Chapter Two
Bart put the old saxophone down but left the record on the turntable.
Soft jazz filled the air as he flexed his fingers and wondered what to have for lunch.
He usually had a sandwich or a bowl of soup, but he didn’t have any bread and he couldn’t be bothered to go to the bakery in the village to buy a loaf.
He also needed milk, but he couldn’t be bothered to go to the shop for that, either.
To be truthful, there was a great deal he couldn’t be bothered to do these days.
“Oh, Penny,” he murmured, his gaze straying to the framed photo of his wife which sat on the side table next to his chair.
She looked happy, laughing at something he’d said, the summer sun on her pretty face and her eyes crinkling at the corners.
He hoped she was as happy now, wherever that might be.
He wanted to believe in Heaven, he really did—he needed to believe she was waiting for him, that they’d be reunited again—but no matter how much he tried, he simply couldn’t. She was gone, and that was that.
This would be his second Christmas without his darling wife, and he was dreading it.
Normal, everyday life was bad enough, but Christmas was ten times worse.
Thankfully he would spend it with Ross; his daughter-in-law, Amy; and the grandkids, which was better than being on his own, even if their good cheer was hard to take.
His son meant well, and the kids deserved to enjoy their Christmas and have a good time, but Bart didn’t feel like playing happy families since the linchpin of his own was no longer here.
Last Christmas had been awful. Despite Ross and Amy’s efforts to make him feel loved and welcome, he’d been acutely aware of Penny’s absence. But then, when wasn’t he?
Just like this big, old house, he overflowed with emptiness. He and Penny used to run a B he had too much to do to wallow in self-pity.
A key in the front door an hour or so later alerted him to Ross’s arrival.
“Hi, Dad, it’s only me. I—What are you doing?”
Bart had pulled the double cooker away from the wall with a lot of effort and a great deal of swearing and was currently on his hands and knees, giving the floor a good scrub. He didn’t want any trouble from the health inspector.
Ross said, “I’ve brought you some supplies because I guessed you wouldn’t have gone out in this.” He put a bag on the chunky butcher block that served as a food-prep surface.
“Gone out in what?” Bart clambered to his feet.
“It’s blowing a gale out there. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve been busy.”
Ross glanced around the kitchen. “I can see that. Any particular reason? It’s not the right time of year for a spring clean.”
“I’ve got a guest arriving in a few days.”
“A guest? Who is it? Someone I know?”
“A paying guest.”
“A what? But—You’re—It’s winter! You and Mum never opened in winter; you said there wasn’t any point because the bookings were so dismal.”
“I know.”
Ross sagged against a cupboard. He wore the same expression that Penny used to have when something bothered her. It was the eyes. He had Penny’s dark brown eyes and a similarly shaped mouth. Bart’s gut twisted.
“But, Dad, guests?”
“Not guests plural. Just the one.”
“Why?” Ross sounded utterly perplexed.
“Because she asked and I need the money.” Bart was beginning to regret shifting the cooker. He thought he might have twisted his back. Goodness, when had he become so unfit?
Ross said, “I’ve told you before—you need to get rid of this place.
I know you don’t want to because of Mum, but she isn’t here, Dad.
You’re rattling around in it day in, day out, all on your own, and it isn’t good for your mental health.
I tell you what, let me give a couple of estate agents a call.
We can get them to give us an idea of what it’ll fetch, and we can put it on the market in the New Year.
What do you say?” He took out his mobile phone.
“No.” Bart wished his son would shut up. He’d been singing this particular song for several months now.
Bart didn’t want to hear it, but Ross carried on regardless.
“You can’t stay here indefinitely. It’s costing you a fortune, and it’s too big for one person.
All these rooms—Amy reckons some of them haven’t been touched since Mum died.
” His thumbs flew over the screen. “We used Marshalls in Barnstaple to sell ours when we moved. They’ve got a good reputation, and they don’t charge the earth.
I can call them now, if you want. Of course, there’s no point in putting it on the market this side of Christmas, but as I said—”
“I keep telling you, I’m not selling,” Bart interrupted, getting cross.
“There’ll come a time when you might have to, so why don’t we make a preemptive strike and get everything sorted now, before you’re forced into it?
I’m sure you can find a nice little flat or—” Ross looked up, then said slowly, “Actually, there might be an alternative. How about you move in with us? We’ve got the room, Dad, and we can always convert the garage. You can have your own private suite.”
“I don’t need my own private suite. I’ve got my own private house.
” Bart wondered whether Ross had actually spoken to Amy about this, and he suspected not.
His son might think that Bart moving in with them was a good idea, but he bet Amy wouldn’t be too keen, and he wouldn’t blame her.
Not everyone wanted their in-laws living with them.
Ross continued, “It isn’t private if you have to take in guests to keep your head above water financially. How long are they booked in for, anyway? A few days isn’t going to keep the wolf from the door.”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Ross’s eyes narrowed. “From when ’til when?”
“The fifteenth of December to the third of January.”
“That’s over Christmas!” His face bore a baffled and somewhat incredulous expression.
“I believe it is,” Bart replied mildly.
“But…I thought you were spending Christmas with us? We’ve got all kinds of things planned! We’ve got tickets to the pantomime, and the Amblesides—they’ve just moved in next door, remember me telling you about them?—they’re having an open house on Christmas Eve so we’ll all go to that, and—”
“I’m not coming.” Bart had accepted a booking and that was that.
It would be hard not being with his son and the rest of the family over Christmas, but he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to earn some desperately needed money.
Not if it meant he could stay in his home for a while longer.
And maybe, just maybe, if this worked out, he might consider reopening the guest house permanently.
Or he might not.
This could be an experiment, to see if he could manage without Penny.
Or if he actually wanted to.
Either way, the booking would buy him some time to decide what he wanted to do, because he couldn’t go on like this: He had to do something.
Ross said, “Look, Dad, I get it. It isn’t the same without Mum, but you can’t spend Christmas on your own.”
“I won’t be on my own. I’ll have a guest, rememb—” Bart halted, his mind working overtime.
If he was opening the guest house for one person, what was stopping him from taking in more?
Surely there must be other people who would welcome being able to escape Christmas, who would be glad of a respite from all things festive, even if it was just for a couple of days?
He could run an advert or two, to see whether there was any interest, and if he didn’t get any takers, so be it. But if he did, his guests could pretend Christmas wasn’t happening whilst paying him for the privilege.
Thank you, Eloise Garrett!