Page 16 of Every Christmas Eve
I look at my mother, who is tutting and shaking her head.
‘What?’ I ask, handing her the poster as if it’s burning my fingers. ‘I said I’d buy tickets, didn’t I? I’m not that hard-hearted.’
Mum licks her lips slowly, staring over her glasses, then shrugs with nonchalance.
‘You seem nervy, Lou. Or jumpy. Or hyper, maybe. What’s going on?’ she asks, with a look that reminds me of when I was in trouble as a child. ‘Is it due to the slight possibility that Ben Heaney might make some magical appearance like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve? Was there something between you two you’ve never told me about? Something deeper? Something moreserious?’
‘God, no!’ I exclaim, cursing myself for telling my mother a white lie, but I have my reasons. The main one being I still can’t bear to think about it, never mind talk about it. ‘I’d hardly recognise him if he walked through the door.’
OK, that was more than a white lie. In fact, it was veering much closer to an out-and-out black lie, if there’s such an expression. I’d know Ben Heaney from a thousand miles away. I’d pick him out of a line-up in a heartbeat.
‘I can’t help but think you’re being negative about something extremely positive in our community because of an old boyfriend,’ she mumbles. ‘Really, Lou. I do expect better from you on this occasion.’
Now, that stung. Both of those statements stung.
‘Mum, he was never my real boyfriend.’
‘Your lover, then,’ she says.
‘He wasn’t only my lover either.’
Oh, my heart. Oh, how he was so much more than that.
‘You’re very close and intimate friend, then,’ she says in exasperation. ‘Deny all you want, but I’ve a hunch that you two had something very strong going on, whatever you want to call it. But it was a long time ago, so it’s probably a good idea to be a lot more mature if you can manage it at all.’
My stomach twists and turns. My throat goes dry.
‘Mum, we were no more than kids back then, so of course it isn’t about Ben Heaney,’ I say, wishing we didn’t have to talk about this. ‘Now, pass me those scissors, please. Bridie from the Women’s Institute is picking up her centrepieces in less than half an hour. We’ve been held back and distracted for far too long as it is this morning.’
It’s almost walking distance to the village from my house, but it’s a very busy road and since I’ve been known to take copious amounts of foliage and flowers home with me to keep me busy in the evenings, and since the weather here isn’t exactly tropical in summer, never mind in December, it’s much more sensible for me to drive back and forth.
That’s not to mention the personal bouquet deliveries, which was intentionally part of the service I brought to Buds and Beans since I opened in the summer, straight out of a very creative world in New York City, thinking all my dreams would come true when I finally got back home. There’s nothing to beat seeing someone’s face light up when an unexpected bunch of flowers is delivered to their door and into their hands.
A surprise birthday gift, a way to sayCongratulations, orI’m sorry, orI love you. A bunch of flowers can brighten up anyone’s day, and it’s an honour for me to witness it on an almost daily basis.
But whatarethe dreams I’m chasing by coming back here? I often wonder. What am I searching for? Is my mother right? Do I want company? Do I need something or someone to go home to in the evenings?
Should I get a puppy?
No, I don’t need an animal to comfort me. I don’t need anyone or anything. I’ve always been more than happy with my own company, and I’m well used to that by now, even in New York when Gracie moved across the state to study English three years ago. My small business here is ticking along enough to keep the wolf from my door, and I’ve the most beautiful home I could ever have imagined, tucked away in a rural haven with my mother and grandmother close by.
But I miss my daughter. God, I miss her so much.
I don’t have a definite date yet, but I’m counting down the days until I see her for Christmas.
If I see her for Christmas.
The sight of Katie’s Cottage coming into view lifts my heart like it always does, and I feel a tiny bit better by the time I’ve pulled up outside my bright yellow gates and left the engine still running and the lights on so I can see where to open the latch.
No matter how many times I’ve done so, this place never fails to excite me when I get back here. It was never expected to reach the market, having stayed in the same family for generations, so to say it was a catch is an understatement.Gracie wanted to show her boyfriend, Sam, where she originally came from before we escaped to New York when she was a toddler. Up popped Katie’s Cottage for sale, as if it was meant to be. I thought she was winding me up at first when she called me over to come and see it on her laptop.
‘It’s like something from a chocolate box, Mom,’ she cried out with delight. ‘Look at the thatched roof, oh wow! And it dates way back to 1820. Imagine how steeped in history it must be. Aww, it’s like stepping back in time. I love it. I really do!’
And I love it too. There was no need for Gracie to tell me its history. I’d been waiting on this moment to arrive since I was a young girl.
Katie’s Cottage is my very own little slice of heaven. It’s a rustic blend of old and new, with whitewashed walls, terracotta-tiled floors and even a fully functioning fireplace in my bedroom, which could be highly romantic in the right circumstances. For me, though, there’s simply nothing more I love than slipping into my most comfortable clothes, putting a match to the fire in the sitting room and reading a good book in the old-fashioned floral armchair left for me by the former owners.
My Celtic harp, a gift to me from my late father on my sixteenth birthday, sits proudly in a corner by the window, though I don’t play it at all these days. I used to find such solace in playing music, but these days it’s more like an ornament than an instrument, which makes my lip tremble if I think about it too much.
