Chapter Thirty-Five #2
Lucy stood on the rug and waited until everyone’s attention was on her, then repeated what she’d overheard.
When she’d finished, the room descended into incredulous laughter and speculation, and by the time the vegetables were prepared and the pancakes were ready to go, they’d turned Valerie and Frank into a Norfolk-based Batman and Robin, cancelling out the errors of other residents with their stealth attacks.
‘I need to get them on the events planning team,’ Ermin said.
‘I’m never going to be so careless about online ordering again.’ Harry rubbed a hand down his face. ‘Who knows what other causes they feel strongly about?’
‘Maybe they’d like the bookshop to reopen,’ Fiona said pointedly, and Harry tipped his head back and groaned. It reminded Imogen of a conversation she wanted to have, so she sidled up to May, who was pressing sausage meat stuffing onto a baking tray.
‘Happy Christmas,’ she said.
May looked up. ‘Happy Christmas, Imogen. I’m so glad that you and Dexter sorted things out.’
‘Me too. I can’t believe that this is my life, now. With Dexter and Lucy, getting to know Gran again, helping out with the community hub.’ She shook her head. ‘Jazz says I can keep doing the Story Time sessions with her, too.’
‘And after the success of the Snow Show, I’m sure Fiona and Ermin will be putting more drama into the events programme for next year.’
‘Great.’ Imogen got distracted, her heart thumping erratically as she watched Dexter and Lucy make Yorkshire pudding batter, Lucy throwing flour into her dad’s hair, Dexter smudging batter onto his daughter’s cheek.
She was a part of that, now, and after playing a role for so many years, none of it felt fake: she didn’t have to pretend to fit someone else’s mould.
Dexter and Lucy wanted her for who she was, weird foraging demands and all.
‘I could get involved in more plays,’ she said to May. ‘And I wanted to thank you.’
‘Me?’ May pressed a hand to her chest, and Imogen knew – she just knew – that here was someone who kept a lot of herself hidden: who put a persona out into the world that was only a fraction of who she really was.
‘You’ve been so supportive, so encouraging since I’ve been here,’ Imogen said carefully. ‘But there’s one specific thing.’
‘What’s that?’ May asked with a laugh.
‘Northanger Abbey. The beautiful edition you left on Birdie’s doorstep for me?’
May’s face blanched for a split-second, and Imogen knew she had her. When she said, ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to, but it’s always lovely to receive books as gifts,’ she wasn’t having any of it.
‘I know it was you. I may not have picked Frank and Valerie for the mistletoe vandals, but some of the things you said made me wonder, and then that day in Sophie’s shop – when I mentioned Northanger Abbey – I saw your face. You’re behind the Secret Bookshop.’
May’s shoulders dropped a fraction. ‘Have you told Dexter or Birdie?’
‘I haven’t told anyone, because I wanted to check I was right.
It’s such a lovely thing to do. I don’t know why you picked me, or Northanger Abbey, but it helped me realize it was OK to be unconventional, and it gave me the perfect scene to perform with Dexter.
It’s done a lot for me, that book, so if you want me to stay quiet, then I will. ’
‘Thank you. I didn’t know you when I left it for you, but you arrived under such difficult circumstances, and I wanted to help. So I picked one – Harry binds them all, and he and Sophie know what I do – then I trusted the magic of the book to work on you.’
‘The magic of the book?’
May shrugged. ‘Books are magic: that’s something I believe wholeheartedly. I wasn’t sure how it would affect you, but I knew it would. I’m so glad you’re staying, that you’re going to be part of Mistingham’s community, and you and Dexter are obviously made for each other.’
‘I think so, too.’ She wasn’t entirely happy with May’s cryptic explanation, but she was glad she’d got it right. She helped her finish the stuffing, then they went to join the others for pancakes at the kitchen table.
Imogen didn’t want to spend a lot of time comparing her Christmas Day to what it would have been like if she’d been in London, but she couldn’t help indulge in it a little bit.
