Chapter Twenty-Four #2
It was almost time to dish up, and Eloise couldn’t wait to tuck in.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked forward to a meal as much as she was looking forward to this one.
And overseeing it all, like a conductor with an orchestra, was Bart.
Wearing a plain cream apron looped around his neck and tied around his waist, he glided effortlessly from counter to oven, worktop to stove, prodding, tasting, and stirring without a hint of the fluster she would have been experiencing if she’d had to prepare such a ginormous meal for so many people.
Not that five was many, but she’d rarely cooked for more than herself, and only for Hannah occasionally, because it was more of a treat for them to go out for a meal.
Mitch had already settled Toby on a chair with a cushion for a booster (it had fallen to Mitch to keep the little boy occupied whilst the others got on with preparing lunch), and they were now seated at the pushed-together tables, Mitch with a napkin draped across his lap.
“We’re hungry,” he announced.
Toby chimed in, “Yeah, hungry, Weez.”
“It’s on its way,” Eloise said, placing a piping-hot tureen of vegetables on the table. “Oh, doesn’t the table look lovely!”
The cutlery and glasses gleamed in the lights from the Christmas tree and the lamp, as well as from the fire in the grate, and a centrepiece of holly and mistletoe sat in the middle.
Between them, Eloise and Sarah ferried in the various platters and plates, and had finally taken their seats when Bart brought out the turkey with a ceremonial flourish.
“If everyone would like to help themselves, I’ll start carving,” he announced. “Don’t be shy, there’s plenty more of everything in the kitchen, including gravy. What we don’t eat today will go in the bubble and squeak for tomorrow’s lunch.”
“Squeak! Squeak!” Toby shouted. “That’s what mice say, Mama.” He eyed the turkey doubtfully. “Is that a mouse?”
“No, poppet, it’s a turkey. Like a big chicken,” his mother clarified, seeing his puzzled expression.
“It’s very big,” he agreed solemnly, and Eloise had to laugh. This little boy was a breath of fresh air, and by God she was going to miss him.
“Promise me we’ll stay in touch,” she blurted abruptly, feeling the prick of unaccustomed and wholly unexpected tears at the back of her eyes.
Sarah reached across the table, putting her hand over Eloise’s.
“I promise.” Then she briefly dropped her gaze to her plate, before looking up and staring at each of the adults in turn.
“I can’t thank you enough,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.
“I don’t know what I’d have done, where we’d have gone, if you hadn’t—” She broke off, visibly overwhelmed.
Bart’s lips were pressed together, and Eloise saw that Sarah’s words had affected him deeply. Her, too. And Mitch’s eyes looked unnaturally bright.
“Mama, I’m hungry!” Toby told her, effectively breaking the mood.
But before they fell on their food, Bart poured the wine and lifted his glass aloft. “To new friends,” he said. “Thank you all for celebrating Christmas with me and for making me remember the magic of the festive season.”
As they raised their glasses and cried, “To new friends,” Eloise was hit with the realisation that all too soon she’d be back home in Northampton, and the little family they’d created between them would be no more.
It was unlikely she would see Mitch or Sarah and Toby again—which was bad enough.
But not seeing Bart again would break her heart, and she had no idea how she was supposed to handle that.
Isn’t it amazing how one’s thoughts can still turn to food after such an enormous lunch, Bart mused, as an image of a nice mince pie and a cup of tea popped into his head not long after the King’s speech ended.
After polishing off a final mouthful of Christmas pudding and brandy sauce, he’d been convinced he’d never eat anything else ever again.
Yet less than an hour later, he was contemplating a snack.
And maybe he’d suggest an After Eight to go with; then again, did a minty chocolate complement a mince pie?
There was only one way to find out! “Mince pie, anyone?”
Eloise groaned. “I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
“A cup of tea, then?”
“That’ll be lovely.”
“I’m up for a mince pie,” Mitch said. He was on the floor again, playing with Toby while Sarah flicked through the channels hunting for a film they could all watch.
“Sarah?” Bart asked.
“Go on then. I shouldn’t, but I will.”
“How about Toby?”
“He can have a bit of mine.”
“Righto.”
It had been an enjoyable, if unusual, Christmas Day, Bart thought as he filled the kettle with fresh water.
