The Twelve Dates of Christmas

by Jenny Bayliss

  She found Mac at his kitchen table doing the crossword. He invited her in for coffee but she didn’t have time to stop, so instead he walked with her to the green and carried two of the Christmas cakes for her, which were surprisingly heavy.

  “He was married then,” he said.

  Kate groaned.

  “How did you hear?” she asked.

  “I bumped into Barry when I was picking up my paper this morning,” he said.

  “I didn’t know,” said Kate.

  “’Course you didn’t, love.”

  They reached the green.

  “Why don’t I take those into the café for you?” said Mac.

  “Would you?” said Kate. “I’d really appreciate that. Thanks, Dad.”

  Mac smiled and Kate handed over the other cake.

  “I don’t suppose you’d get me coffee while you’re in there?” Kate asked.

  “Having withdrawals?” joked Mac.

  Kate filled three shopping bags with groceries and managed to tick everything off her list and then some. There was no escaping the grilling from Evelyn about Richard, but Kate had been prepared for it.

  “He’ll get his!” said Evelyn eventually. “Dirty rat. They always come unstuck in the end.”

  Kate wasn’t so sure about that. She suspected Richard was a professional philanderer. He probably had multiple phones, one for each woman.

  “Matt’s got quite a bruise across his knuckles,” said Evelyn.

  “Yeah, well, Richard took a swing at him,” said Kate.

  “I should think Matt would have wanted to punch him on the nose even if he hadn’t swung first,” said Evelyn.

  Mac returned with three coffees.

  “Leave those,” he said to Kate as she hauled her shopping bags up and tried to balance her coffee. “I’ll drop them round later,” he said. “I want to check on the sprout trees.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Kate.

  “Yes, love,” said Mac. “Leave them with me.”

  Kate thanked him and left. Her dad showed no signs of leaving the shop anytime soon. Evelyn had pulled him up a chair next to hers by the counter. Kate looked back in through the window and saw her dad pull this morning’s crossword out of his pocket and lay it out in front of them. Evelyn put her glasses on and the two of them leaned over the paper, sipping their coffees. Kate smiled to herself.

  She looked over toward the Pear Tree and for a second, she could have sworn she saw Matt at the window looking back. But in another second he was gone; it must have been a trick of the light.

  She walked home slowly, sipping her coffee and trying to soak in as much of this place as she could. She wished she could store it up in her soul, like charging a battery, so she could use it to sustain herself when she left.

  * * *

  • • • • •

  The vineyard was set on thirty-five acres of undulating slopes nestled in a deep valley; in the summer it caught the best of the sun all day long and you could easily be fooled into thinking you were in southern France.

  Today the view was row upon row of snow-capped wooden stakes stretching far into the distance, like some great wooden army waiting for orders. The empty vines, like frozen hair, curled over and around the stakes in white, knotty tresses.

  Forest-covered hills grew up on every side, with leaves of ice and pearl, like waves with white horses rising to the sky. The sky brooded, mirroring the metaphorical cloud that hung just above Kate’s head.

  The car park was at the top of the valley. Kate arrived on foot, puffed and red-cheeked, in time to jump into one of the Land Rovers that ferried the guests to the winery. It was a bumpy ride, but Kate was grateful for it; it was a darn sight better than walking.

  The Lightning Strikes reps stood outside the shop with their clipboards, the daters by now well versed with the drill. Kate recognized her date immediately from his picture.

  Thomas—a thirty-five-year-old, twice-divorced carpenter from Surrey—was a well-built chap, with a receding hairline and a strong jaw. He didn’t look like the sort of man who was comfortable in casual attire and kept worrying at his suede desert boots, which were soaking up the snow like blotting paper.

  Kate ticked them both off in the register—since the rep was having trouble holding the pen in her mittens—and went over to introduce herself. Thomas had the confident shrug of a car salesman and the accent of a man who’d tried very hard to lose his geezer roots.

  “I’m not familiar with this neck of the woods,” said Thomas. “Normally don’t venture so far south of the big smoke.”

  “Well then, you’re in for a treat,” said Kate. “This is a very pretty part of the world.”

  Thomas looked unconvinced.

  He kissed Kate on both cheeks, and Kate noticed he wore a tweed waistcoat and jacket under his Barbour coat. He was handsome and stylish. Kate found the flecks of gray at his temples and above his ears rather attractive. And his eyes were a striking shade of blue.

  There must be something wrong with him, Kate thought, and then berated herself for being so cynical; Richard had left his mark on her.

  “Do you know wine?” Thomas asked. “Or do you just drink it?”

  “I like wine,” said Kate. “And I know what wine I like to drink.”

  “I’ll take that as a no,” said Thomas.

  “You may take it any way you wish,” said Kate.

  She smiled sweetly at him and decided it might be fun to spend the afternoon sparring with Thomas.

  The wine-tasting experience began with a tour—albeit brief because of the freezing weather—of the vineyards, where their guide spoke about viticulture and how soil acidity and mineral levels in different regions affect the vines.

