Chapter Eighteen
Bart should have had a proper loft ladder installed, but he’d never got around to it, managing perfectly well with a too-short stepladder and brute strength to haul himself up through the hatch.
When Mitch saw what Bart was about to do, he said, “I’ll go up the attic, shall I?”
“Knock yourself out,” Bart said, standing aside—he had been about to suggest the very same thing.
“Can I help?” Sarah asked, and Bart realised she too wanted to feel as though she was contributing something.
Chuckling, he said, “Go ahead, but I warn you, the spiders are huge.”
“I don’t mind spiders,” she replied, scurrying up the ladder and through the loft hatch like a gymnast.
Eloise was in the sitting room keeping a beady eye on Toby and making sure the little boy didn’t do anything he shouldn’t, or get up to any mischief, so Bart stood at the bottom of the ladder, holding it steady and shouting instructions up into the square of gloom above his head.
In his mind’s eye he could see what Sarah and Mitch were looking at: decades of accumulated memories and those things you hang on to just in case.
Somewhere among the bags and the boxes and the piles of old clothes which were probably musty with age were several boxes of carefully packed Christmas decorations.
“They’ll be to your right,” he instructed. “They should be stacked against the chimney breast.” That was the last place he remembered seeing them, but he hadn’t been in the attic for more than a year, and even then, he’d only poked his head above the parapet.
“Found them,” Mitch called. “How many boxes are there supposed to be?”
“Three, I think, or maybe four. Hand down the ones you can find, and when we unpack them I’ll be able to tell you if there’s anything missing.”
“It’s an Aladdin’s cave up here,” Mitch said, leaning into the void of the landing ceiling and lowering a box down to Bart’s waiting arms.
Bart put the box down gently. It was quite light despite its size, and he assumed this one was full of baubles for the tree.
“Ready for the next one?” Mitch asked.
Bart went to the bottom of the ladder again, climbed up a couple of rungs, held out his hands, and box two was safely lowered. This one was heavier, and he guessed it contained the lights and maybe even the little nativity scene. Or perhaps it held some Christmas crockery?
When the last box had been retrieved, Bart gripped the ladder firmly, and with his heart in his mouth he watched Sarah swing herself down from the attic, her feet finding the top rung as she steadied herself.
Mitch did the same, pulling the hatch back into position before climbing down the rest of the way.
Carrying the first of the boxes downstairs, Bart was surprised to find the sitting room empty, and when he heard a tap running, he realised Eloise was in the kitchen. Wondering what she was doing, he went to investigate, leaving Sarah and Mitch to begin unpacking the baubles.
Eloise was at the sink, Toby standing on a chair next to her.
She had her sleeves rolled up and her hands in a bowl of soapy water.
Several toys grimed with soot sat on the draining board, and as he watched, she picked one up, plunged it into the water, and gave it a scrub before handing it to Toby for him to dry with a tea towel.
The pair of them had a proper little production line going.
“Do you want to come and decorate the tree?” he asked.
“I’ll just quickly finish these while you take Toby in; I’m sure he’ll want to be involved.”
Bart gave her a dubious look, wishing she’d join them, and lifted the child off the chair and put him on the floor. “Come on, champ, let’s go help your mum and Mitch decorate the tree.”
The tree sat in a pot in the bay window.
A few dark green needles already littered the carpet, and he knew many more would follow over the coming days.
The scent of pine permeated the room, and he breathed it in, the tang of Christmas hanging heavily in the air, sharp, distinctive, and evocative.
He’d forgotten how much he loved the smell.
Toby dashed over to his mother, who was sitting on the floor, one of the boxes open in front of her.
“Mama!” he cried, launching himself at her as though he hadn’t seen her for hours, not minutes.
“Careful,” she warned, catching hold of him before he could topple onto the box and squash it.
Bart noticed that she’d unwrapped a couple of the baubles, and she held one up, safely out of Toby’s reach.
“Are they all like this?” she asked.
Bart stared at the glass orb and nodded. Goodness knows how long they’d owned that one. Thirty years, maybe? He couldn’t say. But he remembered Penny hanging it on the tree year after year, her eyes shining as she exclaimed over each ornament.
