Page 6 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘Maybe when you see me in my usual clothes, you’ll realize I’m not.’
‘Maybe,’ Lucy chirped, hugging her puppy to her chest.
Dexter carried Imogen’s suitcase to the front door. It was a typical Norfolk cottage, the surface rough with flint chunks, like an elaborate sort of pebbledash. But it was also alive, with a jasmine clinging to the walls, plants she had no hope of naming creating some kind of wild order in the tiny front garden and – she knew – filling the large back garden, where her grandmother cultivated flowers and vegetables and herbs. Even with winter approaching, it was overrun by nature, as if Birdie was an enchantress, coaxing life out of places where it was reluctant to grow. Trick-or-treaters might feel apprehensive, worried they’d stumbled upon a genuine witch’s cottage, but she knew she would find refuge inside.
The front door opened with a long creak that was burned into Imogen’s memory, and a familiar voice said, ‘What’s this? I wasn’t expecting a late-afternoon bread delivery.’
‘It’s a different sort of delivery, Birdie,’ Dexter said haltingly. He gestured for Imogen to come and stand besidehim. As she did, she realized that they looked like a couple – albeit dressed for very different occasions – standing on the doorstep.
Imogen’s grandmother was short and squat, with steel-grey curls that shimmered silver in certain lights, and a round, rosy-cheeked face. Expressive eyebrows arched over her striking dark blue eyes, which were the same colour as Imogen’s, and she was wearing a flowing dress in emerald green, with gold threaded through it, and a purple knitted shawl.
‘Hi Gran,’ Imogen said, when Birdie hadn’t managed to do anything other than stare.
‘Are you married?’ Birdie’s brows drew together. ‘This is Dexter. You didn’t marry him, did you?’
Imogen closed her eyes for a beat. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t go through with it.’
‘You told Edmund you weren’t going to marry him?’ Was that relief in her voice? If it was, Imogen was about to squash it.
‘I should have done that. It would have made everything a lot easier. Harder too, in some ways, but also … probably in the long term, aloteasier.’
‘Youdidn’ttell him?’
She thought of the conversation she’d overheard the day before, of all the different, sliding-doors scenarios she could have put into action from that moment. ‘I walked into the back of the church with Dad, and I … saw him. I saw them all, and I ran.’
The silence that followed was punctuated by distant shouts from elsewhere in the village, and Imogen realized she hadn’t said that much to Dexter or Lucy. Perhaps theythought she’d had a difficult but necessary conversation with her husband-to-be, then left without bothering to get changed.
‘I am a genuine runaway bride.’ She aimed for jovial. ‘Goodness,’ Birdie said. ‘You don’t do things by halves, do you Imogen?’
‘Can I come in, at least? Even if you’re angry with me?’
‘Oh, my dear.’ Her face softened. ‘What good would anger do right now? Let’s get you in the warm, find you some pyjamas.’ She bustled back from the doorway, and Imogen climbed the step before turning back to Dexter. Everything she thought of to say felt inadequate.
‘Bye, then,’ she settled on.
‘Take care of yourself,’ Dexter said. ‘And if you need a cake of any kind, a commiserative Danish, then—’
‘Dad runs the bakery,’ Lucy chipped in, as if he hadn’t rescued her in a van withMistingham Bakeryemblazoned on the side.
‘I expect I’ll need lots of cake over the next few days,’ Imogen said. ‘Once I’ve got out of this dress, anyway.’ She put her hands on the waist of the constricting bodice. ‘Thank you again.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ Dexter said. ‘You look beautiful, by the way. Though I don’t know if that’s a lot of help at the moment.’
‘Oh, I … Thank you.’ They held eye contact for a second, then she watched him sling his arm around Lucy’s shoulders as they walked back to the van.
Imogen gently closed the door and turned around to lean against it.
‘I’m so sorry for turning up like this.’
‘Shouldn’t you be on your way to the Maldives?’ Birdie placed Imogen’s suitcase at the bottom of the stairs. Despite looking like a witch’s cottage from outside, the inside was bright and airy, with eclectic furniture and furnishings in a clash of cozy colours. Paintings and embroidery hung on the walls alongside photographs with a sepia tint; glass birds and moons were displayed on shelves; books sat haphazardly on bookcases. It felt like a warm embrace, and on this October evening, lamps oozing light from every corner, Imogen couldn’t think of anywhere she’d rather be.
‘Mauritius,’ she said, ‘but I picked Mistingham instead.’
‘Darling.’ Birdie closed the distance, wrapping Imogen in a tight hug. She smelt of patchouli. ‘I am so sorry. Whatever has gone on, it had to have been bad for you to do this. I thought your course was set.’
Imogen rested her head on her grandmother’s shoulder, having to stoop to do it. ‘I don’t really know what happened,’ she said, except that wasn’t wholly true, was it? ‘I just … couldn’t.’
‘No need to talk it out now,’ Birdie said soothingly. ‘Anything useful in that suitcase of yours?’
