A Christmas Wish and a Cranberry Kiss at the Cosy Kettle: A heartwarming, feel good romance

by Liz Eeles

  He points the remote at the TV with one hand and snatches the chocolate bar with the other, while I marvel at his ability to relax and live life in the moment without letting worries and fears blunt his happiness.

  Three

  Christmas songs are wafting through The Cosy Kettle, the decorations are glinting in the cool winter sunlight streaming through the windows, and the rich, sweet aromas of coffee beans and cake are heavy in the air.

  The café is at its best, but every time someone comes in I jump, in case it’s Jasmine. It’s ridiculous to be nervous about seeing my own sister, but she’ll probably find some reason to run the café down. And I feel oddly protective about The Cosy Kettle which kind of saved me, really.

  Fortunately, we’re mega busy today and I’m distracted by customers all morning. They struggle in, rosy-cheeked, with armfuls of parcels, desperate to take a break from their Christmas shopping.

  We’re also visited by our regulars, or ‘the lost and lonely’ as Flora calls them, not unkindly. They include Gladys, who is in her seventies and whose husband died a few months ago, forty-something Janine, who’s out of work, and Paul, who’s coping with long-term illness. They’re very different people but they all need company and conversation, which I’m happy to provide, along with extra-large slices of cake.

  I’m so rushed off my feet, I don’t realise that Logan Fairweather has come into The Cosy Kettle until he’s standing right in front of me. I don’t clock that the man who makes my knees wobble and the power of coherent speech desert me is only a foot away until he says: ‘Those buns look tasty.’

  When I look at him, he winks and – damn my stupid flammable cheeks – I start to blush. Heat leaches out of me. I could save the planet with the renewable energy radiating from my face. I dip my head and wish I had longer hair to cover my embarrassment.

  Logan’s full mouth twitches as he studies the array of confectionery on offer and points at a large custard creation, topped with glazed cranberries.

  ‘I think I fancy a tart instead. And a large cappuccino with lots of foam. Thanks, um…?’ He raises his eyebrows at me.

  ‘Becca,’ I say, slightly miffed that this is the third time he’s asked my name. You’d think he’d remember me, if only for the tragic blushing that ensues every time he’s around.

  Zac very definitely told him my name the first time we met in the local pub. He noticed me staring at Logan, who was propping up the bar looking magnificent in distressed Levi’s, and rolled his eyes – he doesn’t approve of my taste in men. But he introduced us anyway because that’s the kind of good friend he is.

  Logan was confident and funny and occasionally flirty after we joined him at the bar. He and Zac discussed weights and cross-trainers and some bloke who hogs the running machine while I stood there, fairly mute with a face like a furnace. But I did say that I worked at The Cosy Kettle, and Logan has been in a couple of times since, asking my name every time.

  He works for a business that sells printers and his dad is some bigwig in the Honeyford Heritage Trust. That’s all I know about Logan Fairweather, even though I’ve googled him. Obviously. His Instagram account has lots of pics of him out with his friends, many of whom seem to be female. He exudes confidence and happiness and uncomplicated non-weirdness, which I always find compelling.

  Logan takes the custard tart and coffee from me and smiles. ‘Thank you, Becca.’

  I beam because he remembered my name – even though I only reminded him of it thirty seconds ago. Even a goldfish would be hard put to forget it in that space of time.

  ‘Here,’ he says, proffering a fiver. ‘Keep the change.’ Which is kind, even though the bill comes to four pounds eighty. I drop twenty pence into the charity box on the top of the counter and watch Logan snake his way between tables to a seat near the Christmas tree.

  Uh-oh. Jasmine has just appeared in the café doorway, backlit by light from the bookshop, like a real-life Christmas angel. She stands there for a moment, inspecting the café, before sashaying towards me. I’m not sure if she does it deliberately but her narrow hips swing as she moves, like she’s on a catwalk. I tried walking like that once, but Zac had hysterics and suggested an urgent hip replacement.

  ‘Hiya, Beccs,’ says Jasmine when she gets to the counter. Her thick musky perfume tickles my nose. ‘I absolutely love the apron. Very “country kitchen”.’

