A Novel Christmas

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  ‘We’re an exclusive bunch,’ he replied. ‘I hope you’ll fit in with the current staff.’

  ‘We get on just fine, Drew,’ I said, arching an eyebrow as he chuckled. ‘How many staff did you have?’

  He looked up and started to count in his head. ‘Twenty permanent staff at one point. I had more temporary staff, depending on the size of the wedding.’

  ‘You let them go?’ I asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Had to,’ he replied. ‘I can’t pay staff when there isn’t any work.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you finished?’ he asked, nodding to my laptop. I went over and closed it down before slipping it into my laptop bag. ‘How many words today? Did you reach your goal?’

  ‘I would have if I didn’t get interrupted,’ I said, handing him his screwdriver.

  ‘Don’t blame me.’

  ‘I know. I can’t help myself,’ I replied. ‘Distraction is an author’s vice.’

  ‘I’m happy to offer distractions. Although, there was a point where I was concerned you might screw your thumb to the wall.’

  ‘I slipped,’ I replied, wiggling my fingers to show they were all still there—even the nails.

  ‘Your novel won’t write itself,’ he said.

  ‘Especially If I screw my thumb to the wall.’ He laughed. The sound made me happy like I wanted to join in. ‘I’ll work after dinner. That’s the beauty of being a writer. I can do it at any time of the day or night.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Drew, I have a question.’

  ‘So many questions,’ he replied with a frown.

  ‘Why are you putting up signs directing people to the facilities when there isn’t anyone to direct?’

  ‘They’ve been lying around for months,’ he replied. ‘I thought it was time.’ He stood back and looked. They looked great. Gold lettering, the Karensa logo. Perfect. If only he had some guests to see them.

  ‘Are you pleased?’ He let out a breathy laugh but didn’t answer. Sometimes I wished I knew what he was thinking. It seemed like there was still something that made him wary to open up, like he was constantly balancing how much he wanted to tell me or how close he wanted to get. ‘Do you want to come back for something to eat?’ I asked. He smiled and he was so handsome, the glowing lights from above slicing down his cheekbones, illuminating his features. I found it hard to look away.

  ‘That OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ I rushed out. ‘I want you to.’

  He carried my laptop back to the cottage, and every other step we took, my gaze met his face. Handsome. The only word that came to mind. So handsome. A mix of soft and rough with a dash of beautiful. The rare kind. The one you didn’t encounter often and couldn’t help but stare at.

  ‘What’s on the menu today?’ he asked as his shoulder bashed the door. He made a funny ouch face and I wanted to kiss it.

  ‘Tomato and basil pasta with cheesy garlic bread.’

  ‘Where have you been all my life?’ he said, his voice coming low from his throat. He stepped forward, twirled the scarf from round my neck, freeing me. I shivered. Missing the warmth of my scarf, feeling the weight of his words. Wanting to respond, Where have you been all of mine? I watched his hands reach down to my jacket. The sound of a zip. His hand dangerously close to my breasts.

  ‘Brian gave me the recipe this morning,’ I said. My mouth was dry, the words catching in my throat. ‘It involved three ingredients. I thought I could manage.’ Drew’s lips rolled into a smile knowing that cooking wasn’t my strong point, but every day I found myself enjoying cooking for him. He pushed my jacket down my shoulders and I almost went with it. He hung it up on the coat peg. Took a step back. Sighed. Bit his lip.

  ‘Relax for a while,’ he said. ‘Read. Write. Do whatever makes you happy. I’ll warm the meal up. Stay here.’ I was still leaning against the wall for backup as he left me. My legs had all but given up holding my body and I was pretty sure my spine was liquid. Purposeless and incapable. Swoon. I imagined crawling to my writing table, flicking open my book and writing, Forget butterflies. He gives spine wobbles.

  After we finished eating, Drew helped me clear the plates. As we stood side by side in the kitchen, him drying and me washing, I suddenly felt a calming sense of normality. Domestication and ease. Flowing conversation and laughter. A photographer could have taken our picture with the sole intention of it being used in the campaign for the new IKEA kitchen range. It all felt effortless and uncomplicated. Until I messed it up.

