7. Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
T he fridge door held a mosaic of photos and postcards precariously stuck in place by magnets. Sunsets, mountain ranges, and other landscapes were slotted alongside landmarks he recognised—Paris, the Pyramids, and the gothic streets of Prague. One fluttered to the floor when Nate opened the fridge for another beer. He bent down and studied it; a younger Willow stood in front of a steep mountain range that peeked through a thick mist. Unlike now, her hair was longer and dark, roughly scraped up into a bun, allowing stray ringlets to frame her face. It was a candid shot, catching her laughter as she shared a joke with the well-dressed Chinese man next to her.
‘Where was this?’ he asked.
Willow looked up from the gingerbread tree she was icing. She’d sat at the table after he ordered her to sit, despite her protestations and declarations that she was fine. He had the medical advice on his side, otherwise they knew she would have refused. The kitchen was a hive of activity as Nate took charge of all the food preparation for tomorrow’s feast. It might only be the three of them, but Willow was determined it would be a celebration to remember with all the trimmings. ‘Wuyi Mountains in Nanping, China. Mr Che taught me the tea ceremony I performed this morning. When I left uni, I was at a loose end. Not like the others, especially my best friend, Louise, who knew exactly where they were going with their lives. Rather than take the job I was offered, I was encouraged to take a gap year to travel and spread my wings.’
‘Your parents actively encouraged you to travel? As soon as I graduated, I was expected to join the family firm in the City and start my career.’
‘My parents are dead.’ She paused, but not for long, eager to avoid sympathetic platitudes. ‘It was Marian, my godmother, who told me to go. She also gave me Mavis, the Morris Minor you met last night. It belonged to her late husband. It was his pride and joy, but she decided it should be used. I doubt he’d have been impressed with the paint job Lou gave it, but the flowers made Marian laugh. She had the biggest belly laugh imaginable for such a small lady; it was infectious. She was one of the original flower power hippies.’
‘I wondered how the psychedelic flowers came about. They aren’t exactly you, are they?’
‘Are you saying I’m boring?’
‘No.’ Nate held his hands up. ‘Just you’re not very hippy despite your alternative shop. Except in this photo. I can imagine you having flowers in your hair then.’
‘Sometimes I did. Mavis’s flowers grew on me and we shared many adventures as we drove across Northern Europe, so they were there to stay. My heart is in the East. I visited India, which led me to China, the home of tea, before a bush was smuggled into India so the British could get a cheaper brew. I worked on some plantations and the knowledge I gained complemented the lessons on herbal remedies my grandmother taught me. The seeds of the Enchanted Emporium were born there.’
‘It must be nice to be passionate about something and make a career out of it,’ Nate said, putting the photo back.
‘You don’t like work?’
‘It’s not my passion; I don’t get up in the morning with a spring in my step to get there, which I imagine you do. It pays well. I’m successful, allowing me to live my life. Do I enjoy it? I haven’t stopped to think about it.’
‘Until now.’
‘Until now. Do teenagers like homemade gingerbread cookies then?’ he asked before taking one from the cooling rack.
‘Amber eats them without complaining. Anyway, it’s tradition. You can’t have Yule celebrations without gingerbread. Don’t you have something from childhood you do every Christmas?’
‘I doubt fighting with your brothers counts. Christmas is overrated and always a let-down.’
‘That’s sad. I would never put you as a bah humbug type of guy.’
He shrugged, swigged some beer, and returned to peeling the spuds at the sink, lost in thought. What were his past Christmases like? Even in her darkest days, there was always something about this time of year which made it special.
They worked amicably next to each other talking about travel, university days, and childhood pets after Vincent caused an avalanche of vegetables with a misplaced jump onto the counter. Vincent was Willow’s first pet of her own, while Nate still longed for the dog he was never allowed. He rolled the pastry while Willow filled the freshly cut circles with homemade mincemeat and covered them, ready to be baked before joining the warm batch cooling on a rack. Nate leant over and stole one, jumping out of her way to avoid the tea towel she swiped at him. He popped the whole pie in his mouth before she could retrieve it. ‘Thief.’
‘I’m checking they won’t poison your guests. And it’s a baker’s prerogative to taste his wares.’
‘Your wares? You didn’t make them alone.’
‘No, but you’re only my apprentice today. I deserve the credit. Besides, I have never baked anything before.’
‘What, never?’
‘Never. There was never any need. Mum isn’t the homemaker type and wouldn’t dream of being in the kitchen with her sons doing something as frivolous as making mince pies when you can order them from Fortnum and Mason’s. I must say there is something quite calming about doing it yourself. Maybe I should have pie making as my Christmas traditions.’
‘Maybe you should. It’s more grounding than opening a box of them.’
‘But do they taste as good? I need another one to find out.’
Willow moved to guard them as he stepped closer. The air between them contracted and she could feel his warmth near her as she backed into the table. The electrical tingle she associated with his presence intensified.
‘No, you don’t.’ She pushed him back. His firm chest against her hands didn’t help her rising desire. It was clear his work schedule allowed him time in the gym. His pupils dilated, telling her she wasn’t the only one aware of the change in tension. She broke eye contact and focused on the clock behind him. The countdown began as the second hand ticked forward.
Five, four, three, two, one.
‘Well, that’s it. Quarter past five. Your twenty-four hours of being my official supervisor and skivvy are over. Your caring duties are done. And I am still alive.’ The sooner he left, the better. She stretched her arms wide to emphasise the fact, sending a shower of flour over the floor and herself.
‘Technically, the nurse gave her instructions after ten o’clock, so you have a few more hours until freedom. Better to be safe than sorry.’ Nate watched her carefully, hesitated before closing the gap between them again. He gently brushed some flour from her cheek. ‘Unless you want me to go?’
