern-style street lamps, spilling lemony light across the snow.

  The restaurant windows were bright and inviting, and my spirits lifted as I entered through the frosted-glass door. The interior was warm, rich with the smell of food, the décor pleasantly rustic: oak beams, chunky tables and woodland-hued upholstery, illuminated by candles in brass holders. It wasn’t overtly festive, if I ignored the nicely-dressed tree by the window, with a lit-up star on top – and the Christmas lights twinkling around a pair of ornate mirrors. And the napkin-holders, which were pine cones painted gold.

  OK, so it was pretty Christmassy, but in a French way. Everything was classy and complemented everything else, and although I’d have created a bit more space between the tables and perhaps cleared the surfaces – there was barely any room for the plates – it was pretty much perfect, and busy enough to create a buzz, but not so packed that I had to wait. I was surprised that Dolly hadn’t arrived yet. She prided herself on never being late, but pe
rhaps there’d been a hold-up at the café.

  A smiling waiter ushered me to a table for two, slightly tucked out of view, and I swiftly removed my coat and ordered a glass of white wine, wondering whether I should just tell Dolly about Augustine’s letters. It would be so wonderful to share them with her; to see her as confounded as I was, that all this time the letters had been in a box, less than five minutes away, and stunned by the link to Gérard, who she treated like a surrogate dad. But while Dolly was normally such an accepting person, emotion ruled when it came to her grandmother (Mum was the same) and I couldn’t bear the thought of even slightly tainting her memories of Augustine.

  The waiter returned with a bottle of expensive-looking wine ‘gratis’, courtesy of the owner Phillipe, and I guessed Dolly must have phoned ahead and ordered it.

  ‘Merci.’ I took a sip from the glass he’d poured, savouring the delicate flavour, which was neither too sweet nor too dry. ‘Délicieux.’

  ‘May I recommend today’s specials, mademoiselle?’ he enquired hopefully.

  ‘I’m waiting for someone, but thank you,’ I said with a smile.

  He dipped his chin. ‘I will bring you an appetiser.’

  ‘Merci,’ I said again, wondering how he’d guessed that I was British. Maybe Dolly had briefed him.

  As I waited, I discreetly rearranged everything on the table and took a few pictures on my phone. Hardly earth-shatteringly original, but I could compensate with a write-up, providing I could think of something catchy to say once my blog was up and running. As I put my phone down, I wished my blog would up and run itself. Or, just run away altogether.

  The waiter was back, bearing a tiny plate. ‘Salad of squid, flavoured with Serrano ham,’ he explained. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Merci,’ I said once more, while he placed the plate in front me as though I was royalty. ‘It smells good.’

  It tasted good too and I quickly demolished the lot, wondering where Dolly had got to. About to give her a ring, I almost dropped my phone when I spotted a familiar figure making his way to my table, a look on his face I interpreted as ‘good-natured but wary’.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here,’ I said as Ryan draped his coat over the back of the chair opposite me and sat down, a pleasant scent of cologne drifting over – a mix of lime and mint.

  ‘Makes a change from your usual greeting.’ His grin disarmed me and I automatically grinned back, as if my face had a life of its own. There was no denying he looked attractive, clad in black jeans and a moss-green shirt that matched his eyes, and I suddenly wished I wasn’t wearing a skirt that belonged to my aunt, and a jumper my gran had knitted for my birthday.

  ‘No, but what are you doing here?’ I looked pointedly at my watch. ‘I’m supposed to be having dinner with Dolly.’

  ‘Oh, she can’t make it,’ he said. ‘Something about a salsa training session with Frank that she’d forgotten about.’ This time, his expression read ‘sorry, but you’ll have to make do with me’. ‘She sends her apologies.’

  ‘And sent you in her place.’

  He lifted a hand and flattened a maverick curl. ‘Apparently.’

  I sat back, shaking my head. ‘You do know that this is part of her cunning plan?’

  ‘It’s hardly cunning, if we know what it is.’

  His acknowledgement gave the words an intimacy that sent heat through my body. ‘You don’t have to stay,’ I said, twiddling my napkin ring. ‘I can get on with some work while I eat.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Work?’

  I thought about saying something lofty, but the waiter was back, pouring wine for Ryan and recommending the steak, which we somehow ended up ordering, medium rare.

  ‘So, what sort of work?’ Ryan said, once we were alone again – as if we were on a date.

  ‘Oh, I’m supposed to be starting a travel blog,’ I heard myself say, directing the words at the table. ‘I was meant to be kicking things off by coming to Chamillon, but now I don’t know if it’s what I want to do, but I can’t admit it because I’ve told people now, and I’ve spent too long already doing things I’m not cut out for.’ My shoulders slumped.

  Then I added in a rush, ‘Also, I found some letters while I was reorganising Gérard’s living room the other day, and it turns out they’re from my great-grandmother to his father-in-law, and I think they were having an affair and that Dolly’s and my mum’s mum might have been their love child.’

