A Novel Christmas

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  ‘Told you we were getting into heavy territory,’ he said. ‘Let’s lighten the mood. Shall we play charades?’ I giggled against the back of my hand as he fiddled with the stem of his glass and we fell into silence again. ‘What do you think your legacy will be?’ he asked before lifting his eyes to mine.

  I thought for a second but returned to the obvious. ‘My books. I love the idea of them being passed on from generation to generation.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to reading them,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you say you would send me a copy?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Still waiting, Cal,’ he replied, tipping his head.

  ‘You really want to read them?’ I was waiting for a deadpan delivery or one of his classic one-liners.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll put them on the shelf next to Hannibal.’ There it was.

  ‘They’ll look fine next to Thomas Harris,’ I replied, trying not to sound offended. ‘I’ll get you a copy of each book from the series. You can choose where you want to start.’

  ‘You choose for me. What’s your best work?’

  ‘I haven’t written it yet,’ I replied with a smile.

  ‘Great answer,’ he said, getting up to clear the plates. ‘I’m sure the next one will be great. Look at the inspiration all around you.’ I was looking. Looking at him. ‘You should spend every day sitting up there on the bench and jotting down notes. I guarantee you’ll have a novel in no time.’

  ‘I’m glad you have such faith in me.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Nope. Not in the least.’

  ‘Did you feel this way when you wrote your other books?’ he asked.

  I put my head on the table and heard his laughter rumble. ‘I’m not normally like this. Usually, I believe in my words. I’m good at what I do. Mostly. There was an anthology story that I rushed out and used the word moist.’ I pretended to shudder.

  ‘Moist?’

  ‘To describe her arousal,’ I said, shielding my mouth with my hand.

  ‘Oh,’ he replied, wide-eyed. ‘Moist doesn’t seem like a…sexy word.’

  ‘Not at all. Imagine reading about her moist flaps.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Moist should be banned along with flaps, folds and weird names for penis,’ I replied.

  ‘Like?’

  I pressed my finger to my mouth in thought. ‘Molten member. Love’s sweet arrow. Sexual spear.’

  ‘I’m learning so many new things from you,’ he replied, rubbing his forehead and shaking his head. ‘Christ. You use those terms?’ Disbelief threaded through his words.

  ‘No!’ I gasped. ‘Of course not. I need to get you a copy so you can see for yourself. It’s the first thing I’ll do when I get back to the cottage.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ he deadpanned.

  ‘Have you read a contemporary romance novel before?’

  ‘All the time. I can’t get enough.’ I rolled my eyes as he grinned.

  ‘You’re a secret romantic, aren’t you?’ I asked, resting my head on my hands. ‘You’ve read your mum’s classics cover to cover.’

  ‘I don’t believe in romance,’ he replied simply.

  I sat up, my mouth parted in shock at his confession. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No reason to,’ he said, holding out a piece of chicken to Archie. He devoured it and almost took a finger.

  ‘That’s so sad,’ I replied.

  ‘I haven’t had the best experience with love.’ He shrugged. ‘It clouds your view.’

  ‘Neither have I, but I make a living out of imagining what I’d like to experience. I may not have a love story worthy of being remembered in a romance novel, but it doesn’t stop me dreaming them up.’

  ‘Dreaming is a great way to earn a living,’ he replied. ‘Some would say I used to do the same.’

  ‘You miss hosting weddings?’ He nodded. ‘See, there’s a romantic soul in there somewhere,’ I replied, taking his hand. He pulled back. Hid them under the table.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to writing the best novel ever written?’ he said.

  ‘I should,’ I replied, unsure as to why he was directing me to leave. ‘Any tips?’

  ‘Stay away from the word moist and you’ll be fine,’ he joked, patting Archie’s head. ‘I’ll even let you name your next character after Archie as a way of starting you off. Get the ball rolling, so to speak.’

  ‘How about I write about a swoony ex-pilot planning highly romantic weddings in an inspirational setting?’

  ‘Swoony?’

  I sat back, crossing my arms and biting my lip. ‘You’re pretty swoony.’