  ‘Why are you staying in the cottage?’

  ‘Sorry?’ he asked, turning his back and stacking the plates.

  ‘The other day you said you’re staying there for now. I assumed you meant you had another property somewhere.’

  He dropped the tea towel on the countertop. ‘Cal, why do you need to know everything about me?’

  ‘I don’t…I’m…making conversation.’ I bit my lip.

  ‘You ask far too many questions,’ he sighed.

  ‘We’ve already established that.’

  He leant his back against the worktop and folded his arms, his eyebrows knitted together as he lost himself in thought while I wondered if I could dig a hole big enough to bury myself.

  ‘We had an apartment in one of the barn conversions,’ he replied reluctantly. ‘Meghan liked the views there. The structure is more elevated than it is here at the cottages. We had floor-to-ceiling windows installed in the bedroom. The sea view was…is spectacular. When she left, I collected some things, grabbed my books and moved down here. I haven’t been back since.’

  Boom. The first real info bomb, and it was a big one. Huge, in fact. Now to dissect it with as much sensitivity as possible.

  ‘When did Meghan leave?’

  ‘Just over a year ago.’

  ‘Was it a shock?’

  He blew out a breath as he thrust his hand through his hair. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘You didn’t know she was unhappy?’

  ‘Cal.’ It was a warning. Don’t continue. Stop the questioning. His tone wasn’t overly harsh, and coupled with the look on his face, it was more of a plea. I can’t answer your questions. They’re too painful. And then the truth filtered through and made me feel nauseous. When was the last time he had spoken about this with anyone, if ever? He was living here alone, apart from the odd bit of help from Brian and other neighbours. Whatever really happened between him and Meghan, I wasn’t sure, but I knew there was more to their story, and he either wasn’t ready to talk about it with me or he hadn’t had the opportunity to try to make sense of it for himself.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressed,’ I replied as I leant back against the sink and silently died inside.

  ‘We keep ending our nights like this,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘It’s not good for our friendship.’

  ‘We’re friends now?’ I replied, bouncy and ever hopeful.

  ‘We’ll stay friends if you stop being nosy.’

  ‘We’ll stay friends if you stop being tetchy.’

  ‘I’ll stop being tetchy if you stop being nosy,’ he replied.

  ‘Touché, Mr…oh. I don’t remember your last name. That’s terrible! You’re my…’ I rolled my hands as I searched for the right term to describe him and apparently couldn’t find it. ‘Keeper.’

  ‘I’m not your keeper,’ he laughed. ‘You’re not in a fucking zoo.’ He pushed himself off the worktop. ‘And I’m surprised your feminist ways even allowed you to mutter that out loud.’

  ‘Me too,’ I replied, grimacing.

  ‘You can call me the—fuck. I don’t know. The manager and owner. The handyman, cleaner, chef.’

  ‘Woodcutter. Fire starter. Chauffeur. Ooh, what about plumber? I keep forgetting to mention that I have a dripping tap in the bathroom. Can you look at it tomorrow and maybe bring me a breakfast basket?’ I asked, my grin huge.

  ‘I’ll look at it in the morning,’ he replied. ‘And I’ll bring chocolate spread if
you stop asking questions.’

  ‘You really can do anything, can’t you?’

  He turned serious, looking out of the window as dusk started to settle. It would be dark soon, the place transformed by the transcendence of early afternoon light to the stark darkness of winter evenings. ‘There are some things I can’t do,’ he said, his shoulders peeked. He looked like he was holding the weight of the world on top of them.

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Plan weddings,’ he replied, trancelike, lost in thoughts that appeared to be anything but happy.

  ‘You never did tell me when you last held a wedding.’ He tapped his nose and I faked disgust. ‘That’s not being nosy!’ I snickered, moving around him to put away some dishes. ‘I’m just wondering how you’re coping…financially.’ He moaned as he leant his elbows on the worktop. I couldn’t help but notice how good his bum looked as the denim stretched across them. Peachy perfection. Absolute yumminess.