He had to open the second and the third box until he found what he wanted, bringing forth the fairy lights. “These first,” he said. “Always put the lights on first.”
“Absolutely,” Sarah agreed. “Would you like me to do it?” Then she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
“I’m sorry, that was presumptuous of me.
It’s just…” She shrugged. “I love decorating the tree. Actually, I’ve always loved everything about Christmas, but it’s even more magical when you’ve got children, don’t you think? ”
On hearing that, Bart couldn’t agree more and was doubly pleased he was making an effort to make Christmas as special as possible for her and her son.
She needn’t know he’d been dreading it, and she didn’t need to know Eloise disliked Christmas either.
He hoped she just assumed he didn’t put up his decorations until a few days before Christmas.
Many people didn’t; not everyone put their decorations up on the first of December.
“No, that’s fine,” he said to Sarah. “You go ahead and hang the lights on the tree. I’m going to make us all a nice mug of hot chocolate.
I know we’ve already had one today, but it’s Christmas and you can’t have too many at Christmas.
And even if I say so myself, I make a mean hot chocolate.
I can crack open the mince pies as well, if you like? ”
Leaving the two women and Mitch to decorate the tree, Bart went into the kitchen to make the drinks, but before he did so he put a record on the turntable and the house was immediately filled with the joyful sound of traditional carols.
As he warmed the milk, he listened to the chatter from the sitting room and smiled to himself.
It really was beginning to feel like a proper Christmas.
Bart was in the hall, about to carry the mugs into the lounge on a tray, when the front door opened and Ross walked in.
“Hello, son, I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“What’s this?” Ross’s gaze dropped to the tray Bart was holding; then he looked at his father. “Did I just see somebody decorating a Christmas tree?”
“Let me take these through, and we’ll go into the kitchen and I’ll explain.” Hurriedly Bart dished out the hot chocolates, leaving his own on the tray, and ushered Ross into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Ross said, “What’s all this about, Dad? And since when do you make hot chocolate for your guests? You’ve only ever done bed-and-breakfast and the odd cup of tea and slice of cake on arrival.”
“The night before last there was a fire at the Pattersons’ house. I don’t know if you noticed the boarded-up windows?”
“Can’t say I did. I thought you said they’re away?”
“They are. They’re renting it out. The fire broke out in the middle of the night, and the young woman and her little boy who live there had nowhere to go, so I took them in.”
“What do you mean, took them in?”
“As in, I gave them a bed for the night.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“It was the least I could do. In fact—” Bart took a breath then ploughed on. “They’ll be staying with me over Christmas.”
“I see,” Ross said in a tone that very clearly indicated he didn’t see at all. “Why are they staying with you?”
“Because, as I said, they’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“Nowhere else at all?”
“I don’t believe she has any family. The council is trying to put her somewhere, but it’ll be in some bed-and-breakfast, and I couldn’t let that happen.”
“But you’re a bed-and-breakfast.”
“That’s different.”
“You mean, the council is paying you to put her up?”
“Not exactly.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“She’s going to stay with me until she’s either rehoused or the repairs to the Pattersons’ house are completed.”
“When will that be?”
“How long is a piece of string?”
Ross narrowed his eyes. “It’s not a solution, Dad.
It’s only delaying the inevitable. You can’t keep this house going on a couple of guests for a week or two.
This place eats money. Or do you intend to open up the guest house on a permanent basis and run it all by yourself?
You’re not getting any younger!” he cried.
“Shh, keep your voice down.” Bart’s ire was rising. “I’m sixty-three, not bloody eighty-three; and anyway, it isn’t your decision to make. If I want to offer hospitality to a family in need, then I shall.”
Ross opened his mouth, and Bart thought his son was going to argue, but with a frustrated shake of his head, he stayed silent.
Good. He knew Ross was concerned about him and had his best interests at heart, but he refused to be treated like a child.
He’d lost his wife, not his marbles. He was also completely aware that at some point in the future, if he wasn’t able to keep the guest house going, he would have to let his beloved house go.
If he did move, it would be to a place of his choosing.
He loved Ross to bits, but he didn’t want to live in a bloody granny flat above the garage.
And he definitely didn’t want to leave Honeycombe Bay.
