Page 103 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
‘Gentle now,’ he said to the blond-haired boy, and then to Fiona, ‘She has to make her own decisions. I could have begged her to stay, but what good would that have done?She had towantto stay here, to choose it on her own, and she didn’t.’
‘You’re as scared as she was,’ Fiona said. ‘She should have realized what she had, and you should have stepped out of your comfort zone and flung yourself at her feet. If you love someone, then you have to be prepared to risk your pride for them.’
Santa spread his arms wide. ‘I have no pride left, Fiona, and I don’t even care. I did all of this for her and, even though she’s gone, I’m not going to put my feelings in a box. I’m going to be the best damn Santa I can be, and then I’m going to finish the manor, and then I’m going to—’
‘What’sbest damn Santamean?’ one of the children shouted. ‘Are theremoreSantas?’
Santa and Fiona stared at each other, exchanging panicked looks, and Sophie’s cheeks bunched in a smile.
‘Of course not, darling,’ Fiona said smoothly. ‘This is Santa Claus. He has magic words, you know, to communicate with Felix and Sophie. Isn’t that right, Santa?’
‘Right,’ Santa said in a low voice. ‘Let’s see if I’ve got any presents left, shall we?’
There was a chorus of yes-es, little feet stamping happily, and Sophie felt the relief of a disaster averted. She watched as Santa turned round, angling his body towards her hiding place to pick up the large red sack that was on the ground behind him. He paused, glancing up, and she could see his eyes now, so perfectly Harry, clear and beautiful and with so much warmth and generosity in them: so much love, if you were lucky enough to be chosen by him. And she had been.
She realized she was holding her breath, but after a moment his attention was drawn back to the children, to where Felix had started to nibble one of the little girl’s sleeves, because that goat couldn’t go anywhere without causing a scene.
‘Bye, Harry,’ Sophie whispered. She turned away, wondering if her words would be carried to him on the last, dying gusts of the storm that had almost worn itself out, or if they would dissolve into nothing before they reached him. She strode back to her flat, Clifton padding at her side, leaving the Mistingham Festive Oak Fest, and all the people she’d got to know over the last year, behind.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sophie was woken by her alarm blaring into the darkness, and it took her a few moments to remember where she was. It was Christmas Day, and she was still in Mistingham. She lay on her back, listening to Clifton stirring in his bed under the window, and rubbed a hand over her chest. She thought about what she was doing today, what shehadto do today. It felt bigger, more monumental, than any decision she could remember making in the past.
She made herself a cup of coffee with only the oven light to guide her. The kettle wasn’t hers, but the mug was, the grooves of the handmade ceramic fitting her fingers perfectly as she wrapped them around it. At this time of day, just before the winter dawn, she could see the little fireflies of fishing boats out on the inky water, and she wondered what kind of Christmas they would be having when they returned: taking their fresh catches to their families; local pubs and restaurants waiting for hauls, fish starters for their Christmas Day menus.
Would any service stations be open today, offering turkey sandwiches in spongy white bread, the furthest thing possible from Dexter’s roast chicken doorstops? She let herself have a few more minutes of stillness, before she dragged herself into action mode, getting showered and dressed in her comfiest jeans and a green knitted jumper.
She put on her coat, hat and scarf, then dressed Clifton in the tartan jacket she’d bought him last winter but hadn’t been brave enough to use before now. When she stepped outside, it was so cold that her first inhale was almost painful, and as the sun started to rise, intent on banishing the darkness, she could see wisps of pale pinkish clouds above. She felt the solid weight and sharp corners ofJane Eyretucked against her chest, and tightened her arm around it.
‘You need your jacket today,’ she said to Clifton. He barked up at her, excited by this walk, so early in the morning.
Sophie set off, her feet crunching through the quiet village streets, all the Christmas lights twinkling and dancing, giddily announcing that the day was finally here, even though the shops and arcade, the chippy and ice-cream parlour, would remain firmly locked up today.
Seagulls wheeled above her, cawing plaintively as she took the familiar alley that passed through two buildings, then walked past the row of town houses, past old Mr Carsdale’s, still in darkness and with the curtains drawn. The cold air expanded her lungs, and the sunrise over the sea mocked the LED bulbs with all their fancy colours. The sun was an orb of amber fire, the silver-blue water lit with a pathway of gold that reached the sandy shore, shimmering pearlescent in the dawn light.
‘Look at that,’ Sophie whispered, tears in her eyes as she stopped on the cliff path, facing the water. She picked Clifton up and hugged him tightly, shifting the book so she could keep hold of them both. ‘Just look at it.’ She wondered, fleetingly, if she could stay there forever.
She pulled her gaze away from the rising sun and put Clifton down, determined to reach the highest point of the path, her boots easily finding the right divots to step in, because she’d walked and run this route so many times over the last year. She strode forwards with her little dog at her side, and when she had the lookout in her sights, she saw something else, too: a figure coming towards her. Her breath caught and she stumbled, and she saw his steps falter, too. And then everything was pounding, her feet on the path and her heart in her chest, her pulse racing as if it was desperate to catch up to him.
As they got closer, she drank him in. How tall he was, his shoulders wide in the familiar black jacket, the side of his face kissed by the sun, hair tousled by the breeze. His long legs in dark jeans, his brown, sturdy boots. She tried to picture which soft jumper was under his coat, which one he would have picked for Christmas Day, and swallowed.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, when they were a couple of feet apart.
‘Merry Christmas.’ Harry sounded stunned, incredulous. ‘You’re … here.’
She nodded. ‘It’s a beautiful sunrise.’
He glanced at it, then turned back to her. ‘Are you walking Clifton before you set off?’ He gestured toJane Eyre. ‘May said you were going to give that back, but honestly, Sophie – keep it.’
Sophie took a long, slow breath. This was the hardest thing for her. She summoned all her courage. ‘No, I … That’s not what I was doing.’
‘I was coming to see you.’ He took a step towards her. ‘I thought you’d gone already, but I messaged Dexter this morning and he said he’d seen you last night; that you weren’t leaving until today. I didn’t dare to hope. Everything was such a rush yesterday, because—’
‘Santa and his goat elf are kept pretty busy on Christmas Eve?’ She realized her mistake as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
‘You were there?’
‘I saw you,’ she admitted. Clifton put his paws on Harry’s shins, and Sophie felt her panic fade just a little. ‘I was coming to see you, too.’