  He talked about the challenges and perks of growing vines in England, and Thomas had an opinion on almost every point. Kate could see people rolling their eyes, and she felt embarrassed for Thomas and for herself as his date, as if having been assigned to him made her a know-it-all by proxy.

  There followed a warmer tour around the winery itself. They found themselves in a large room with a mixture of large steel canisters and wooden barrels, which felt sterile against the wildness outside. The gleaming floor tiles and shiny steel tubes gave a strange science-fiction vibe to the ancient art of winemaking.

  Thomas made ahmmm noises and said “Yes, yes” in agreement with the vintner as he talked. Kate noticed a space forming around them.

  The guide explained the wine-making process, and Thomas helpfully added one or two tips of his own. The guide smiled and his left eye twitched. Thomas had been to several wineries in France and Italy, and he felt it was important to regale the group with the differences he’d found between them.

  “Why don’t we let the nice man tell us about this winery?” said Kate quietly.

  “Knowledge should be shared,” said Thomas. “I’m taking nothing away from this good man’s expertise.” He gestured to the vintner, who nodded and smiled graciously. “I’m just sharing what I know to enhance the experience.”

  He then went on to cast doubt over whether an English wine could really match those made in a more Mediterranean climate. The vintner’s mouth thinned to a fine line, and Kate wondered if he was thinking about shoving Thomas into one of the steel barrels.

  The winemaker led them down into a long, thin, brightly lit cellar with an arched ceiling and wine racks stretching its length. He gratefully passed the baton to the sommelier and left, shaking his head. Kate was glad for the winemaker that he was surrounded by alcohol; he looked like a man who needed a drink.

  A long wooden bench ran down the center of the cellar and the group positioned themselves around it, though Kate noticed they left a fair gap around her and Thomas. Although she had barely spoken, it seemed Kate would be given as wide a berth as her date.

  The sommelier
walked reverentially up and down past the wine racks, pulling out bottles here and there and placing them carefully on the bench. There were rows of wineglasses on the bench and ten metal buckets on the stone floor, and Kate guessed these were for spitting out the wines tasted; she hoped the spitting out was optional.

  The bottles were opened and an explanation given for each before they were poured. Kate followed the instructions for optimum appreciation; she swirled the wine around the glass and watched to see whether it lapped the sides thickly or swished without a trace and how fast the droplets rolled down the glass.

  “It’s all about the viscosity,” said Thomas. “This is how we tell if a wine has legs or not.”

  The sommelier smiled graciously.

  “Very good,” he said. “I see we have a connoisseur in our midst.”

  Kate cringed. Thomas beamed.

  “I dabble,” he said. “I travel a lot with work, meet a lot of important people. It pays to know your Sauvignon from your Malbec.”

  Next was smelling the wine. Kate put her nose into the glass. It smelled like wine. Others in the group had a finer-tuned nose than hers. They threw out words like lavender and black currants and the sommelier smiled, pleased.

  “Good,” he said. “Blexford Manor grows lavender commercially nearby this estate, and the scent affects the vines. The same with the black currants; the hedgerows are full of them, and it all has an effect.”

  “I’m getting the sharp scent of buttercups in a beer garden,” said Thomas. “And a hint of Victorian petticoat.”

  Kate laughed but saw that Thomas had his eyes closed, his nose thrust back into the glass again. She could see couples mouthing Victorian petticoat to one another and sniggering. She felt a bit sorry for Thomas. She sniffed at the wine again. It still smelled like wine.

  They moved on to the actual tasting and Kate was confident that her sense of taste would be better than her sense of smell. As instructed, she sucked the wine in and let it sit on her tongue before swirling it around her mouth. She had swallowed her mouthful before she realized Thomas was chivalrously holding the bucket for her to spit into.

  “Oh,” she said, looking to the sommelier. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “It doesn’t feel natural to be spitting out a good wine, does it? Toothpaste is for spitting, wine is for swallowing.”

  There was a ripple of laughter in the cellar as several others confessed to having swallowed their wine too.

  “If you’re not driving,” said the sommelier, “then fill your boots. It is Christmas, after all.”

  Another taste (followed by another swallow) and the sommelier asked for a response to what they’d tasted. A few people, including Kate, said berries, blackberries in particular. Some said apples; one person came up with baked plums, which delighted the sommelier as the estate had both an apple and a plum orchard.

  “I’m sensing a floral petulance at the back of my tongue,” Thomas announced. “Yes. I’ve come across it before in Italy. This is a rich wine; I’d drink it with steak or venison. That sour note of crushed dandelion leaves stops it from being too gaudy.”

  Kate drained her glass and prayed for drunkenness. The sommelier opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again, unable to summon a fitting response.

  There were four more wines to taste and none of Kate’s made it into the bucket. Thomas had a confident comment on each wine: the food it should be served with, the optimum serving temperature, and where else in the world he had experienced a wine similar.

  His statements with regard to the aromas and flavor notes he detected in each wine were decisive and at times so surreal that Kate wondered if he’d eaten a stash of magic mushrooms before he’d arrived:

  “Warm elastic bands around a postman’s wrists.”