  He blushed before disappearing into the kitchen like someone had shouted fire! My lip bite turned into a nervous scrape of teeth against flesh. The quietness swirled around the room. I could almost hear him breathing from the sink. A sound of a pan dropping to the floor made me jump and as he reappeared in the doorway, I knew it was time we called it a night.

  ‘I don’t have dessert tonight. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to have a guest.’ He was skittish and a little sad.

  ‘That’s OK,’ I replied. ‘I overeat when I’m writing anyway. I always joke that I put on a stone as I’m piecing a book together and lose it again during release week.’ He nodded as he leant his elbow against the door. He wasn’t asking me to leave with his words, but his body language was screaming it.

  ‘It’s getting late and I have a few things to do,’ he said. ‘I hope you understand.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll go and make a start on the novel that’s going to change the world.’ I stood up and followed him to the front door. He handed my coat to me before crossing his arms, and the whole awkwardness of the situation cried out for something to make it lighthearted. ‘Something tells me you want me to leave. Give me a final push out of the door just to make it really clear.’

  He laughed lightly, stroking his hand across his chin. ‘It’s nothing personal, Cal. I go to bed at 9:29. That’s my time.’

  ‘Very specific,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m rigid with routines,’ he said, smiling to make it obvious that he was being sarcastic.

  ‘I’m sorry if I pushed too hard with all the questions. Mum describes me as a bull in a china shop once I start.’

  ‘You do like to talk,’ he replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

  I nodded. ‘Good night then. Thanks for the meal.’

  ‘I’ll take you shopping tomorrow,’ he said quickly. ‘Stock up so that I don’t need to feed you anymore.’

  ‘Ouch,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t ask you to feed me. If I remember rightly, you invited me tonight.’ The blanket of darkness outside helped me be nothing but honest. I had a habit of clinging on to humour when a situation became awkward, or a direct response needed taming to make it seem less of a blow. I wasn’t afraid to say what was on my mind, but a detour was sometimes required. ‘You don’t need to worry about me while I’m here. The breakfast baskets and lasagna are lovely, and if you want to bring me something tasty like ice-cream or chocolate, I won’t ever say no, but honestly, I don’t expect to be waited on.’

  ‘That’s sorted then,’ he replied, looking anywhere but at me. ‘I’ll let you know what time I’m ready to take you shopping tomorrow and you can take it from there.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks. That’s great,’ I replied, disappointed at the turn we had taken.

  ‘It’s cold, Cal. Get inside.’

  It certainly was cold as I backed away and walked the short distance to the cottage opposite. But not as cold as the man still watching me walk away despite making it clear that he was more than ready for me to leave. I glanced over my shoulder as I fumbled with my keys to find him still there, leaning against the wall, waiting for me to go safely inside before he would even consider closing his door.

  Chapter 8

  Cal

  I didn’t sleep well. For the last few hours, there was a tap drip-dripping into the bathroom sink. Not even a bash from a shampoo bot
tle helped matters and I groaned when I realised that if I wanted to sleep for the rest of my time here, I would have to talk to Drew about it in the morning. When morning came, I was still not jumping up and down in anticipation of seeing him. To be honest, he’d acted like a prize prick.

  I turned on the laptop and checked my social media accounts. Melissa had posted a teaser for her next release and the comments were terrific. I added my own, Hot lord, this is sexy! Can’t wait for people to read this! and opened up the word document that contained scraps of a very sketchy, unfinished outline. A knock on the door woke me from my what-am-I-going-to-do-with-this-literary-crap daydream.

  ‘Morning,’ Drew said sheepishly. He lifted a basket as I folded my arms. ‘I bring a basket of apologies otherwise known as a loaf of bread and some eggs.’

  ‘I’m a feminist, Drew. I don’t need a man to bring me apologetic eggs.’

  He dropped the basket. ‘How about a man offering you a ride to the local shops then?’

  I unfurled my arms, sighed dramatically just to push out the point that I was still annoyed, and grabbed my coat and bag from the hall. ‘I’m only accepting this ride because I don’t exactly remember where the shops are. Once I know, I can make my own way there as a fully independent woman who doesn’t need any help from you.’

