5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
T he bells chimed three over the sleeping town. Witching hour, thought Willow as she lay gazing at the moon high in the sky. All she wanted to do was sleep, but it remained elusive. This wasn’t how she expected the early hours of Christmas Eve to be: a painful headache made worse by the tossing and turning she was doing to get comfy. Deep down, she knew her ability to sleep had little to do with comfort and more to do with Nate lying on her sofa a few feet below. No one stayed at her flat, yet there he was. Guilt added to her insomnia, guilt he had spent the evening at the hospital with a snappy ungrateful female followed by a night on a sofa not suited for anyone over five foot. She sighed. Would he be awake? She should apologise.
No matter how much she must have irked him, he remained a gentleman throughout. He barely flinched when he saw the mode of transport to get her to the hospital. Willow assumed they’d take his car, something posh and new, judging by his clothes. When he confessed to not having any, she hid a chuckle as he folded his large frame behind the wheel of the old, rusty Morris Minor van, complete with seventies-inspired painted flowers on the back. It was a leftover from her youth she was reluctant to leave behind. He took extra care tackling the winding roads across the Moors, and he started conversations only to be met with monotone, simple answers. On their return journey, when he tried to clear the air, she feigned sleep.
She cursed herself for not agreeing to go to his cottage; the lure of climbing under her own duvet had won her over. It wasn’t his fault she was protective of her space, or that her cat had stalked him. It wasn’t his fault she fell. The more she tried to recall the sequence of events, the less sense it made. Vincent was a large, powerful cat, especially if provoked by the ghostly black cat; he’d made her stumble more than once, but Nate was larger and strong. She would have expected him to step back at the most. There was no reason for him to slip. Her fear of being sued for negligence made her check for ice, but there was none nearby. He’d appeared to fly backwards. A piece of the story was missing.
It also wasn’t Nate’s fault that the fledgling bond Vincent had forged with him made her jealous. After years of being Vincent’s only person, her cat, her familiar, was actively pursuing someone else. Her heart lifted when she saw Vincent standing guard in the shop window waiting for their return and forgiveness wasn’t far away, yet when she unlocked the door, Vincent ignored her and rushed to Nate for attention. The snub’s sting continued when he walked by Nate’s side as she guided them through the staffroom and interconnecting door to the stairwell, the only place in the building that remained dark despite her efforts with the lighting and paint. A constant gloom and chill hung over it, which she could never decipher. Her head had throbbed too much to pelt up the stairs as usual to avoid it, and Nate didn’t need any more reasons to think she was odd.
‘Welcome to my home.’
Willow dropped the keys on the kitchen table. She knew he was tall, but it was only when he stooped under the door frame did she realise how much. If Rosa was there, she would pass comment on him being the perfect height to kiss with high heels on. Not that Willow wore heels, nor was she looking to be kissed. Yeah, right. A little voice reminded her of the flood of electricity when she held his hand. Shut up , she told it. She looked round and tried to see her flat through his eyes; chaos was the word that came into her mind. Her manic morning rush was evident with a used teacup on the side, unwashed pots in the sink, and a table full of paperwork. Vincent continued his adoration of Nate, mewing and chattering to him to demand food. The feelings were mutual as Nate bent down and scratched behind the cat’s ear. Dejected, she sank onto the sofa when she was told to.
The unfamiliar clattering grated on her nerves. Her flat was her sacred space, her sanctuary; only Amber and Glenn came there regularly, and she saw them as family. She wanted to kill that cat until her ginger companion padded in and snuggled next to her, melting her mood slightly. ‘You get away with murder,’ she whispered, and he moved in closer.
‘Here, have this.’ Nate appeared, offering her a glass of water and painkillers. ‘I’d make you a cup of tea, but couldn’t find the teabags.’
‘I don’t drink tea using teabags.’ She swallowed the medication.
‘I noticed. You’re a tea snob.’
‘No, I’m not. The ritual of preparing tea is as important as drinking it. When done correctly the taste of loose leaf is far superior to teabags.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m happy with the simple ritual of dropping a bag in the mug but you don’t have those either. I bet given the choice, you’d rather teabag tea than none.’
Her temper prickled. ‘You’re wrong, not that it matters. It’s late, I’m going to bed.’ After dumping the spare duvet on the sofa, she flounced out of the room. In hindsight, it wasn’t her finest moment. She had acted like a petulant child, and she needed to make amends. Hopefully, she could blame her mood on her head injury rather than his presence.