Words failed her. Her mouth went dry and her heart thumped hard against her chest, so she was certain he could hear it. His lips were close, his aftershave mingled with spice, lingering on his breath from the stolen pie. Would he taste of Christmas? Her resolve to be alone faltered. She reached up, allowing herself to run her fingers through his hair, urging him closer.
A phone rang, slicing through the heat forming between them. He grabbed his phone from his pocket. The gap between them widened.
‘Well, it’s not mine,’ he said.
Dazed, Willow listened. ‘No, it’s the shop’s.’ It stopped as abruptly as it started.
‘Do you want me to stay?’
She nodded, wishing they could rewind time to recapture the last few moments.
‘Good, because I’ve more pies to make.’ He smiled and turned away, leaving Willow cursing whoever was on the phone as it rang again.
***
At Willow’s insistence, they settled on the sofa to watch A Christmas Carol , the Muppet version, as her tradition dictated.
‘I can’t believe you’ve never watched it. Everyone needs to watch it, it makes you feel warm inside. What?’
‘I’d never have associated the woman I met yesterday with someone gushing over a children’s programme.’
‘It’s much more than a kids’ movie. It’s perfection.’
The opening song filled the room. Vincent draped himself over Willow’s lap, forming a barrier between her and Nate, much to her surprise; after all he was the catalyst for the growing feelings she had for the man mesmerised by the singing puppets. Was her cat having doubts about sharing her time with someone else? She stroked him. Along with the bouts of incessant ringing from the store below, his position provided her space to think and distance herself from the idea of getting closer to Nate.
The film’s credits rolled.
‘Verdict?’ Willow asked.
‘I guess I’ve added another Christmas tradition to my meagre list,’ Nate said while Willow replaced the film with another version of the Dickens tale. After their stomachs rumbled in unison, Willow attempted to order a Chinese takeaway. The restaurant owner took some convincing that the Enchanted Emporium wouldn’t vanish when the delivery guy arrived.
Within weeks of moving in, Willow had discovered the problem of owning a store rumoured to have connections with the original Whitby witch. For decades, the building had hidden itself in the shadows of the alley, only revealing itself to a select few. It was a practice it was reluctant to give up. When she ordered products and booked builders for quotes, it took time to undo old protective spells, and she often resorted to begging the store to allow people to find it. All day she’d wait for the expected knock. Instead, she received frantic calls about being lost or, worse, accusations she was a time-waster because the address didn’t exist. Some companies blackballed her for being a nuisance. The excuse of ‘I own a spellbound building’ failed to impress. The shop’s reputation of being haunted preceded it. Several workmen refused to attend. It took many hours of research to find some who accepted its quirks, the cold patches and tools mysteriously moving on their own, and Vincent judging their every move. Double pay helped, but it crippled her budget.
To her relief, the food arrived on time, courtesy of a spotty teenager and his moped. He was eager to see the witch’s house, but was only rewarded by a glimpse of a broom and a gracious tip. She also took the opportunity to tell Old Percy to ‘sort out the bloody phone’ to prevent it ringing again, which he did by pulling the landline from its socket. Some days, she loved sharing her space with ghosts.
The second version of Scrooge’s story ended, and the takeaway packages were empty.
The twenty-four deadline was fast approaching. Will he stay?
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said.
‘What? Why?’
‘Because it’s Christmas Eve and Whitby is magical at night—come on, grab your coat.’
Willow led him through many alleys and yards to the streets of the old town, illuminated by the colourful lights strewn across the road from building to building. The sound of laughter and singing drifted from the pub. Nate wrapped his scarf around his neck tighter and they approached the steep, cobbled incline to the bottom of the famous steps. Vincent silently padded behind them. The area was busier than Nate expected. Snippets of conversation trickled down the hill as people of different ages climbed the winding stairs.
Some moaned about the weather, while others stopped to catch their breath on the benches.
Most were upbeat and excited.
‘Where are they going?’
‘To church.’ Willow pointed towards a small church near the Abbey. ‘For the midnight service. It is Christmas after all.’
‘We’re going to church?’
Laughing, Willow grabbed his hand, guiding him further upwards. He couldn’t feel his fingers, nor her hand cradled in his, but he wished he could remove his gloves to feel her skin. His thoughts soon escalated to other things he would like to do. Who was this woman and what was he doing here?
She bounded up the steps and nodded to the parishioners she recognised, pulling him alongside her. The wind chill increased, biting their cheeks, but he embraced the feeling. It made him feel alive, happy and energised. Was this the Whitby magic she spoke of?
The squat church emitted a warm, welcoming glow and a general mumble of chatter as the vicar greeted his congregation at the door. Surprisingly, instead of following the stream of people, Willow turned left past the field of tombstones to the headland.
‘No, we’re not going to church. As lovely as the vicar is, our kind are not welcome by many. Besides, why cocoon yourself in a handmade structure when you have this.’
From their position, they could see the town below where Christmas lights shone, and their reflections danced on the sea, giving it an illusion of a beautiful fairy kingdom.
‘Our kind?’ Willow stared at him, and he wondered what he had been missing, feeling like a dunce. Then he saw her against the stars scattered in the black sky, forming constellations, and a faint glow flowed around her and he understood.
‘The witch thing,’ he said. Willow laughed again, but he detected something he hadn’t noticed before—anxiety and concern.
‘The witch thing,’ she confirmed. ‘But it isn’t a thing. It’s who I am.’
To the sound of ‘Silent Night’ playing in the church, Nate stepped closer, drew her into his arms, and kissed her.