  ‘The last wedding was held…last year,’ he mumbled before clearing his throat. ‘I’m surviving on my inheritance mainly. A substantial bank loan and thank the fucking lord for Gerry. The writers retreat and cottage bookings are helping the cash flow situation immensely.’

  ‘I’m not trying to downplay how difficult things must have been for you when Meghan left.’

  ‘Why do I sense there’s a but coming?’

  ‘There’s something I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Go on,’ he replied.

  ‘Why didn’t you employ a wedding planner after Meghan left?’ He groaned. ‘I know it’s a big ask, whoever gets the job will have to live here and you’ll have to compensate them for that in their pay offer but it’s a luxury wedding venue, Drew. You’ll make the money back and some.’

  He stood up and held onto his elbow, the other hand fiddling with his lip, pulling and stretching it. ‘I haven’t been in the right place, Cal. I didn’t know where to start and honestly, at the time when Meghan left, I didn’t have the energy to think about it.’

  ‘People book weddings years in advance,’ I said gently. ‘The season starts in a few months. Do you have any bookings?’ He shook his head. ‘Can you afford to miss another wedding season?’ Another shake. ‘Drew, I’m not sure what to say.’

  ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘There is. Of course, there is,’ I replied thinking back to everything Drew said about leaving a legacy, how disappointed he felt when he sold his mother’s holiday site. How Karensa was his way of celebrating and honouring her life. ‘You can’t let this slip through your fingers. You can’t lose it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You can’t have another summer like the last.’

  ‘Cal!’ he said in frustration, throwing his arms up in the air. ‘Remember when I said stop being nosy and we’ll stay friends?’

  ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘You’re not though! You’re just pointing out everything I know isn’t working, all the problems, all the shit that needs sorting.’

  ‘I want you to keep the legacy,’ I said, frustrated as I found myself pacing the pretty tiled floor. I couldn’t understand how he could jeopardise everything he had worked for. More importantly, I wasn’t entirely sure why the scale of my interest was so high.

  ‘You don’t know anything about Karensa. You’re putting your author spin on it. Trying to make everything sunshine and rainbows with a happily ever after to top it off. Life doesn’t work like that, Cal. It never does.’

  I watched him get up and head towards the door, and felt a rush of anger as I digested his words.

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ I said, following him. He wrestled with the handle for a second, shouting in frustration when it wouldn’t open. ‘Don’t justify the decisions you’re making by tagging it with it’s life or throwing your arms up and saying meh.’ He watched my arms make the action and bit his lip. ‘There are solutions here. Simple solutions. Think of your mum. Think about how sad you were when you sold her legacy. What are you doing? If Karensa were mine, I’d fight for it.’

  ‘I’m fighting every day,’ he replied, his hands on his hips and a deep sigh rolling from his lips. ‘Every fucking day has been a fight.’

  ‘Talk to me,’ I said, suddenly all aware of his raw emotion. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  He scratched his hand down his face and replied with a muffled, ‘No.’

  ‘I can help. I want to.’

  ‘I know you do,’ he said as he closed his eyes.

  ‘I’m just trying to be a friend. That’s all,’ I said. ‘It seems like you haven’t had anyone to talk to for a while and you need it. You need someone to care.’

  ‘You’re right. I do, but it’s hard for me to accept. I’ll see you in the morning, Cal,’ he said, coming over to drop a light kiss on my head. I wanted to hold him there. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m not thankful for your concern. I am. It’s just…hard.’

  ‘Stay. Please. I promise I won’t ask any more questions.’

  He dropped his head. ‘I’m tired. I’ve got an early start. I should go.’ I nodded, regretting my questioning, wishing he would stay and feeling my stomach lurch as I watched him walk away. ‘Night. Sleep well.’

  ‘Night, Drew.’