Willow flung back her duvet, exposing Vincent to the icy air. She grabbed her dressing gown and padded downstairs. All was quiet when she crept into the lounge. The tree’s soft fairy lights illuminated Nate’s sleeping form sprawled on the sofa, his long legs dangling over the edge. Who was he? Willow regretted spending the hours in his company in disgruntled silence. Maybe if she hadn’t, she would know more than his name. Sleep had soothed the worry lines on his forehead and the angst she’d seen every time he looked at his phone. He treated it as if it were an undetonated bomb that he couldn’t resist checking. The phone he still held in his hand. What is your story?
***
‘What the hell do you think you are playing at?’ Willow stood on the shop floor. Old Percy peered over the old brass till before dispersing. ‘I know you’re there. I can feel you.’
‘You needed a little nudge to find a man.’ A vague shape appeared, arms folded across her ample bosom and her nose in the air. The more righteous she became, the clearer Willow could see her.
Mrs Marley . Only the Enchanted Emporium could be haunted by its own Marleys.
‘A nudge! You could have killed him. You could have killed me ,’ Willow continued, pointing to her swollen face. ‘I’m happy on my own. I do not need interference from a stuck-up, hoity-toity gossip.’
A flash of hurt crossed the ghost’s face. A lone wrinkled hand reached out to calm the atmosphere. Mr Marley rarely made a full appearance, usually a touch or a whispered, warning ‘Moira’ was enough to drag his wife back to the spirit world, but tonight she was on a roll.
‘Happy? You are not happy. You need more than a successful business to be happy, you even keep your friends away. You need love, a husband. Children. You’re not getting any younger, are you? What are you, forty? Forty-one? In my day you would be married by twenty.’
‘Exactly.’ Willow’s voice rose. ‘We’re not living in the 1960s or whenever anymore.’ The words enraged the ghost, who hated reminding time had moved on without her. ‘Women don’t need to marry.’
Mrs Marley shook her head. ‘You’ll end up on the shelf, a spinster if you’re not quick. Even your cat knows it. Besides, have you seen his biceps? You must be blind if you haven’t.’
They both heard the creak on the stairs and the apparitions faded.
‘We are not finished yet, Mrs Marley. And don’t you dare spy on him in the shower.’
‘Everything okay?’ Nate met her midway down the stairs. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak as she noted his shirt rode up, revealing a tanned stomach, when he ran his fingers through his hair, messy with sleep. Whatever he did for a living, he earned enough to go on holiday. She willed the butterflies waking in her stomach to calm down. Mrs Marley was wrong; she didn’t need a man in her life, especially not this one.
‘I just needed some salve. This calms inflammation better than anything.’
She showed him the small jar as they re-entered the kitchen.
‘I thought I heard voices,’ he said.
‘Just me talking to Vincent,’ she replied before registering Nate’s look over his shoulder at the snoozing cat. Blast . ‘Anyway, I’ll go and put this on.’
‘Here. Let me.’ Nate unscrewed the jar’s lid and dipped his finger into the cream. Gently, he applied it to her tender face. Closing her eyes, Willow couldn’t help sighing under his touch and the aroma of comfrey and frankincense ointment mingled with his sandalwood aftershave. Her heart pounded. This wasn’t a good sign. He stood close, dangerously close. She backed away and relaxed. Looking down, she saw what she was wearing. No one would look twice at her in her Christmas flannelette pyjamas.
As if he read her mind, he said, ‘They suit you.’
‘What? Childish and frosty?’ She looked at the snowmen dotting the fabric. ‘I need to apologise. For Vincent imposing on you for the last few days, I don’t know what he was thinking. But mainly for my behaviour. I’ve been a lousy hostess and I do appreciate all you have done. Can we start again?’
‘Apology accepted. It was one hell of a bump you had. It would put anyone in a bad mood. So yes, let’s start again. Hi. I’m Nate.’
‘Hi, I’m Willow. Welcome to my home.’
‘I’d ask for a cup of tea, but I know you don’t have teabags and I’m a teabag kind of guy.’
‘No, I don’t, but Rosa, my employee, does. She has a secret stash hidden under the sink in the back room. For when I’m not around.’
He laughed, and she noted how his eyes twinkled, threatening to make her swoon. ‘What? Why didn’t you say before?’ Willow shrugged and he continued. ‘Hang on, she thinks you’re a tea snob too.’
‘I prefer to call myself a tea connoisseur,’ Willow conceded.
‘That’s just words. Are you up for an illicit cup of tea?’
‘I could make one in the pot?’
‘It’s late. Live dangerously. I’ll make you one. After all, I promised the nurse you’d rest.’ He filled the kettle, and she headed to the door to retrieve Rosa’s contraband. ‘And if it makes you feel better, you can blame it and the rest of tonight on concussion.’