  I followed him to the car and beat him to open the door. He was aiming for the back, but I opened the front passenger door and climbed inside. He got in a second later with a wry look on his face. I tapped the car radio and sat back, folding my arms and looking out of the window as the music started. He turned it off and ran his finger across his eyebrow.

  ‘Can we start again?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Please?’

  ‘You seemed desperate for me to go last night,’ I said. ‘Do you want to tell me why?’

  He banged his hand on the steering wheel in a fidgety tap. ‘Nerves,’ he replied before pulling away. The car bumped and bounced along the stone path down to the entrance. I clung onto the seatbelt and watched as he pressed a little thing in the car to make the gates open. He hummed under his breath before sneaking a glance. He was met with an unimpressed eyebrow arch. ‘What?’

  ‘Nerves?’

  ‘Yep,’ he replied.

  ‘What does that even mean?’

  He chuckled. ‘You’re the wordsmith.’

  ‘I know what nerves means, Drew, but I want to know the context.’

  I was still waiting for an answer when he pulled into a gravel driveway and parked the car outside a farm shop. The dark stone of the building looked like classic Cornwall architecture. Higgledee-piggledee structures that looked quaint and quirky. Still, I couldn’t help but think that a firm shut of the shop door would have it tumbling to the ground.

  ‘Oh, look. We’re here,’ Drew said, as he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead and mouthed phew. I sighed in frustration as he opened the door and got out of the car. I followed him, unable to stop, thinking that there must be a story hiding behind the avoidance tactics, sarcasm and deadpan delivery. He pushed the door, holding it open for me, ever the gentleman. I smiled when I recognised the older man standing behind the counter.

  ‘Well, well, well. If it isn’t the famous author lady. Hello, my lovely.’

  ‘Brian!’ I said, reaching over to hug him. He was so kind to me on the plane. I appreciated his efforts to keep me talking rather than staring down at the sea below, picking out songs for my funeral. ‘Is this yours?’

  ‘My sideline,’ he replied, winking.

  ‘You have your finger in lots of pies.’

  ‘Apple and blackberry, mainly,’ he said, holding up a distinctly homemade pie.

  ‘Do you make them?’ I asked, taking it from him and smelling it. Divine.

  ‘No, my daughter. She’s a whiz. Can knock up pastry in a minute.’

  ‘Talented lady,’ I smirked.

  ‘If only Drew would agree.’ Brian looked over at Drew who was now studying a loaf of bread. A complete distraction technique that I found very interesting.

  ‘Oh…I see. Have you been trying to set them up?’

  ‘Trying being the operative word,’ Brian replied. ‘He’s having none of it.’

  ‘Cal, do you have a list or are you just winging it here?’ Drew said scrunching his face and holding out his hands.

  ‘What a coincidence. It seems that apple and blackberry pie is the only thing on my list,’ I said, turning back to Brian. ‘So, you have a lovely daughter. Is she ready to fall in love? Take the next steps. Do you want her to find the one? That’s it isn’t it, you old romantic soul, you.’ Brian chuckled as Drew groaned behind me.

  ‘Careful, Brian. She’ll put you in her next novel,’ Drew said, throwing up and catching an apple.

  ‘Ha! Only if she falls in love with me. It’s well-known that if a writer falls in love with you, they’ll immortalise you in one of their books. There’s no better declaration of love than that. Make me forever young, Cal!’ Brian said, clutching his heart.

  ‘Isn’t it when you piss off an author, they immortalise? Perhaps even kill you off?’ Drew asked.

  ‘Maybe, if she were writing a shifter romance,’ Brian replied as I laughed.

  ‘Shifter romance? You know your stuff!’

  ‘I have daughters,’ he replied. ‘That’s how I know Drew is wrong. To be immortalised by an author, they have to fall in love.’ Drew flicked his gaze to mine and smiled nervously before looking away. Homemade chutney never seemed so fascinating.

  ‘I do need to pin down my leading man, Brian. So far I have a collection of ideas. Maybe a cheeky farmer would make a great alpha male.’

