Chapter 19
MARY
I woke up on Friday to a moody morning. A blanket of gunmetal-grey stretched above the treetops, and it was one of those wintry days when it never seemed to get fully light.
I’d been intending to knuckle straight down to cutting out patterns, but, after the busyness of the day before, decided to be kind to myself with a slower start.
I turned on the two lamps in the living room, settled Bob back into his Moses basket and tucked myself up with a blanket, mug of tea, raisin toast and a notepad, sketching out the finer details of the costumes I was hoping to create.
The only thing missing was a fire in the grate.
I’d tried a couple of times to get one going, using a starter kit from the farm shop, but had got nowhere past a few embers and a lot of smoke.
Not long after eleven, I was startled out of my creative zone by the doorbell. Quickly pulling on an oversized cardigan to hide the roll of flesh sagging above the pre-pregnancy joggers I’d squeezed into, I hurried to answer it.
Someone had already dropped off a generous portion of lasagne, so it wasn’t the meal-train calling.
I paused in the doorway between the living room and the hall, caught off guard by how my assumption that it was probably Beckett sent a flutter of anticipation through my insides.
Quickly dismissing it as the natural reaction to an unexpected visit from a friend, given how the only people ringing my doorbell for months had been delivery drivers, I told myself that I’d be equally pleased if it was Sofia or Rina.
Okay, so almost as pleased. I knew Beckett better than the coffee mums. I was allowed to like him more.
I’d not reached the point where I could even begin to consider someone as becoming more than platonic. I knew I’d not get there for a very long time. If ever.
Although, when I saw the unmistakable shadow of a six-foot-three man through my front-door window, the swoop in my belly felt like a long-lost friend. With a flash of shock, I had to wonder if my feelings might have other ideas.
‘Hi.’ Beckett stuck his hands in his pockets, his eyes shifting to the side and then back again. ‘This seemed like a great idea when I was up convincing Gramps that three in the morning wasn’t the best time to start dismantling kitchen cupboards. Now I’m here I’m thinking I might have overstepped.’
‘In coming to see me? I mean, you could have messaged first, but I’m not busy.’
‘No.’ Beckett looked sheepish. ‘In bringing you this.’
He stepped back to reveal Gramps and, beside him, leaning against the side of the porch, a tree. It was maybe four feet tall, with branches so perfectly even I’d have guessed it was fake if it weren’t for the heavenly fragrance.
‘You got me a Christmas tree?’
A sudden rush of heat prickled the backs of my eyes.
I’d been extra aware, since sprucing up Beckett and Gramps’ house the day before, of how unhomely my cottage was.
I could blame the lack of effort on being too tired, or too busy, but I couldn’t fool myself into believing it.
I’d not even tried to make it look nice because, firstly, I was still resisting it being my home.
On too many levels I still grieved the gorgeous apartment I’d run away from.
Secondly, for the past few months, this miserable, forlorn ambience had suited me perfectly.
Thirdly, it was too depressing to even start, knowing that any token improvements I made would be like sticking a bow on a lump of concrete.
Which took me back to the first point. Why bother, when I had never wanted to come here, didn’t want to be here now, and had no intention of staying once I’d found the mental energy to start figuring out what I did want?
Making this place my own meant accepting my old life was over.
So Beckett wasn’t the only one surprised when I stepped out onto the freezing cold stoop in my bare feet and flung my arms around his neck.
As well as the fir tree – Beckett said it would be silly to have got an artificial one, given how I lived in the middle of a forest – he’d picked up a load of decorations, including a random mix of tree ornaments, wicker forest animals covered in tiny lights, and a stack of beautifully crafted three-dimensional snowflakes.
There was a red and white throw and blue and silver cushions.
None of it matched, some were genuinely ugly, but I didn’t care.
Especially when I found Gramps hanging a tiny stocking embroidered with ‘Merry Christmas Bob’ on the mantlepiece.
‘You don’t have to use all of them,’ Beckett said, holding a glittery ornament in the shape of an angel. ‘I didn’t know what you’d like, so grabbed a couple of everything.’
‘Nope, I’m using all of them.’
‘You could divide it up by colours, or style, and put some of them in the dining room and kitchen.’
‘I don’t ever go in the dining room. The radiator in there doesn’t work. I want them all in here.’
‘You’re sure?’
Beckett rubbed his jaw, not at all convinced.
