CHAPTER NINETEEN
Christmas Day
The morning is as bright as a Dreamsicle against my closed eyes. Jake stretches, murmuring something incomprehensible against my temple. Then he’s up from the bed, taking all the warmth of the room with him. I nestle deeper in the quilts and try to cling to sleep.
Jake tiptoes around the cottage. Water trickles from the bathroom faucet as he brushes his teeth.
There’s a rustle of a bag, a crinkle of paper.
He puts the kettle on, and I hear the dainty tink of empty teacups snugged into saucers.
Then he comes back, crouching in front of the hearth, nurturing last night’s embers into the crackle of a merry fire.
He lets out a barely audible grunt as he gets to his feet, and I hear a tiny creak in his knees. It makes my heart ache a little.
I open my eyes to watch him return to the kitchen. Lacy swirls of frost on the windows melt like tears down sun-warmed glass. Beautiful. Temporary.
I’m a year older today. And a day closer to leaving Jake.
I’m not sure which one is more depressing.
Sitting up in bed, I stretch my arms overhead and softly say, “Merry Christmas, Jake,” because I know how much he loves this day.
He pours the tea and joins me in front of the fire.
I criss-cross my legs in front of me and bundle the quilts around my waist and my lap, then I gratefully take the tea and breathe in the spiced steam.
Even with a swirl of milk, it smells delightfully strong, scented with cinnamon, cloves and creamy citrus.
Jake has something small tucked behind him. He reaches over to nudge a lock of hair behind my ear, letting a knuckle trail down my cheek before he withdraws his hand. But he doesn’t wish me Happy Christmas back. Softly, he says instead, “Happy birthday, Evie.”
My insides warm, my throat tightens. Jake’s eyes are gem-bright as he watches my face.
They remind me of an Adirondack lake in winter—clear, honey-colored water, tinted green by ancient pines and balsam reflected from shore.
Sometimes shot with gold when sunshine glazes the surface.
I’ll never be able to visit one of those lakes again without remembering this moment.
Jake hands me a flat rectangular box wrapped in ivory damask paper and a cream velvet ribbon. I set my tea aside on the hearthstone so I can hold the bundle against my chest with both hands. I give him a playful, stern look. “I thought we agreed, no gifts.”
“This isn’t—”
“I’m kidding, Jake,” I laugh. “I got you something, too.”
“Love, this isn’t a Christmas gift,” he says gently. “It’s a birthday gift.”
That lump in my throat is back, this time spreading deep into my chest. I want to savor this moment, slowly lifting the folded edges of the beautiful paper until it falls open on its own.
It’s a hardback book. A very old one. Bound in faded blue cloth, with a castle vignette on the front. There’s some discoloration on the edges, and light fraying at the corners.
It’s a first edition of I Capture the Castle. “Jake,” I whisper.
“I know you’ve read it many times. There’s some new material in this one.”
As I open the cover, an envelope slips into my lap. I open it slowly. It’s a handwritten letter by Dodie Smith, the author, to one of her friends. All about how the book came to be.
It’s extraordinary.
“Jake, this is—”
“Do you like it?” He sets his own tea aside.
“It’s the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.” I lean over and kiss him, long and slow.
Smiling, he mumbles against my lips. “What’s this about a gift for me, then?”
I grimace. Compared to his exquisitely unexpected present, my gift for him is ridiculous.
Jake looks at me sideways. “Are you OK?”
With my thumbnail between my teeth, I get up from the bed to get his present from my bag.
His eyes light up as I hand it down to him.
A blush floods my cheeks as I settle back into the quilts.
He opens the small box and takes out the mug inside, holding it up to the light like it’s the Holy Grail.
Painted on the side is a cartoon alligator wearing an elaborate white barrister’s wig, and the words “SEE YOU LATER, LITIGATOR.”
Jake’s laugh is loud and delighted. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.
I cover my face. “You’re not a barrister. You don’t even drink coffee at home—”
Jake sets the mug aside so he can lift my hands away. He nudges my chin up to look me in the eyes, and says, “I love it, Evie. Truly.”
* * *
When we arrive at the house, classic Christmas carols stream from the vintage record player in the hall.
The air is toasty, a tapestry of rich roasting foods, fresh coffee, and mingled traces of perfume.
Everyone greets us at the door, something bubbly in pretty antique flutes in hand.
They look like mimosas to me, but I get a very quick education—here, they call them Buck’s fizz.