  Chapter 11

  Cal

  A few days had passed since the night Drew left. We hadn’t spoken much since then. He’d called the next morning to look at the tap as promised, but needed to order a part before he would be able to fix it. I assumed it was being flown in by carrier pigeon with a washer in its claw when he still hadn’t been back to the cottage. I’d seen plenty of him. Chopping firewood, putting salt on the driveway when the mornings turned particularly frosty, driving the golf cart to the barns, holding his hand up in recognition when he saw me at the window, and every day, for hours at a time, I saw him sitting on Gladys’s bench at the top of Karensa’s hill.

  I watched him from my window. Every afternoon, he climbed the chalk path with Archie at his side. Drew would be bundled up in a black pea coat, a matching beanie hat and a red tartan scarf. I could see the contrast of colours from my writing chair. I studied him. Caught him leaning forward, removing his hat, dragging his hands through his hair, clasping them together, sitting back and staring out to sea. Maybe those movements helped him think. Perhaps the roll of the waves gave him peace or helped him clarify his thoughts? After all, everyone had a place to dissect, everyone had a place where they sought comfort.

  I started new chapters of my novel at the beginning of the week whilst watching him sitting there, speculating about what he was thinking, exactly what he was sorting out. I wondered if his jumbled thoughts were now in a straight line, how he was ordering them and hoping above all else that he was making some progress. 20,000 words and a few days later, I was still left wondering.

  I’d had a nagging feeling since the last time I saw him. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d said and how I’d said it. I regretted it. I’d pushed. It was a nasty habit of mine. I’d touched a nerve and quite honestly, what did I know about his situation? A few beads of information. Ones he’d specifically chosen to tell me—that was it. I knew there was more he was choosing to keep to himself but I’d done the typical Cal thing, waded in with my natural desire to find out everything, to unearth a story and sniff out a tale. To fix him.

  By Friday, I was going crazy. I was missing human interaction; even a text message would have better than the silence of nothing. I’d done a live feed on social media just to use my voice. Readers in my group continued to have one question for me and it was repeatedly asked. When are you going to release a new book? I used stock phrases along the lines of Not yet. I’m polishing it to make it the best book it can be. At one point Melissa started replying to the comments to offer some light relief. Comments that I could joke about, questions I could bounce from. Calm your tits, ladies. She’s very busy researching her latest muse. A pilot isn’t he, Cal? The feed had gone wild. I couldn’t keep up, and when I
glanced at the clock on the wall, two hours had slipped by.

  I knew I only had an hour or so to play with before it got dark. I went to the window, pulled back the curtain and saw that the bench was empty. I grabbed my coat, made a hot water bottle to stop the shivers that would set in after ten minutes of sitting still, and started the climb along the white chalk path. The views made the journey worth it. It was still tough on the legs, and I could feel my heart pounding out of my chest as I reached the top, but I needed the time and space to sit and take it all in.

  My inspiration spot.

  I traced my fingers over the inscription on the brass plaque, and images of dearest Gladys and her Kenneth flashed through my mind as clear as watching a movie in the cinema. I envisioned black and white pictures, a smiling Gladys in her younger years sitting on a car bonnet, her Kenneth sitting behind her with a broad smile. I could hear their shared laughter, feel the love. Childhood sweethearts who married when they were twenty and had their first child at twenty-one. Soul mates. Equals. Two people destined to meet and live their lives together.

  ‘You’ve stolen my thinking spot.’

  I turned to find Drew, his lovely face underneath his hat, his brown eyes tired and subdued. Archie barked to let me know he was there too before laying his head on my knee.

  ‘I think you’ll find this was my thinking spot first.’

  ‘I thought it was your inspiration spot,’ he replied sitting down, a whoosh of warm air comforting me.

  ‘Details, Drew. Details.’ He fiddled with his scarf, pulling it away from his neck. Two people who didn’t know what to say to each other always encouraged an awkward silence. Drew crossed his leg and as I watched it bounce with nerves, I had the urge to stop it, tell him he didn’t need to be so wired. I put my hand there. ‘Shall we talk?’

  ‘I think we should,’ he replied.

  ‘I shouldn’t have asked so many questions. Karensa is absolutely none of my business.’

  ‘It’s fine, Cal,’ he said. ‘I needed some straight talking. From a friend. Someone who cares.’ His sad eyes warmed briefly.