  I run my hand self-consciously down the pretty floral apron I’m wearing over my usual ‘uniform’ of black jeans and dark sweatshirt. The apron’s a bit twee but it’s cheerful and adds to the cosy country feel of the café.

  ‘Hi, Jazz. You found me then. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yeah, a latte would be good.’ She inspects the cakes on offer and wrinkles her perfect button nose. ‘Do you have any salads?’

  ‘Afraid not. It’s cakes and pastries only. They’re freshly made by a local bakery and taste delicious.’

  ‘I’m sure they do but carb-loading before my important meeting is a no-no. I’ll pick up something healthy later.’ She stresses healthy as she looks around the café and frowns. ‘There’s nowhere to sit. I didn’t realise this place would be so popular, seeing as it’s so hidden away.’

  ‘We’re usually busy at this time of day and we had to take out a couple of chairs to make room for the Christmas tree. But we can sit in the garden with our coats on. If you head out there, I can join you in a minute once Flora comes in. She said she’d take over for a while about now.’

  On cue, Flora appears in the café doorway and wanders over. She smiles at me and pulls her dark shoulder-length hair into a neat ponytail.

  ‘Why don’t you take a break, Becca?’ She glances at Jasmine, who’s waiting for me at the end of the counter. ‘You can have a chat with your friend, then.’

  ‘Jasmine’s not my friend, she’s my sister.’

  ‘Oh.’

  And there it is. The barely concealed astonishment that always flits across people’s faces whenever I introduce Jasmine as my sibling.

  ‘Didn’t you say that you and your sister are twins?’ asks Flora, taking in Jasmine’s general goldenness.

  ‘We’re non-identical twins,’ I answer, although it’s patently obvious.

  ‘Different eggs, different genes and different temperaments,’ laughs Jasmine, flicking her long hair over her shoulder. ‘We used to fight like cat and dog when we were kids.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Becca fighting anyone.’ Flora grins at me. ‘She’s extremely quiet and well-behaved.’

  ‘I can imagine. Beccs wouldn’t say boo to a goose. You must be her boss.’

  ‘Yep, that’s right. Flora owns the bookshop and café,’ I say, making myself a tall hot chocolate and shoving in a huge scoop of fresh cream. Jasmine might not be into carbs right now but I’m going to need a few to get me through the next ten minutes. It’s not that I don’t care about Jasmine – she’s my sister and I love her. But we’re so unalike – me, shy and quiet; her, confident and loud – we tend to rub each other up the wrong way. And I can’t shake the feeling of being second best that’s dogged me since childhood.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely to meet you,’ says Jasmine, flashing Flora her best toothy smile. ‘I’ve just called in to say hello before a meeting in Oxford. I work for a PR company.’

  ‘Ah, you’re alike in your promotion skills then,’ says Flora, slipping on the spare apron that’s behind the counter. ‘Becca runs The Cosy Kettle’s social media accounts and does a fabulous job.’

  ‘I’m sure she does. I deal with rather larger accounts but it must be great posting cute pictures of coffee and cake all day.’

  Is Jasmine being sarcastic or am I being over-sensitive? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Flora doesn’t appear to take umbrage so I say nothing, grab my coat from under the counter and lead Jasmine through the back door and into the small courtyard garden.

  Pale watery sunlight is falling on the flagstone patio and across the two filigree metal tables and chairs.
>
  ‘Bloody hell, Beccs, it’s chilly out here,’ says Jasmine, sinking onto a chair and wincing as the cold of the metal seeps through her smart black trousers. She buries her face in the collar of the steel-grey puffa jacket she’s wearing.

  ‘We can go back inside and nab a table as soon as someone moves.’

  I cup my hands around my hot chocolate, glad that I remembered to switch on the garden lights this morning. Even dimmed by weak sunlight, the strands of multi-coloured fairy lights, pinned to the old Cotswold stone walls, make the space more cheerful and welcoming.

  ‘So I finally get to see where you work,’ says Jasmine, before taking a sip of her latte. ‘Mmm, nice coffee. The café’s cosy, and very festive. And I didn’t realise you had tables outside.’

  She stares across the tiny garden which I helped to create from an overgrown weed patch. In the summer, the garden is a riot of colour. But right now it’s all brown earth, save for a splash of red berries on the firethorn shrubs edging the gate to the alleyway. I hope Jasmine will make a return visit when spring arrives, and see the garden coming back to life.

