Page 36 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘And some little ones for the corners. You’d be surprised how many “corners” Fiona can find in this market.’
‘It’s fine. I have thousands. I don’t need them all.’
‘The generous spirit of a terrible businesswoman.’
‘You can talk. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard about you doing things for the community this morning. I think they’re petitioning to get you a knighthood.’
His cheeks redden as we walk along in the middle of the lane, dodging shoppers at the stalls on either side, but he doesn’t say anything else.
‘So, magical mince pies, huh?’
‘Aye, and the only thing magical about them is that no one’s died after eating one.’ He glances at me. ‘Yet.’
He looks behind us to check no one’s listening and gives Fergus a wave over his shoulder. ‘Every year, he gives ‘em away to anyone who comes past because he’s long since given up on finding any poor unsuspecting soul gullible enough to actuallypayfor them. His wife used to do all the cooking and he ran the stall, but she passed away eight years ago, and he took over doing both jobs. He got her gingerbread recipe right, but god knows where he’s gone wrong with the mince pie recipe because each year they’re systematically worse than the year before, bless him. He was thinking of quitting a couple of years ago but then Fiona came along and gave him something to stay for.’
I look behind me to see Fergus and Fiona deep in conversation by the bathbomb stall. ‘Why do I get the feeling you have a little something to do with that?’
‘Me? Meddle in pensioners’ love lives?’ He does a gasp of mock indignation. His truck is on the pavement outside the trade entrance, and he swings the crates up into the empty bed and walks round to the driver’s side. ‘I don’t know where you’d get an idea like that.’
‘Yeah, who knows.’ I hop into the passenger side and grin at the way a smile creeps onto his face while he crawls down the main street in Elffield, which is full of people on the pavements, all heading towards the market.
‘What did you wish for?’ he says, out of the blue as we turn onto a country lane surrounded by green fields.
‘Am I allowed to tell you or will that mean it won’t come true?’
‘Do you really think any wish onthatmince pie is going to come true?’
‘For things to get better,’ I say without really thinking about it.
‘What things?’ He pauses. ‘Sorry, that was intrusive and insensitive. It’s nothing to do with me. Most people wish for avoiding a trip to the dentist after one of Fergus’s mince pies. Not getting food poisoning is also a useful wish.’
I grin at the joke, but there’s something about him that makes me feel like I could share anything and he’d understand. ‘I feel like things haven’t been …right… for a couple of years now.’ I struggle to find the right word. ‘It’s why I’m here, why I bought the tree farm. Because I was desperately searching for a way to make things feel right again.’
‘I know that feeling,’ he says quietly.
I wait for him to expand, but he doesn’t, and I’m not sure what else to say without breaking down in tears, and Noel’s seen me cry enough for one forty-eight-hour period.
‘So,’ he says after a long silence, and I realise I’ve just been staring at his hands and the way his forearms flex every time they tighten on the steering wheel. ‘I know why Fiona drags people off for cups of coffee. What strands of gossip do I have to clear up?’
‘Well, the woman who runs the children’s clothing stall’s guinea pig has just had babies but they aren’t sure which male guinea pig is the father, and someone’s hairdresser saw one of her client’s husbands out with another woman, and he said it was his sister but no one believes him.’
He laughs. ‘Yes, and?’
I give him an innocent look.
‘I know Fergus and Fiona. What did they tell you about me?’
‘You were a Londoner once.’
He doesn’t react. ‘Yes, once. And I’m 38, single, my shoe size, the results of my last blood test, the date of my last haircut, the brand of bathroom cleaner I buy every week … I know what they’re like.’
‘You buy bathroom cleaner every week? Who cleans their bathroomthatoften?’
He bursts out laughing. ‘It was a metaphor for their pushy oversharing. I promise I don’t buy bathroom cleanereveryweek.’
I laugh too. ‘Oh, thank god. I’d started to get worried there for a minute.’
His tongue twiddles the lip piercing because it moves, glinting in the autumn sun shining through the window, and I suddenly feel hot and flushed. Thinking about Noel’s tongue is seriously hazardous to health.
