The Little Christmas Shop on Nutcracker Lane: The perfect cosy and uplifting Christmas romance to curl up with!

by Jaimie Admans

  ‘Apart from Nutcracker Lane?’

  ‘That’s different. It’s a labour of love. I’ve wanted to work here my whole life.’ I’m kneeling on the floor with planks of wood laid out in front of me, trying to figure out which ones we’ll need next.

  ‘I’ve never thought it could mean that much to people before. It’s just another retail park designed to part people from their money.’

  ‘But that’s the one thing it never used to be – about money. Not until Scrooge came along, anyway. Things used to be sold cheaply, or given away to people who needed them. The shopkeepers felt valued. The whole place used to feel special, like magic was fizzing in every corner and if you caught it at just the right time, you’d see a sparkle and catch the faint jingling of bells as elves zipped out of sight.’

  ‘And Scrooge ruined that?’

  ‘Nothing can run on empty. It’s been a never-ending snowball for the past few years since he came onboard. I don’t even know his real name. He just hides behind this Ebenezer façade.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit it’s a clever play on words.’

  I sit back on my knees and point a warning finger at him. ‘Don’t you dare compliment that horrible man in front of me. One more word of praise for him and you’re not coming back to mine for Christmas-tree-shaped crumpets for supper.’

  ‘I was joking, Nee.’ He takes hold of my pointing finger and folds it down. ‘Is there seriously even festive-shaped food now? Do they taste better because they’re in the shape of a tree?’

  ‘Of course they do.’ I pretend to be outraged. ‘It’s a known fact. Like Easter eggs. All chocolate tastes better when it’s egg-shaped.’

  He goes to protest but I interrupt him. ‘Don’t say it’s the same chocolate in a different mould. There’s science to it. All seasonally shaped food is better.’

  I can’t hold back the giggles any longer and it starts him off too.

  ‘All I can say,’ he says between gasps for breath, ‘is that you have to prove it because it’s been years since I had crumpets and now you’ve mentioned them, there is nothing I want more in the universe.’

  I don’t know if it’s the promise of hot buttered festively shaped crumpets or James’s desire to get away from the Christmas music, but time seems to fly after that. We make a good three-handed tag team of me lining up boards and keeping them in position while James drives screws in with his electric screwdriver, holding each screw gingerly with the fingers of his broken arm, and when we’re done, it looks like a different shop.

  It’s already much brighter in here since I changed the lightbulbs the other day, and the distressed-look shelving fits perfectly with our handmade aesthetic. It lines the right wall opposite the till, and the shop floor in between looks much better without tables cluttering it up. James has already started redistributing our stock into prominent positions on the shelves and is lining up my wooden gingerbread houses like a miniature village when I start untangling fairy lights to wind around the edges.

  I nudge my elbow carefully against his right arm as I walk around him. ‘Thank you.’

  He cocks his head to the side like he can’t work out what I’m thanking him for.

  ‘For all your help,’ I clarify. ‘For all the tips and pointers and your ex-retail professional eye or something.’ I don’t know much about his job and why he studied for a career in retail but works in an office, and he clearly isn’t going to elaborate. ‘We’re already getting more customers coming in after looking at the windows, and a few people have commented about how much brighter it looks in here, which is a nice way of saying it was dull before.’

  ‘It wasn’t dull, but you were trying to sell Christmas itself rather than your own products. You can’t rely on people to come in just because you’re a Christmas shop, you have to give them something to come in for. Looking festive isn’t a sales pitch. Nutcracker Lane no longer has the kind of excess customers who come for days out and spend hours wandering through every nook and cranny and meandering around every shop just for the experience of it. People come in for what they want, buy it, and get out. Not having all those tables to bang into will help too. It’s much easier to navigate the shop now.’

  He points to the centre of the floor. ‘If you put one table there with a big display on it, it’ll give the shop a focus point, and customers will have space to browse. My legs are covered in bruises from walking into your tables.’

  ‘That’s because you don’t look where you’re going.’

  ‘Or because I’m distracted.’ He waggles his eyebrows with a grin, and then looks down at the plaster cast on his arm. ‘Admittedly, I think we both know I’m not the best at looking where I’m going.’

  ‘You’re amazing at retail though,’ I say, glad he didn’t continue the first part of that sentence. ‘Seriously, James. Stace and I are used to stalls at craft fairs, and we went into this thinking it would be the same, but customers expect something more here. We needed more help than we realised.’

  ‘You’re welcome. I want your shop to be a success as much as you do. Nutcracker Lane wouldn’t be the same without you, Nia.’

  I go hot all over even though he must mean Starlight Rainbows, not me personally. ‘It wouldn’t be the same without your shop either.’

  ‘Yeah, the Macarena-ing Santa adds so much to the lane.’

  ‘I’ll miss it when it’s gone.’ I don’t add that I mean its owner, not the Santa itself. Believe me, no one’s missing that.

  ‘I won’t. I can’t wait to get out of here.’ There’s just enough of a waver in his voice to make me wonder which one of us needs the most convincing.

  Chapter 11

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been this relaxed in my life. What are you doing to me?’