  As she settles into her chair, it suddenly hits me that I am pleased to see Jasmine. We do clash – always have – but she’s my sister and we have lots of shared memories: ganging up on Mum and Dad, family holidays in Devon, fan-girling over Justin Timberlake.

  ‘How’s your new job going?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, you know. Busy, invigorating, exciting. I’ve only been in the role for a few weeks but my boss is already giving me lots of extra responsibility. She says she’s grooming me for bigger and better things.’

  ‘That’s great, Jazz. You must be made up about it.’

  ‘I am. You know how ambitious I am and keen to get on.’

  ‘Well, you’ve worked hard and deserve success. I’m really pleased for you.’ I drum my fingers against the thick china of my hot chocolate mug. ‘I’ve got ambitions for The Cosy Kettle, too.’

  ‘Really?’ Jasmine glances through the window at the people chatting and laughing in the café, with their heads bent close together. ‘I don’t think of you as the ambitious type, Becca. Not since…’

  She tails off and takes a big slurp of coffee.

  ‘Not since I went bananas in Birmingham, gave up my job and moved in with Zac?’

  ‘That’s not how I’d have put it.’

  ‘That’s how Mum and Dad put it. In their eyes, I failed to hold on to my boyfriend or my career and had a rather embarrassing breakdown.’

  ‘Hmm. Is that why you’re avoiding them?’

  ‘I’m not avoiding them.’

  ‘You haven’t been home for at least six weeks,’ she says, leaning over to push away the ginger cat that’s been ‘adopted’ by café customers. He usually gets plenty of strokes and belly rubs but Jasmine doesn’t want ginger cat hairs on her trousers. Not before her very important meeting.

  ‘I went home for Mum’s birthday.’

  ‘Which was ages ago. It’s not fair to leave all the visits to me, and anyway…’ She pauses. ‘Things are a bit odd at home so you should definitely visit.’

  ‘What, more odd than usual?’

  ‘Yeah, way more odd. Mum’s not herself at all. The last time I was there, she was crying in the kitchen.’

  ‘What, Mum? Was she peeling onions or something?’

  When Jasmine shakes her head, I frown because Mum never cries. She’s the most long-suffering person I know. She’s had to be, putting up with Dad, who’s a walking sexist stereotype. He’s fine with his wife working and bringing in a wage, but he still expects her to be in the kitchen and putting a meal on the table the minute he gets home.

  ‘So was she proper crying?’ I ask, slightly panicked. ‘You know – sobbing, can’t breathe, snot everywhere, kind of thing?’

  ‘No,’ says Jasmine, looking puzzled. She obviously doesn’t cry like that. ‘Her eyes were leaking a bit when she thought I wasn’t looking and she kept sniffing. She wasn’t distraught or anything, but it was alarming because she’s usually so cheerful.’

  ‘You don’t think she’s ill, do you?’

  Catastrophic thoughts of Mum with some terrible illness are tumbling around my head and tightening my chest. I can’t imagine life without her.

  Jasmine frowns. ‘I don’t think so. She’s just kind of… different. Oh, I don’t know. You need to see for yourself this weekend. Mum’s organising one of her big Sunday lunches and she’s going to invite you.’

  ‘This Sunday?’

  ‘Yes, this Sunday. You’d better be there, and you’d better stay over at Christmas too – I’m staying, so you’ve got to as well. It’s about time you stopped hiding away in tiny, picture-perfect Honeyford.’

  ‘I’m not hiding away. I’m working hard to build up The Cosy Kettle.’

  ‘I’m sure, but it’s just…’ Jasmine trails off and studies the dregs of her latte.

  ‘Just what?’

  She looks up and stares at me with her clear blue gaze. ‘It’s just a shame that you’re wasting what potential you’ve got.’

  ‘I’m not wasting anything. I’m happy here.’

  ‘What, working in a café at the back of a little local bookshop?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not like you, Jazz.’ However much our parents would like me to be. I spoon up a huge mound of cream from the top of my hot chocolate and shove it into my mouth.