She would have been walking on eggshells around her frazzled mum, who needed everything to be perfect; putting up with Edmund’s public displays of affection alongside comments he thought were flattering rather than patronizing; spending fifty pounds on crackers, for goodness’ sake!
Here, after the delicious pancakes, they had all decamped to the lounge.
The stage had been dismantled and the chairs taken back to the village hall, so it looked like a lounge again – albeit a huge, very luxurious one.
Everyone unwrapped their presents with unpractised eagerness.
Lucy, Dexter and Birdie were delighted with the notebooks she’d bought them, and with the beautiful shells she had found on the beach and painted with metallic paint that she’d found in one of Birdie’s cupboards.
She couldn’t have been happier with the fantasy book – the first in a series – from Lucy, woolly bed socks and a clothes voucher for Hartley Country Apparel from her gran, and then, from Dexter …
She opened the card first. Inside was a handwritten piece of paper, a voucher that said: One sandwich a day, of your choosing, from Mistingham Bakery. ‘This is the best gift ever,’ she said, shocked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Completely,’ Dexter confirmed.
‘He’s only given you that so he gets to see you every lunchtime,’ Harry pointed out, as he stoked the fire and flames shot up in a whoosh.
‘I know, and it means I get to see him too, and I get a delicious sandwich. It’s almost too much!’
‘You young lovebirds,’ Harry cooed, and Dexter picked up a cushion. Harry laughed and pointed to the fire as a reason for him not to throw it.
‘You should think about doing genuine vouchers for the bakery,’ Fiona said.
‘I’m not sure everyone would get such a kick out of seeing me at lunchtimes,’ Dexter said with a grin.
Fiona rolled her eyes. ‘I meant for sandwiches. Imogen could draw up some designs – if you went to the community hub when she was there and asked her nicely.’
‘My only worry is that role is going to keep expanding,’ Sophie said. ‘You’re very good at organizing things.’
‘You won’t be short of work, that’s for sure,’ Ermin chuckled, then turned serious.
‘Actually, the village events folder is in a bit of a pickle. Supplier contact details are all over the place, and we could do with a schedule of when we need to start planning each event, when we need to have things in place by.’
‘As opposed to simply deciding on a whim that the Oak Fest would be snowed out and doing a set of mini plays instead?’ Birdie asked.
‘It worked, though,’ Harry pointed out.
‘Only because we could use this beautiful space.’ Fiona gestured at the room.
‘What do you say, Imogen?’ Ermin asked. ‘Does that come under your remit as Community Hub Champion? Only once it’s a properly paid role of course. I wouldn’t want to take advantage.’
‘This is what I’m worried about,’ Sophie huffed. ‘You need to set some boundaries.’
‘I don’t even have the job yet. I’m just a volunteer at the moment.’
‘You’ll be top of the list if you want it,’ Dexter said, brushing her hair off her forehead.
‘Biased much?’ Fiona asked, but she was looking at them fondly.
A phone alarm went off, and Sophie sprung up. ‘It’s time to take the turkey out of the oven.’
‘We all need to see that,’ Jazz said.
‘Or help?’ Sophie suggested. ‘Rather than watch me drop it on the floor and ruin Christmas lunch for all of us?’
Jazz laughed and slung an arm around Sophie’s shoulders, and they all trooped out of the lounge.
‘OK?’ Dexter squeezed Imogen’s waist and planted a swift kiss on her cheek, his stubble brushing deliciously against her skin.
She waited until everyone had left the room, so that they were alone.
His eyes were warm with amusement, his curls starting to spring back into place after being flattened by his hat on the walk here.
She almost couldn’t believe he was hers, that he felt the same way she did, and that their future was laid out ahead of them, full of promise in this beautiful village.
‘I’m good.’ She couldn’t keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘What about you?’
‘Still thinking about Christmas miracles,’ Dexter admitted. ‘I’m glad I didn’t dismiss Lucy when she told me there was an escaped bride who needed rescuing on the outskirts of Mistingham.’