After the initial flurry of watching Toby open his presents (Bart had loved seeing the joy on the little boy’s face, and the happiness on Sarah’s), making breakfast, then preparing lunch, he’d experienced a pang that he wasn’t with his own son and grandchildren.
Pang or not, he’d done the right thing. Sarah and Toby had needed him more, and he’d see Ross and the kids tomorrow. There were plenty of leftovers in the fridge for Eloise, Sarah, and Mitch to cobble a meal together, so he’d visit his own family on Boxing Day.
As he waited for the kettle to come to the boil, he realised he’d hardly thought about Penny all day; not like last year when she’d been on his mind constantly, the dark bands of grief wrapped so tightly around his chest that it had made every breath a struggle.
Yet today he’d laughed and smiled, eaten and drunk with an ease he hadn’t thought possible.
Did that mean he was forgetting her? How could that be?
Just as a wave of guilt threatened to swamp him, the kettle came to the boil and common sense prevailed, snapping him out of it.
“Of course you’re not forgetting her, you silly sod,” he muttered, pouring hot water into the teapot. He would never forget her. But he had emerged from the black cloud he’d been living under, and it was time to look to the future.
But he didn’t want to think about it today.
What was on his mind was Eloise.
He’d been trying to ignore the fact that in just over a week she’d leave Sea View and be out of his life, because Bart didn’t want her to go.
He wanted to tell her how he felt about her, but that was foolish.
She liked him, but that was all, and if he said anything, he’d spoil her memories of her stay in Honeycombe.
It was pointless anyway; she lived two hundred miles and a five-hour drive away. Her life was there. His was here.
No matter how he felt about her, it could never work.
With difficulty, he put his feelings and the accompanying thoughts aside. He didn’t want his sombre mood to sour what was left of Christmas, so he plastered a smile on his face and opened the box of mince pies.
They were shop-bought, but were from the bakery in the village and looked delicious. They’d look even more fabulous with a sprinkle of icing sugar over the top, he decided. He would tell Toby it was snow.
Bart arranged them on a plate, then went to the pantry where all the dried goods and tins had always been stored.
It had looked rather bare until recently, but the shelves were now abundantly stocked.
What didn’t get eaten while his guests were here would be consumed over the following weeks or months.
Nothing would go to waste; he’d make sure of that.
Anyway, he didn’t know how long Sarah and Toby would be staying with him.
The council was notoriously slow, so it could be mid-January, or longer, before they found somewhere for her, and even then, it mightn’t be suitable.
As far as he was concerned, she could stay at the guest house as long as she needed.
“Where did I put the icing sugar?” he asked himself, his eyes scanning the shelves. Surely he would have put it next to the granulated sugar and the honey?
Ah yes. There it was.
After he opened the cardboard box, he withdrew the plastic bag the sugar was sealed in and tore it open. But as he did so, the pantry door hit him in the back.
“I’ve changed my mind, Bart. I’ll have a—” Eloise was saying as a cloud of powdered sugar billowed out of the bag and wafted all over him.
She stopped abruptly as she saw what she’d done. “Good grief! I’m so sorry! You’re covered in…is that icing sugar?”
Coughing, Bart nodded. He could feel the powder on his skin, and he could taste the sticky sweetness on his lips.
“Oh dear!” She was laughing, and he guessed he must look a sight.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” he told her, but his rebuke was half-hearted, and it fell on deaf ears.
Eloise was almost doubled over in mirth, and Bart simply couldn’t resist the impulse to point the bag in her direction and squeeze, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
Another cloud of icing sugar puffed into the air, straight into Eloise’s face.
Her shocked expression made him chuckle. Then the chuckle turned into a proper belly laugh, until he was howling.
Eloise collapsed into giggles again, clutching at the bag, trying to grab it out of his grasp.
“Food fight!” Bart cried, snatching it away. And that’s when it happened.
That’s when he kissed her.
Or she kissed him.
One second they were mock fighting over a bag of powdered sugar, and the next she was in his arms.
Her lips were warm and soft, and tasted so incredibly sweet. He held her gently, his hands on her waist, the bag of sugar lying forgotten at his feet as she wound her arms around his neck.
Pulse racing, Bart trembled with a surge of desire that made him tighten his grip, and pulling her closer he deepened the kiss.
He was so lost in the moment that he didn’t hear the kitchen door open until Ross’s voice rang out.
“Dad? What the hell is going on?”