  Jasmine shifts uncomfortably on her chair and glances at her watch. ‘Right, I’ve gotta go because I need time to prepare before the meeting starts.’ She gets to her feet, brushing imaginary dirt from her trousers. ‘Just think about what I said about coming home, Becca, and make sure you’re there on Sunday. You can’t opt out of life completely because you’re a bit…’ Don’t say it. Please don’t say it! She wrinkles her nose. ‘Fragile.’

  Urgh. I gather up our cups and follow Jasmine back into the café. A wall of warmth hits us as we step inside and I close the door behind us. The Christmas tree lights are twinkling in the corner and a sweet smell of cinnamon and caramelised sugar is hanging in the air. I’m so proud of The Cosy Kettle and how I’ve helped to build it up, but is Jasmine right that I’m wasting my potential? I rather fear that she’s over-estimating my potential, to be honest, judging by yesterday’s confrontation with the rude customer. I didn’t exactly handle that with professional aplomb.

  Logan lifts his head from his mobile phone and catches my eye.

  ‘Hey, Becca,’ he calls out, as I get closer. A little buzz of pleasure shudders through me that he can still recall my name.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, stopping by his table. I’m still shivering with cold but my heart feels warm that Logan wants to chat to me. I definitely have a huge crush on the local heartthrob and maybe, just maybe, he might see something in me too?

  ‘Everything’s good, I just wondered…’ He breaks off and stares at Jasmine, who’s stopped and is walking back towards us. ‘I just wondered… who’s your friend? I haven’t seen her around Honeyford before.’

  Of course. Logan only wants to talk to me because he’s interested in Jasmine. People usually are. My warm heart begins to cool.

  ‘This is Jasmine,’ I say, as she arrives back at the table and gives Logan a wide, pearly-white smile. ‘She’s my sister.’

  And there’s that flicker of astonishment again, ricocheting across Logan’s square-jawed, handsome face.

  ‘No way!’ he splutters. ‘I’d never have guessed it in a million years. The two of you are sisters?’

  ‘Twin sisters, actually,’ purrs Jasmine, stretching her beautifully manicured hand towards him.

  ‘Now you’re just teasing me.’

  ‘Not at all. We’re non-identical twins. I’m the older one.’

  ‘You don’t look it,’ says Logan, wrapping his fingers around hers and squeezing her hand rather than shaking it. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Jasmine. I’m Logan. Do you live in Honeyford?’

  ‘No, I have a flat on the outskirts
of Oxford. I’m just passing through and thought I’d pop in to see how Becca’s doing.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to pop in again soon,’ says Logan, as my heart sinks into my boots. ‘Honeyford has an awful lot to offer.’

  ‘Maybe I will then,’ replies Jasmine with the flirty toss of the head she’s been perfecting from the age of eighteen. I’ve tried it with people I fancy but it was wholly unsuccessful. I looked like I was doing some sort of strange twitch. It doesn’t help that I’ve got short hair that doesn’t ripple down my back in a golden wave.

  ‘Excellent,’ says Logan, not taking his big blue eyes from her face. ‘I look forward to seeing you again.’

  When I walk Jasmine out of the café, she whispers to me: ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Logan? Zac knows him from the gym. He lives just outside Honeyford and works for a company that sells printers.’

  ‘He is totally hot.’

  ‘Do you think so? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Oh, please. Your face looks like a tomato.’

  ‘That’s just ’cos we’ve come in from the cold and it’s warm in here.’ I blow air up into my fringe to cool my face and resist the urge to throttle Jasmine, who has to be the most annoying twin ever.

  ‘You’re hopeless, Becca.’ She shakes her head. ‘I want you to be happy but you live in your own shy little world. How long is it since you last went on a date?’

  ‘Not long,’ I mumble.

  ‘Not since that idiot Charlie decided he’d rather be with Chloë and ditched you, I bet.’ Gee, Sis, feel free to sugar-coat it. ‘What about that Zac bloke you live with? Is there anything going on with him?’

  ‘What, with Zac? Definitely not. We’re just good friends.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, I don’t know how he puts up with you being so stressy about everything, Beccs. I know you can’t help it but you’ve got to admit that you are a bit weird. Anyway, I’ll see you on Sunday.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Jasmine air-kisses me on both cheeks before tapping across the bookshop flagstones on her stiletto heels.