  ‘Trying to prove that cosy nights in, tree lights, and festive food have some merits after all …’

  He lets out a long sigh and sinks further into my couch cushions. ‘Do you have any idea how long it’s been since someone made me crumpets and butter for supper?’

  ‘But Christmas-tree-shaped crumpets taste better than regular crumpets, right?’

  He narrows his eyes at me. ‘All right, I’ll give you that one.’

  ‘Yes!’ I do a victory punch, being careful not to jog the sofa too much.

  He came home with me after we finished in the shop, and now the living-room lights are off, and we’re both sitting on the sofa to admire the tree I finally got around to putting up last night. He’s got cushions packed around him to support the ribs, his broken arm is resting on his chest and his good arm is propped up on a line of cushions between us and holding on to a mug of tea.

  I settle back and sip my own tea as we look across the room at the tree, watching the white lights glowing steadily while the rainbow lights chase each other across the branches, reflecting off the glittery decorations and making everything sparkle. It’s raining outside, pattering down on the roof, but the room is lit only by the Christmas lights and the orange glow coming from the fireplace. It feels warm and homely and it’s special not to be alone for once. It’s been a long time since I shared evenings with anyone.

  ‘Doesn’t that make you happy?’ I nod towards the tree when he looks over at me.

  He looks me directly in the eyes, and even in the low light, the look in his is breathtakingly intense. ‘Something does. And it’s been an impossible task lately.’

  My hand drifts towards his bare arm on the cushions between us but I pull it back before I touch him. It’s bad enough to feel this comfortable with him, I can’t keep touching him too. ‘Why?’

  His head flops back and he blinks at the tree for a few moments and then closes his eyes. ‘My father’s dying.’

  ‘What?’ I look across at him sharply.

  ‘I lied to you when I said he was retiring. I mean, he is retiring but he’s retiring because he’s dying of cancer. That’s why I have to take over the business. He won’t be here this time next year.’

  ‘Oh Go
d, James, I had no idea.’ I sit up straighter and put my mug on the coffee table, pull my legs up underneath me and turn to face him. And you can forget about not touching him because my hand is already on his forearm, my fingers running through the fine dark hair covering it. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He and my mum run it together. They’ve been married for nearly sixty years, and she is terrified of how she’s going to cope with losing him.’ He hasn’t opened his eyes yet. ‘She can’t deal with the business as well, so it’s up to me to take over. That’s why I came here this year. That’s why I need your help. Because that business is the only thing that’s ever mattered to my parents and it’s up to me to keep it going. And I’ve failed at everything I’ve ever done.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  ‘No, it really is. That’s not being self-deprecating, that’s being realistic. Jobs, relationships, you name it. I can’t even cross a road safely.’ He lifts the broken arm and clonks it back down onto his chest.

  ‘And you have to take over the Christmas cracker business?’

  ‘What?’ He blinks his eyes open and focuses on me. ‘Oh, yeah, that.’

  My finger is drawing circle patterns on his forearm and I can’t help the little fizzle of joy when he smiles at the movement. ‘Are you the only one who can do it? No siblings or anything?’

  ‘No, it’s just me. No one else. Not even any extended family. I can’t let my parents down, Nia. It means so much to them. They’ve put their whole hearts and souls into it, built it up into something really special for years, but things have been going downhill for a while, and now it’s going to be handed over to me. Next Christmas, I have to not only keep it afloat but also make it the success it once was.’

  ‘And you still can’t find any Christmas spirit?’

  ‘No.’

  That one simple word makes a jolt go through me, because that’s it, isn’t it? He’s never going to like Christmas. It’s something I look forward to all year. Stace and I are already talking about our Christmas stock for next year. From late summer onwards, every surface of my house is covered with drying painted snowmen and sparkly red bits from glittering the chests of robin redbreasts. Realistically, what kind of relationship could I ever have with someone who’s going to ridicule that?

  ‘I get why it’s special to you. I get why people like this time of year, but I can’t wait for it to be over. I can’t wait to get away from Nutcracker Lane. I thought coming here might unlock some sort of inspiration in me and I’d magically know what to do. But I still don’t. And now it’s even worse because I can see how much this time of year matters to people, and I don’t want to let anyone down. My whole life has to go into saving this business.’

  ‘This is what you meant when you were talking about doing things “while you still can”?’ I think back to the things he said that didn’t make sense at first. ‘And what you said you hadn’t shared with your friends?’

  ‘Yeah. Like I said, I’ve kind of pulled back this year. Dad was fighting it. Operations, chemo, scans … everything that comes with a cancer diagnosis. We thought he was going to make it, and then early this year, we found out the cancer had spread and wasn’t responding to treatment. I don’t feel like going out drinking with the lads. I don’t feel like listening to their talk of conquests and football matches and cars and marriage and kids. I’ve just needed to be alone. I don’t know why I told you. I didn’t mean to. You make me feel so comfortable that it just fell out.’

  I can’t help the proud smile that spreads across my face. ‘Isn’t that what friends are for?’

  ‘Friends. Yeah.’ He meets my eyes and then looks away, lifting his mug and downing his now-cold tea like it’s something much stronger.

