Epilogue
OWEN
The homemade, eye-wateringly jumpers had us itching, and I could never quite decide if Mum loved them or just had a decades-long joke on our behalf. She’d gone all out this year and monogrammed the Initials in tinsel wool.
Atrocious.
Inspector Meowrse sat under the tree, worrying a bauble, and judged us.
The King’s speech wittered on in the background from the sitting room, while I had Christmas tunes filling the kitchen as I cooked.
Claire had the house decked out in an obscene amount of twinkling lights, but I found there was little I could, or even wanted to, deny her.
It marked a stark contrast from previous Christmases, where she hadn’t been around to infect every single day with joy.
Not that we didn’t argue, we’d had a wicked barney over the validity of Scrabble words two nights ago.
Mostly so we had an excuse for nasty make-up sex.
Claire and Dad were at the coffee table with a jigsaw of a village that looked like a snow-coated, Victorian version of ours.
There were an insane number of pieces, and Claire has been working on it with the occasional session for most of December.
Dad pretended just to be helping because he was bored, but he scoured through every sky piece like a hawk, looking for the perfect fit.
‘Left of the steeple.’ Claire tapped a spot beside the steeple with a soft smile.
Dad tried it and muttered as it sank into place.
‘Aye, you’re a clever wee thing.’ Dad finally seemed to be adapting to retirement, partially because of my mother’s stringent rules for him, and partially because Isla ruled the distillery with an iron fist. She didn’t need viral reels to make it climb to new successes, though she used those too.
I pulled my roasters from the oven and secretly rejoiced in their golden crispness. Dinner was nearly ready. We just had one guest to go.
Isla and Jeff cuddled up on the sofa, drinking Snowballs, unusually close for the two of them. Morag chased Meowrse down for a pet, while he dodged her entirely. Alistair filled in the crossword in the paper, occasionally requesting suggestions when he became stumped over an answer.
Claire drifted through to ‘assist’ which mostly meant stealing my pigs in blankets and flirting.
When Let it Snow burst into the room, Claire pulled me into a kitchen dance. A surprisingly regular occurrence in our house.
Our house.
God, it still sounded so fucking good.
‘It’s been years since I had a big family Christmas, thank you for having me be part of it.’
‘You’d be here if I had to tie you to the chair and feed you myself.’
Her eyes glittered. ‘Maybe for Boxing Day leftovers?’
‘Bubble and Squeak?’
Claire gave a mock shocked face. ‘No, Boxing Day toasties, you maniac.’
‘What’s a Boxing Day toastie?’
‘Buttered bread, leftover oatmeal stuffing mixed with gravy, chicken, sliced potatoes, cranberry sauce, pigs in blankets and cheese. Toast it all in a frying pan and voila, only the best meal of the year.’
I kissed her then, unable to resist when she got excited. ‘Deal. We’ll do that this year and do bubble and squeak next year.’
Scruff did a drive-by, bashing the table and sending a tray flying, before jumping on Claire and sending a ladder climbing her tights. I leapt for the tray and caught it just in time, but we lost a pig-casualty to the floor. Scruff bolted under the table and snatched it up.
‘Scruff!’ Claire called, and he went running through to the sitting room, passing the stairs, where Meowrse promptly popped him on he head.
Scruff yelped and dropped the bacon-wrapped sausage to hide beneath Morag’s legs. Meowrse landed deftly on the floor and snaffled the stolen treat before eyeing Scruff. Scruff looked personally betrayed, so much so that Claire fished another sausage from the tray and went to give it to him.
The door blew open on an icy gust, and our final guest tumbled in in a sea of red and green. ‘I brought cake! And Advocaat!’
In came Henry, the Manor House’s gardener.
Hot gardener, according to half of the village.
I wasn’t into men, but I could see it, I guessed.
Broad shoulders, easy smile, blonde curls on top of his hair.
He looked wholesome. As if Arnold Schwarzenegger impregnated a Care Bear or something.
All cable-knit, pink cheeks, and arms stacked with presents and a messily iced Christmas cake that read ‘JOY OR ELSE’.
‘Thank you for the invite, I was at a loose end, bumbling around the grounds on my own. I—ooft!’
Scruff ran full throttle into his shins.
If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn the dog had been on sugar all morning.
Henry laughed and dumped his presents on a chair, handing the cake over to Isla and best to scrub the rascally mutt.
Mum took his coat and slotted him between Alastair and Morag on the sofa.
Claire and I laid the table with the feast turkey in the centre, and sides all around. With a bubble of chatter, everyone made their way to the table, taking their seats and immediately beginning to pull the Christmas Crackers.