And they’re way generous on the champagne.
“Happy Christmas!” Indi says.
“Nice of you to join us,” says Genny, while Ewan gives us a warm smile.
“We shoveled the path hours ago,” Miles says. “We were starting to think you’d driven off in the night.”
We’ve just entered the kitchen on the way to the living room when there’s another commotion at the front door. We all flow back into the front hall like a merry swarm of bees to greet the newcomers.
“We’re here!” A woman with pink cheeks and a chic shag of thick ginger hair stomps snow from her boots. “But only just.” She’s breathless, somehow managing to carry a bundle of presents, a rolling luggage and a red-cheeked, annoyed-looking baby.
Behind her, another woman says, “If it ever snows like this again at Christmas, we’re staying in London.
Sorry, darlings.” She’s nearly as tall as Jake, with the same dark hair and fair complexion as Miles.
She must be Cait, and the other woman must be Maeve.
She’s similarly loaded down, also carrying a baby, a bulging diaper bag and another bundle of presents.
“You act like we just endured an Antarctic expedition,” scoffs a third woman. She’s also tall, and her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I’ve had mammograms more stressful than that drive.” This must be Gladys.
The moment after Cait and Maeve drop their bags and pass presents to Helena, they hand the babies to Jake, one by one, muttering, “Happy Christmas, love,” barely glancing at him.
Jake follows. “Which is which?”
Genny gasps. Indi tosses a walnut at his back. And Helena says, “Honestly, Jake.”
“What? The last time I saw them, they were all pink and wrinkly. Now they’re all pink and … less wrinkly.”
“Hazel is the wee one. She’s three months. Watch your hair. She’ll yank your eyebrows straight through your skull.”
“Terra is the one who looks like she’d like to headbutt you in the nose,” Maeve says.
The bigger baby looks at Jake with an indignant scowl, staring him down with the most impressive poker face I’ve ever seen. “Why are your children so angry, Cait?” Indi says.
Cait chuckles. “She’s a very tough customer, Jake—”
Jake makes a silly face, and little Terra’s face lights up. She coos at him like a little bird.
“Well, then. I stand corrected.”
Over his shoulder, Jake flashes me a diamond smile, and I save a snapshot of the moment in my memory.
* * *
Wine has been poured, side dishes are bubbly from the oven, and a turkey with crackling golden skin sits at the center of the dining-room table.
Helena stands with hands clasped to her chest. “What a perfect, perfect day. Welcome home, my loves.” She turns to me.
“And a very special welcome to you, Evie. We are so very happy you’re here.
” She raises her brows and tips her head down.
“A little bird told me that today is not just Christmas.”
Under the table, Jake lays a warm hand on my thigh.
Everyone around the table smiles, warmly murmuring “Happy birthday.” Despite wanting to crawl under the tablecloth, I meet their smiles with one of my own.
I look to Jake last, pressing my lips between my teeth to keep from coming entirely unglued.
“Thank you,” I mouth to him. Louder, I repeat it for everyone else. “Thank you so much.”
“Shall we toast?” Helena lifts her wine and holds her head high. “To properly celebrated birthdays. To Christmas. To family.” Glasses joyfully clink as everyone echoes, “To family.”
Each table setting has a small tube-shaped gift placed above the plate.
They’re the length of a soda can, but a bit narrower, with ribbons cinched at each end to create frills of festive wrapping paper.
Before reaching for the food, everyone picks up the little bundle in front of them, grinning and chattering.
The excitement is palpable, but I have no idea why.
Jake leans towards me and says, “Christmas crackers,” but it just makes me more confused.
I mirror what the others do, crossing my arms in front of me to make a human chain, each of us linked by our hands on opposite ends of a wrapped cracker. “Pull, on the count of three,” Jake tells me, as Helena counts down, “Three, two, one—”
I startle at the first pop, and it’s followed by lively little cracks around the table.
Trinkets tumble out of the torn-open tubes.
A miniature screwdriver in mine, a plastic jumping frog in Jake’s, bottle openers, whistles and keyrings in others.
There are also tiny scrolls with truly awful jokes written on them (mine reads, “What do you call a flatulent Santa’s helper?
A smelf”), and a colorful piece of folded paper I’m not sure what to do with.
Jake is unfolding his, so I watch to catch on.
It’s a paper crown. He sets it on his head and grins, nodding to mine in my hands.
“Go on, then.” Around the table, everyone else is arranging their own on their heads.