  “Friends” doesn’t feel right. I’ve never felt quite so strongly towards a friend before, but what else can we be? I’m not looking for another relationship, and he’s obviously got a lot more going on in his life than I thought. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Blunder in blindly, mess everything up, and hope my mum can survive the heartbreak of watching her only son destroy the business she’s dedicated nearly forty years of her life to?’

  I want to put my hand over his heart, but the fingers of his broken arm are resting on his chest and I reach out and cover them gently with mine, letting my fingertips touch the soft cotton of his T-shirt. It’s the closest I’ve come to one of his injuries and I wonder if I’m pushing him too far, but he doesn’t pull away.

  ‘Your hand is freezing,’ I say in surprise.

  ‘Having your fingers constantly stuck out of a cast will do that.’

  I hold my hand out. ‘Lift your arm, let me warm you up.’

  Surprisingly, he does. He positions his elbow so it’s supported by a cushion and lets his broken arm sink towards me. I bite my lip, my hands shaking as I hold my palm under his icy fingers and cover them gently with my other hand.

  He lets out a shuddery breath and closes his eyes, letting his head drop back against the sofa again. It feels like he’s putting an insane amount of trust in me, to let me hold his broken limb like this and trust me not to hurt him, and to open up like that.

  ‘Even your hand is bruised,’ I murmur, my eyes focused on the blueish purple skin emerging from the stark white cast that ends at the base of his thumb.

  ‘Moving cars tend to do that when people walk into them.’

  I want to pull his hand up to my mouth and blow on his freezing fingers to warm them, but I daren’t move a millimetre. And it’s probably a good thing because I want to lean across and press my lips to his smooth cheek and tell him it’ll all be okay, but it won’t, will it? He’s about to lose his father and gain a business he doesn’t want. ‘Do you want some brutally honest advice from someone who barely knows you and has no right to comment on your life decisions, or do you want me to shut up and keep my beak out?’

  He doesn’t open his eyes, but a smile spreads across his relaxed face where his head is still leaning back. ‘Advice, please. All the advice. You’re the only person I’ve talked to about this. I can’t tell my parents how apprehensive I am because they’re dealing with enough as it is.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never known. I grew up doing business studies and accounting and retail in the knowledge I’d be taking over one day. I rebelled and tried different careers and failed at all of them. I had no money so Dad gave me a job at their company, probably thinking that working there would inspire their love of Christmas in me, but I’ve failed at that too. Working on Nutcracker Lane, meeting you, and being dragged headfirst into Christmas has made me feel like a child again. I get all giggly when I’m with you, and I cannot remember the last time I giggled.

  ‘Fixing things in the shop and seeing your crafts have reminded me of how much I used to like working with my hands, not sitting at a computer staring at numbers all day. Putting the decorations up at the lane, doing window displays, even putting those shelves up tonight has made me remember I had a creative side once. And none of that helps with … selling Christmas crackers.’ He sounds so dejected in those last few words that I have to grit my teeth to avoid dropping his arm and wrapping him in a bear hug tight enough to break a few more ribs.

  ‘James, if you don’t want to take over this business, maybe the best thing you can do is refuse. I don’t know your family, and I don’t know you very well—’

  He opens his eyes and meets mine. ‘On the contrary, I’ve told you stuff I’ve never told anyone before. You know me better than all my friends and my immediate family now.’

  I vehemently ignore how special that makes me feel. ‘They wouldn’t want to see you making yourself miserable. If you can’t do this, maybe the best thing you can do for your parents, yourself, and the business is to admit it and find someone else. Someone who’d love it like they did. Someone who’d want to put in the time and effort it needs. You’re trying to force yourself into lovin
g something you hate so you can do something you don’t want to do.’

  The index finger of his good arm comes up to draw patterns on my forearm and goose bumps rise in their wake, but I carry on. ‘You have no enthusiasm for it. You don’t want to take over your family business – you’re resigning yourself to it. No one wants a job like that, and believe me, no parent would want to see their son doing that.’

  ‘I’m just scared of letting them down. I’ve realised lately that my approach so far has been all wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.’

  ‘Then the kindest thing you can do is admit that.’

  ‘I know. Believe me, I know.’ He sighs. ‘But how would I ever trust anyone? How would I ever know it would matter as much to someone else as it did to Mum and Dad? No one else is going to have that personal connection to it. When the going gets tough, no one is going to put in the effort they’d have put in because it’s never going to be as important to anyone else.’

  ‘But do you realise how important it is that you think that?’

  He slowly screws one eye up and tilts his head to the side. ‘No?’

  ‘You’re willing to do something you hate for the rest of your life because you care about their business that much. You’re willing to come here and try to love Christmas – to actually change yourself so you can be a better fit to take over. You’re trying to do the best thing you can for it – no one can ask for more than that. But you have to do what’s best for you too.’

  ‘I don’t know what’s best for me, but I do know I’ll never forgive myself if I walk away.’

  I’m still holding the fingers of his broken arm and his right hand is wrapped around my forearm from underneath now, his index finger trailing up and down from my inner wrist to inner elbow, and I’m trying not to think about it because every touch makes me shiver in a good way.