‘How do Christmas trees get their email?’ Jeff asked, reading his joke on the tiny scrap of paper. He waited the standard pause before finishing it. ‘They log on!’
A series of groans rolled around the table.
I poured wine, going glass to glass until Isla put a hand over hers. Mum slapped the table, and Jim looked up, confused.
‘We’ve got news.’ Isla squirmed in her seat before taking Jeff’s hand. ‘We’re having a baby.’
The cheer rattled the cutlery and sent Meowrse back to safety under the Christmas tree. Mum burst into tears, and Morag jumped up, the news making her more sprightly than her years, and she pulled Jeff and Isla into a cuddle.
‘We’ll knit that bairn a full wardrobe. You can be the Knitting Club’s new project.’
‘Neutral tones,’ Alastair offered.
‘Isla doesn’t want one of those bad beige bairns,’ Morag looked aghast at the idea.
‘Are you stepping back from the distillery?’ Dad asked. He’d only just got his head around Isla running the show.
‘I’ll be staying home with the baby after Isla’s maternity leave. And I can’t bloody wait.’
When the excitement settled, we obliterated the food. Our coloured paper crowns slipped as we laughed and ate. Dad said the roasters were fine before hoarding them like a hungry squirrel with a bag of nuts. Everyone ate until they were stuffed.
Everyone except me.
Nerves bubbled in my stomach as I reached under the table and fetched the golden cracker I’d hidden there.
Handmade.
And a little wonky.
I offered one end to Claire, whose eyebrows knitted in confusion.
‘One more cracker?’ I asked.
‘Always. Loser does the dishes?’ Claire’s eyes sparkled.
It went off with a snap. Likely because I’d put four snaps in instead of one. A red velvet ring box tumbled out, to a series of gasps.
My heart skipped as Claire took it in, before looking up at me, eyes wide as saucers.
My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper when I tried to talk.
‘I know it’s been less than three months, and that this is absolutely crazy.
’ I picked up the ring box and dropped to one knee, looking up at my girl.
‘But I’ve never been more sure of anything.
There isn’t a single thing that I don’t love about you.
From your wild red hair, to nights cuddled up on the sofa, to beating you at the pub quiz. ’
Claire laughed as if beating her was an impossibility.
‘I love the way you inspire me to be a better man, and the way you make me so incredibly happy. And your cherry crumble could make a grown man weep with joy.’
Taking one of her hands in mine, I nearly lost my voice to emotion.
‘Claire Braxton, love of my life…’ My voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Brat in my bed. Will you marry me?’
She nearly flattened me as she launched herself into my arms. ‘Yes! Too bloody right I will.’
I opened the box with shaking hands and slid the ring onto her finger. A perfect fit, like Claire.
We kissed for a little longer than appropriate, and the room burst into chaos around us.
Mum wailed before telling us there were no more surprises allowed lest we break Dad.
Jim banged the table with his spoon until Meowrse panicked and Scruff gave chase, launching after the cat. They bundled under the table, knocking legs and upsetting chairs.
Paper hats and gravy flew. Shouts rose.
But within the din, Claire’s forehead pressed against mine, and I thought, This is the good stuff: ugly jumpers, terrible jokes and my favourite people filling my home.
Well, them and Henry, the hunky gardener.
CLAIRE
The fire flickered behind the log burner’s glass as Christmas night drew to a close.
After a long soak in the tub, Owen and I had landed on the sitting room floor, in a mound of blankets and cushions.
We lay entangled in each other’s soap-scented embrace, while Christmas crooners filled the air.
Cinnamon, pine and gravy scents lingered, and I’d never been happier.
My left hand rested on Owen’s bare chest, the new addition glittering in the orange glow, rivalling any of the fairylights. The ring caught the light as I turned my hand, sending stars over his skin.
Owen caught me admiring the ring and looked at me like I was just as precious as the diamond-infused gold band.
He caught my hand, thumb sliding over the ring. ‘It suits you.’
‘Like it was made for me,’ I grinned. ‘So I guess this means we should plan a wedding?’
‘For after Isla’s had her baby, she’ll never forgive me if I get married and she can’t have a dram.’
‘Good point. We should make Meowrse the ring bearer. Can you imagine how sweet he’d be trotting down the aisle with the rings tied to his collar?’
Owen raised a brow. He’d be up in the rafters or tucked between barrels, and out rings would end up as steering wheels for mice.’
‘Do you think mice are sitting there with steering wheel-less cars?’ I hoped he did, because that’s fucking charming.
‘Maybe.’