There was a certain satisfaction in decorating a Christmas tree, Eloise grudgingly admitted to herself as she ate another mouthful of beef stew.
And the tree did look rather nice—all sparkly and cheerful, with nothing matching and no two baubles the same.
Bart’s decorations were definitely eclectic, each one different and having a certain significance or holding a special memory, and Eloise rather liked that.
They were better than many people’s decorations, bought with no more thought than whether they fitted in with a colour scheme or a theme.
If she was going to be forced to look at a tree, this was the sort of tree she could appreciate. It meant something.
With traditional carols playing in the background and a delicious meal inside her, Eloise was feeling mellow. It was a strange feeling for her when it came to Christmas, and she knew she wouldn’t forget this one in a hurry.
Gazing around the table at this unusual assortment of people, Eloise studied each one.
Toby first, because his little face was alight with wonder, his cheeks rosy, his eyes reflecting the tree’s twinkling lights.
Seeing him so entranced had softened the spiky shell around her heart, and Eloise would have loved nothing more than to scoop him up and hold him close.
She didn’t, of course, popping another spoonful of the warming winter stew into her mouth instead, and following it up with a hunk of crusty bread.
Then there was Toby’s mother. Sarah looked less tense this evening, the lines on her brow smoothed somewhat now that she was beginning to settle in. But worry still lurked in her eyes, which wasn’t surprising. It was a terrible strain, not having a home of your own—as Eloise well knew.
Mitch was quiet and calm, but she pondered the old saying that still waters run deep.
He was certainly attracted to Sarah; Eloise was convinced of it, even if the attraction was coloured by concern for the young woman.
Eloise didn’t think Sarah had noticed though, having other things on her mind.
The Christmas activities hadn’t fazed him one bit, and Eloise was sure that Christmas itself wasn’t the issue for him, not in the way it was for her or Bart.
It wasn’t Christmas he was hiding from, but something else.
Then there was Bart. His kindness touched her deeply. That he was able to put his grief to one side to give a young mother and her child a proper Christmas was an inspiration.
It was almost enough to make her believe in the magic of Christmas.
The silence was absolute. No creak from the old house as it settled for the night, no barking of distant dogs, not even the sound of an engine filtering up from the village below.
Three a.m. was the witching hour, and Bart couldn’t sleep. He’d dropped off okay, tired out by the day’s busyness, but he hadn’t been able to remain asleep because he had something on his mind.
So ten past three found him in the guest lounge, nursing a cup of hot milk and staring at the Christmas tree.
The little lights gave off a cosy glow, bathing the room in shades of muted yellow, and the scent of pine hung in the air.
Bart breathed it in, along with the rush of memories the tree evoked.
So many memories.
Nearly forty years’ worth of them.
What would happen to them when he left this house? Would any of them linger, becoming part of its very fabric? Or would he take them all with him? He’d like to think the house wouldn’t forget the people who had lived, loved, and died within its walls.
Bart huffed out a wry breath; he was just being fanciful, brought on by the knowledge that this might be his last Christmas here. For all his bravado with Ross earlier, he wasn’t sure he could carry on running the place on his own.
It had nothing to do with him being too old. Sixty-three was barely middle-aged these days. You heard of people running marathons, sailing around the world, or starting brand-new careers in their sixties and seventies.
It was more to do with the realisation that running this place single-handedly and living here on his own would only serve to make him feel lonelier than he already was.
Sarah, Toby, Mitch, and Eloise had brought the house to life, but they’d soon be gone and he’d be left with a succession of guests with whom he’d have no connection.
Helping Sarah and Toby could well be his swan song, and he couldn’t think of a more fitting way to end his time in this house, and he didn’t think he could have done it without Eloise or Mitch.
Ah yes, Mitch. Eloise was right; he did seem quite taken with Sarah.
And you’re quite taken with Eloise…
The thought slipped into his mind like a draft through a door that had been left ajar, and he shivered at the truth of it.
He was more than taken with her. What he felt for Eloise had gone beyond mere attraction to a lovely woman, and it went beyond liking. It had also gone beyond friendship and was now in the realm of a much deeper emotion.
Bart was starting to fall for her.
And he didn’t have the slightest idea how he was supposed to deal with it.