  ‘Possible. But, how about a handsome pilot with a heart of gold? Perfect,’ Brian said as he passed me a packet of shortbread, holding my hand for just a little bit longer than I expected. His eyes were sparkling with mischief, and I couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘Do you have a basket? I’m going to need a lot of things.’ He nodded and walked towards the door, clapping Drew on his back before picking up a black plastic crate. Drew ignored him, choosing to continue browsing the shelves. Brian chuckled and I rolled my eyes in response.

  ‘What are you after, lovely lady? Essentials or something special?’

  ‘Essentials mainly. The cupboards are bare back at Karensa. If it weren’t for Drew feeding me I wouldn’t be doing very well. Chewing gum and toothpaste would be my staple diet.’

  ‘We can’t have that,’ he replied as he started piling in various tins and jars. ‘You need to keep up your strength. Can’t be writing on an empty stomach.’

  I took a fresh chicken from a large fridge by the till and picked out some carrots, potatoes and cabbage. They all had that lovely just-picked look, a dusting of soil covering them. I shook the carrots and watched as dirt tumbled to the floor.

  ‘The cabbage is beautiful sautéed in garlic with a bit of bacon,’ Brian said, handing me a packet and a garlic clove.

  ‘Are you a good chef?’ I asked.

  ‘Taught him everything he knows,’ he said, pointing towards Drew who was now adding things to his own crate.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, wide-eyed, tipping my head. ‘You’re a great teacher. He cooks a mean roast dinner. Made me think of home.’

  ‘Always should,’ he replied as he packed various things into brown bags.

  I couldn’t help but notice a bottle of elderflower wine poking out the top. Bless that man.

  It had started to rain by the time we’d finished at the farm shop, and as we ran from the shop towards the car, Drew took off his coat and held it over my head to shield me from the downpour. He’d already put the bags in the car, telling me to stay under the cover of the shop. It was completely swoony and totally going down in my notes when I got back to the cottage.

  He somehow manoeuvred himself so he could open the door while still shielding me from the rain. As we faced each other, his eyes trailed my face. I noticed the shape of his l
ips first, so full and pouty. I was sure they were made to be kissed. The sole purpose. I imagined how they would feel against mine and a tingle spread through my body. He had a look of what could only be described as longing. His eyes were searching mine. What for, I wasn’t sure. Maybe validation. Perhaps he needed a response from me, to let him know I was entirely on board for a meeting of mouths, a locking of bodies, a tantalising connection of souls.

  Our bodies were close to touching, almost but not quite, and his hand was reaching, stretching out, guided by his eyes on my face as he gazed at my lips, at me, at my…everything. ‘Cal,’ he whispered on a loose breath, his thumb touching me now, stroking my skin, and as I leant in, I started to lose my inhibitions, my concern of pushing him too far, and went in for his lips.

  And then I felt his hand.

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Cal,’ he said, my lips still pushed against his palm. The one he held up to stop me. Oh, crap. I was being friend zoned in the most humiliating way. Recipe for broken hearts all round.

  ‘No, perhaps you’re right,’ I mumbled against his palm.

  A flare of embarrassment shot through my spine, making me stand tall, move back from where my lips were pressed against his hand, and take a step back. I studied his palm, still wet from my act of boldness, and tipped my head. I wasn’t sure if this was happening, the hand thing leading me to laugh through my nose in frustration. Drew lowered it slowly, like someone weighing up trying to make a run from a python before it struck them in the gut. He looked panicked, like a bucket of ice water had just been thrown over him, causing a mixture of clarity and mortification in one swoop.

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck that was,’ he said, stumbling backwards and studying his hand. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I kissed your palm, Drew,’ I replied trancelike, embarrassment and regret mixing together like a potent cocktail. ‘I kissed your bloody palm.’

  ‘I can’t believe I put up my hand. Why did I do that? I swear it’s a weird reflex, a neural pathway that’s appeared that I have no control over.’

  ‘Don’t,’ I replied, covering my face. ‘Don’t do that.’ This wasn’t the time for jokes, this was time to bury myself in a hole or start packing my things to get the hell out of there.