Imogen laughed. She had come a long way that day – and she’d come a long way since that day, too. ‘I’m glad she found me, and that she decided you could be my hero.’ She swallowed. ‘And you are, Dexter. You’re my hero, and I love you.’
‘Talk like that will get you more than a daily sandwich and a kiss on the cheek.’
‘I’m counting on it, though I really do love your gift.’
‘I got you another one.’ He hurried back to the sofa, then returned with a strange-shaped present, wrapped in glittering gold paper and tied with a red bow. ‘Here. Something to remind you.’
Imogen squeezed it. It was soft, and she thought maybe it was another scarf. Depending on how long the snow lasted, she might need a selection. She unwrapped it, revealing soft grey fabric, and then … a claw, and a beak, and a beady little eye. She pulled it out. It was a cuddly pigeon.
She stared at Dexter. ‘To remind me?’
‘Of our first kiss.’
‘Our first kiss.’ The memory made Imogen laugh, then blush, because it had been one of the hottest moments of her life. She squeezed the pigeon’s soft body. ‘Thank you.’
‘I love you, Imogen.’ Dexter kissed her softly, slowly, and she was just about able to think how strange it was that a book and a pigeon, a sprig of mistletoe and a naughty goat, had led to them getting together.
Then she scolded herself, because those objects – and animals – might have helped, but she and Dexter had played a large part, too.
They had been masters of their own destiny.
‘Dad! Imogen!’ They broke apart to find Lucy in the doorway, her arms folded like a petulant teenager.‘You’re going to miss Christmas lunch,’ she said, and flounced out again.
Dexter laughed and took Imogen’s hand. ‘You’re not too sad it’s turkey and not pizza?’
‘Not too sad,’ Imogen said, which was the understatement of the century. ‘I’ve decided that some Christmas traditions are OK, and what really matters is the people you spend it with.’
‘Spending it with the right people makes all the difference,’ he agreed.
They followed Lucy into Mistingham Manor’s kitchen, where the windows were steamed up and there was an air of happy chaos, and Felix had somehow sneaked in, and Lucy was feeding him and Artichoke baby carrots, because Sophie had cooked far too many.
Dexter put his arms around Imogen’s waist and his chin on her shoulder, then brushed his lips against the delicate skin of her neck as they watched the scene unfold.
Imogen sucked in a breath, overwhelmed by his touch, how light it was, and how much it affected her.
Now she had to worry about her nerve endings along with her heart, because surely this Christmas Day was going to do her in with its perfection?
The part with all these people, who she had come to care for and love, and then later, when it was just her and Dexter, making the most of her single bed, the mattress small but, in lots of ways, ideal, because she didn’t really want any space between them, and she knew he felt the same, even when he was grumbling about his aching joints.
In the tiny bedroom in the eaves that Imogen was thinking about at that very moment, the old skylight frame that needed replacing let in a blast of cold, snow-sweet air, ruffling the pages of the book on her bedside table.
It landed open at a scene where a young woman caught sight of a young man for the first time, a meeting that would change the course of both their lives.
His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck.
Catherine Morland might not have been wearing a wedding dress when she met Henry Tilney, but the scene held so much significance for Imogen, because the book had been an escape, and because she’d just met Dexter when she read it.
So, when she finally made it back to her bedroom, her heart fluttering in anticipation as Dexter followed her inside, both of them full of Christmas food and champagne, and with the impression of the fireworks still on the backs of their eyes, she would switch on her bedside light, see where Northanger Abbey had fallen open, and think of May’s words:
I trusted the magic of the book to work on you.
And Imogen would wonder, as Dexter unzipped her purple dress, exposing the skin at her neck so he could kiss it, and she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and their wordless agreement to not break the silence of the soft, snow-covered night added to the intensity of every touch, every look between them, if there was something to what she had said, after all.
The End