  ‘Wow.’ It was Ryan’s turn to sit back, eyes swimming with curiosity. ‘Now there’s a plot for a book, if ever I heard one.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ I said glumly.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ He shook out his napkin and laid it across his lap. ‘I know Dolly was close to Augustine, she often mentions her. I’m sure she’d love to see those letters.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I looked at him properly, noting how dark his eyes were in the candlelight. ‘I don’t want to upset her by showing her something that might make her think badly of her gran.’

  ‘Would you be upset, if you discovered something similar about someone you loved?’

  I tried to imagine finding out Gran had cheated on my grandfather, and that Dad, or one of his brothers, was the result of an affair. ‘I think I’d rather not know.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s your answer.’

  I let out a sigh. ‘I tried to pin down some dates, but it didn’t work out.’

  ‘So, it’s your little secret.’

  ‘I don’t like secrets.’

  The waiter was back with our steaks and we ate in silence, lost in our own thoughts. And, in my case, in the perfectly cooked steak.

  ‘This is really good,’ said Ryan, catching my eye.

  ‘The best I’ve eaten,’ I agreed.

  ‘I might have to write Phillipe into my book.’

  ‘A murderous chef?’

  ‘Or, murdered by a rival chef.’

  We finally laid down our cutlery and drank some wine, and before I knew I was going to say it, I said, ‘Did you speak to Lulu and Jackson after you left Dolly’s the other night?’

  He went very still, and I imagined Charlie dropping his head in his hands.

  The waiter reappeared, looking thrilled that our plates were empty.

  ‘I have something to make you smile,’ he said, topping up our wine as if sensing a change in atmosphere.

  ‘The steak was perfect,’ I said, in case he thought we’d eaten it to be polite, and as he took our plates and headed to the kitchen, my gaze drifted back to Ryan. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘It’s heart-breaking, hearing them ask for their daddy all the time.’ His voice was so low I had to strain to hear over the chatter of the other diners. ‘I just wish Nicole would stop being so stubborn.’

  ‘Aren’t you the one being stubborn?’ It was hard to believe he was blaming her for trying to maintain contact – was that what he considered high-maintenance? ‘I don’t think it’s unreasonable for her to want you to stay in touch,’ I said. ‘Whether you like it or not, they need you.’

  ‘No.’ He gave me an unflinching look. ‘They need their dad, and I’m hoping Nicole will eventually realise that.’

  ‘Wait… what?’ Had I slipped into a parallel universe? ‘That doesn’t even make sense.’

  ‘Me being around is confusing for them.’ He spoke wearily, as if tired of defending himself. ‘I’m trusting my instincts on this.’

  We appeared to be talking at cross purposes. ‘How is it confusing?’

  He stopped rubbing his fingers along the stem of his wine glass. ‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ he said. ‘Because I’m not their father.’

  For a second, I thought I’d misheard. ‘Hang on…’ My brain scrambled to pull the threads together. ‘You’re not their father?’ My voice rose up the scale. ‘You’re not Lulu and Jackson’s dad?’ In my head, I added a thousand question marks. ‘They’re not your children?’ It was as if by saying it several ways, I could get to the bo
ttom of it. ‘You and Nicole don’t have two children together?’

  ‘Wait…’ He had one arm extended, as though to help me bridge a stream. ‘You thought… you didn’t know?’

  ‘Oh my God.’ I cupped my face in my hands. ‘I thought you’d walked away from your kids,’ I said. ‘It really put me off you, you’ve no idea.’

  ‘I think I do.’ He looked as dumbfounded as I felt. ‘I thought Charlie must have told you the full story and you were being a bit judgemental,’ he said. ‘I got it, because I felt terrible for leaving after I’d spent time getting to know them, but they didn’t want me, at least Jackson didn’t, and when I went round there one day, about a month before the wedding—’

  ‘They don’t live at your river house?’

  ‘My…’ He laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nicole was hoping John would let her stay in theirs. She didn’t like the river house.’

  ‘John’s her ex?’ I felt as if I was trying to catch up with the plot of a soap.

  ‘Yes, and I ended up having this heart-to-heart with him once, while Nicole was out training for one of her marathons, and it made me realise I didn’t love Nic the way John still does, and probably never will.’

  I was starting to feel giddy, as if the wine was taking effect. ‘I’m so pleased,’ I said. ‘That you didn’t walk out on your children, I mean.’

  ‘I felt as bad as if I had,’ he said. ‘I’d grown to like them a lot and, like you said, none of it was their fault.’

  ‘Voilà!’

  I jumped as the waiter slid shallow dishes in front of us, and my eyes opened wide when they landed on our dessert. ‘It is the Mont Blanc,’ he said proudly, as if showing off his first-born. ‘The best thing you can eat on a cold winter’s day.’

  I instinctively smiled at the sight of the pastry case, filled with dark chocolate and a golden swirl of chestnut cream, sprinkled with snowy slivers of meringue. ‘It looks too good to eat.’

  ‘You must eat,’ he urged. ‘Phillipe will be most unhappy if you do not.’