Page 24 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘I used to.’ Her laugh was sad. ‘Until my wedding day.’
‘A lot of people would say that you should absolutely put yourself first on your wedding day, even if that means not going through with it.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Do you think it was the right decision?’
‘Right decision, wrong execution. I’m glad I ended up in Mistingham, though, and I’m so lucky to have Birdie.’
Dexter crossed his arms. ‘She’s almost like family for us, too. She was a huge help, and comfort, after Rae died. Lucy adores her and so do I, even if she is teaching my daughter about spells and potions.’
‘Harmless ones, though. We’ve been meditating, drinking fennel tea, and even if they’re placebos, I’m a lot calmer than I was. And I’ve never seen her with frogs’ legs or baby birds or eye of newt in the kitchen, if that helps.’
‘Good to know,’ Dexter said with a grin. ‘What are you going to do while you’re here? You’re not going to spend all your time wallowing.’
She might have been imagining it, but she thought he flicked his gaze up and down her pyjama-clad, blanket-clad body. There wasn’t anything to see, but she still shivered. ‘Hey, I’m allowed alittlewallow, aren’t I?’
‘A little one. But you know what’s better than wallowing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Cake. Come and get a big slice of cake, or a Danish, or a pie, from the bakery. I have to get back, but I expect to see you there soon.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’
‘Yup.’ He stood up. ‘I will be very disappointed if I don’t.’
‘Right then.’ Imogen returned his smile. This was the sort of negotiation she could get behind; one that encouraged cake instead of wallowing in pyjamas. ‘I guess I’ll see you in a bit, then.’
‘I guess you will,’ Dexter said, and strode out of the living room. Imogen heard the intrusion of bird song as he opened the back door, then the return of quiet as he closed it gently behind him.
Chapter Ten
Over the next ten days, Imogen found that going out every morning to get something from Dexter’s bakery was the best motivation for getting out of her pyjamas. She thought of all the effort she’d put into fitting into her wedding dress, the faint look of scorn that Daphne, the fitter, had given her when, six weeks before the big day, she hadn’t lost any weight since the previous fitting. She remembered the hardyankas Daphne had done the corset bodice up extra tightly, the wash of shame she’d felt at not being aperfect bride.
But so what? She had wriggled perfectly well into the dress even if she hadn’t achieved waif-like status, and now she didn’t have to worry about it at all. Besides, even in November, Mistingham offered her so many reasons to go outside: seeing what shades the sea had adopted that particular day; walking along the path that abutted Harry and Sophie’s estate and saying hello to Felix, trying to anticipate which jumper he would be wearing; seeing whatnew stock Fiona had in at Hartley Country Apparel. She’d ordered a few winter-appropriate things online from her favourite clothes shops, and was relieved that she had some suitable clothing, rather than items destined for a hot, sun-filled honeymoon, or her gran’s castoffs.
She had helped the others distribute the mistletoe around the village, knocking on doors and handing out large bunches to anyone they saw in the street. Most people had been delighted, only a couple had seemed confused or nonplussed about the offer of free decorations to tie in with Sophie and Harry’s wedding. She’d also talked to Jazz about the toddler groups she’d run at the library in London, and Jazz had invited her to come to a Story Time session, to see how it worked.
Most importantly, there was the impetus to go to Mistingham Bakery, because Dexter hadn’t been wrong that day in Birdie’s living room, and sampling his cakes and pastries was a whole lot better than sitting inside feeling sorry for herself.
She reached the welcoming bit of grass in front of the bakery, where there was a metal water bowl for dogs and, quite often, a queue. Imogen preferred it when it wasn’t busy, when she could exchange a few words with Dexter, who was often behind the counter, serving with the other staff members – Mandy and Luke were the two she knew the names of – but she also tried not to linger too long.
‘Hi Imogen.’ It was Mandy, startling her out of the musings that had also become a part of her walks.
‘Hey Mandy.’ She was in her early forties, Imogen guessed, had three children all at the local primary school, and a husband who worked at an insurance firm inNorwich. The bakery was her way of being useful now that her children were at school, and she talked about Dexter like he hung the moon. ‘He gave me a chance,’ she told Imogen the second time they met. ‘No retail experience, nothing to recommend me except a love of brioche, and now he’s letting me work out the back sometimes, making the pastries.’
Now Mandy smiled at Imogen. ‘Off on your walk?’ she asked, gesturing to her green coat, which Imogen had fully adopted.
‘I am. At least the sun’s out today.’ That was a bit generous, but the sky was pale grey rather than thick with roiling clouds that promised rain. These ones suggested a light smattering, at most.
‘Apparently the east coast is going to be submerged in snow, right over Christmas.’ Mandy waved her tongs around, bits of sugar and pastry flying. The bakery was a comforting place, with buttercup-yellow walls, the mingling scents of baking bread and good coffee. It was also virtually impossible to leave without buying something.
‘That sounds unlikely,’ Imogen said. ‘What with climate change, you’d think it would be warm and wet. Snow at Christmas doesn’t happen anymore.’
‘The universe is grumbling at us,’ said a man behind Imogen in the queue. He was tall, with a ramrod-straight back and a neat, brush-like moustache. ‘It’s the UK’s version of an earthquake or erupting volcano.’
‘Big snow. Oooh.’ Imogen waggled her hands, but lost her smile when the man didn’t chuckle.