I pinned the last snowflake to the ceiling and walked over to him, taking his hands in mine.
‘Beckett. Every single one of these decorations will remind me of quite possibly the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.
Six weeks ago, I was utterly alone. Now I have the type of friend who turns up on my doorstep with a Christmas tree.
When I’m pacing up and down in the middle of the night, a baby screaming in my earhole, or sitting here wallowing in the mess I’ve made of my life, I will see that deranged-looking sheep and remember that this friend genuinely cares about me.
A friend who’s probably also up at whatever unearthly hour it is, taking care of someone they love.
This is so magical, so precious, I don’t know how to begin to thank you enough. ’
I had to stop, because I’d done more than enough crying in front of this man for one lifetime.
Beckett pulled his hands, still clasped in mine, and bumped them against his chest.
‘You just did.’
‘Are you two lovebirds planning on mooning at each other until Boxing Day, or is someone going to make me a drink after all that work?’ Gramps barked before slumping onto the sofa.
Beckett dropped my hands as if they’d given him an electric shock, turning to one side as he crossed his arms, then unfolded them and jammed his hands in his pockets before pulling one out and running it over his head, mussing up his new haircut.
I gabbled something incomprehensible about the kettle, and bumbled my way out of the room before Beckett could see that I was even more flustered than him.
* * *
While we were drinking tea, discussing the tweaks to my costume designs with such businesslike intensity it wouldn’t have fooled Bob, let alone Gramps, a wonderful distraction happened.
‘Look!’ I got up and walked to the glass doors at the back of the room. It had started snowing. A few light flurries at first, but as I watched, they rapidly intensified to swirls of huge, fluffy flakes.
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said, unable to contain my enthusiasm.
‘What?’ Beckett looked bemused as he came to have a closer look. ‘Going out in the snow is fine, once the snow has stopped falling. Walking in a blizzard is not a fun activity.’
‘What, you didn’t like going out in falling snow when you were little? Tipping your head up and catching a snowflake on your tongue?’
‘Okay, being in a blizzard is not fun, unless you’re an eight-year-old.’
‘Or a woman who has lived in a city her whole life, where snow turns to grey slush the second it hits the ground.’ I nudged him with my elbow. ‘Come on, it’s so-o-o-o pretty. Gramps, you’ll come with me, won’t you? You don’t mind being outdoors in the cold.’
‘Gramps might not mind the cold, but he will mind slipping over and breaking his leg.’
‘I’ll get my coat,’ Gramps said, his chuckle sounding not dissimilar to an eight-year-old’s.
‘Remember, we make up for lost time by not squandering what we have now,’ I said softly, placing a hand on Beckett’s arm.
‘Not squandering it by stumbling about, getting freezing cold and sopping wet? Making up for lost time by staying inside, where it’s warm, and we can watch the snow through the window?’
He blew out a sigh, then went to find his boots.
* * *
With Bob safely ensconced in his snowsuit and tucked under the pram’s rain cover, Gramps with one hand gripping the pram, the other firmly held by his son, we slowly set off into the forest.
Beckett was right, the snowflakes felt like tiny needles against our exposed skin. The icy wind made it impossible to look up for more than a millisecond, so for most of the way we trudged on, heads down, eyes squinting, concentrating on our feet not sliding out from under us.
The forest probably looked beautiful, if we could see past the whirling blizzard into the gloom.
After about ten minutes, even I had to agree that Beckett was right, and it was time to head back. However, as we carefully turned around, the snowflakes suddenly faded as rapidly as they’d begun.
We all stopped, transfixed, as a beam of sunlight broke through a chink in the canopy above, and the world was transformed into a shimmering, sparkling wonderland.
‘Oh,’ I breathed.
‘Not bad,’ Gramps agreed.
Every leaf and branch was painted with a topcoat of pure white. The air was heavy, sounds muffled as the forest lay still beneath the winter blanket.
A robin appeared on a nearby holly bush, sending a smattering of snow tumbling to the ground.
Suddenly, I felt a thud against my back.
Twisting around, I found Beckett dusting the remains of the snowball from his gloves.
‘Didn’t think you’d want me to squander the opportunity,’ he said, grinning.
Still shaking my head in disbelief, I quickly bent down, grabbed some snow and shot one back at him. Of course, I didn’t have the advantage of surprise, so he dodged it, easily.