  “Poppy nectar on a bee’s wing.”

  “Grass squashed beneath tent canvas with a cheeky note of quince jam.”

  And: “Cornflowers and Earl Grey tea spilled on hot tarmac at dusk.”

  “You should be a writer,” said Kate. “You have a very vivid imagination.”

  “I know,” said Thomas. “I’ve written seven books in my head. When I get the time I’ll write them out and get them published.”

  “I’ll be sure to look out for them,” said Kate.

  Despite his vast knowledge on every subject, Kate found him to be quite entertaining company. And she couldn’t fault his manners. He was attentive and polite and made every effort to ensure that Kate was the benefactor of all his attentions; admittedly he spoke to her as though she were his favorite pet beagle, but he had served as diverting company for the afternoon and at this point in the Twelve Dates proceedings, she’d call that a win.

  At the end of the tasting session they were led into the shop, where cheese and crackers—presumably to soak up some of the wine—had been laid out on tables dotted about the room. The shelves were wall to wall and wine laden.

  Kate was a little giddy and a lot tipsy. She allowed Thomas to be gallant and take her around the shop and pick out six bottles of wine for her to buy for Christmas.

  As they waited outside for the Land Rovers to take them back up the hill, Kate was comfortably warm in her wine jacket. Thomas offered to drive her home but Kate politely declined.

  “Do you think I might see you again?” asked Thomas.

  Kate smiled and patted his arm.

  “I don’t think so, Thomas,” she said. “But thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”

  Thomas shrugged. He didn’t seem overly upset.

  One of the reps was heading to Blexford Manor to help clean up after another gingerbread house session, so Kate got a lift with her instead.

  “How did it go?” asked the rep as they drove away from the vineyard.

  “It was good fun,” said Kate.

  “Do you think you’ll see him again?” she asked.

  “No,” said Kate. “He wasn’t really my type.”

  “How about the twelfth date?” asked the rep. “Have you submitted your final choice yet?”

  “Yes,” said Kate. “All sorted.”

  “Ooh!” said the rep. “That sounds promising. Could he be the one?”

  “Not unless I sprout testicles and a hairy chest between now and then,” Kate replied.

  THE TWELFTH DATE OF CHRISTMAS

  • • • • •

  Endings and Beginnings

  A sharp rap at the front door at seven a.m. found Kate stumbling down the stairs with her fluffy dressing gown pulled tightly around her. It was Andy with her grocery order. He beamed at her. He had the same crooked smile as his father that made the Knitting Sex Kittens swoon. Kate smiled back, making sure she didn’t breathe morning breath over him.

  “Morning, Kate!” said Andy. “Any chance of a coffee?”

  “You’re perky,” said Kate.

  She backed out of the doorway to let Andy in.

  “I’m a farmer,” said Andy by way of an explanation. “Early to you is nearly lunchtime to me.”

  Kate switched on the coffee machine and grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. Andy thrust his travel mug at her; the remnants of an earlier coffee coated the bottom of the mug.

  “Are you begging coffee off all your customers?” Kate asked.

  “Only the ones with coffee machines,” said Andy. “I can’t bear the instant stuff.”

  “You’ll be high as a kite by the end of the day,” said Kate.

  “I’ll need to be,” said Andy. “The van can’t get through the snow and I can’t fit all the orders in the Land Rover. I’m going to be running up and down from the farm all day.”

  Kate looked out the window.

  “Whoa,” she said.

  The sky had finally given up its load in the night. The snow reached the bowl of the birdbath in the garden. All that could be see
n of her dad’s sprout trees was their green petal tips. The world outside was still.

  Kate put a double shot in Andy’s mug. She paid him what she owed plus a tip for his troubles, handed him a large tin of biscuits from Liberty’s for the family, and made him promise to drive carefully.

  “I’ll see you at the caroling!” Andy shouted over his shoulder.

  Kate waved. Her smile was noncommittal.

  She had just pulled on an oversized Christmas sweater—showcasing nine galloping reindeer pulling a very jolly Santa on his sleigh—and jeans, when the front door clicked shut and her dad called up the stairs.

  Together they harvested the snow-clad vegetables, wrapped them in newspaper, and stashed them in wooden crates in the old coal shed, along with the veg Andy had delivered. Mac took a sled out of the shed and laid the turkey and the ham on it, ready to take back to his cottage.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be coming to the caroling this year?” he asked.

  “No, Dad,” said Kate.

  “You know you two will have to make some sort of peace before you leave,” he said.

  “Have you been talking to Evelyn?”

  “No,” said Mac. “I’m just old enough to know when two intelligent people are being really stupid.”

  Mac left, pulling his sled of meat behind him.

  Kate dragged a sack of Christmas presents into the sitting room and settled herself on the floor with sticky tape and shiny wrapping paper.

  She’d bought Laura a silver charm bracelet, with two charms to get her started: a letter M and a letter C encrusted with cubic zirconia. She’d also gotten her a voucher for a spa day, which she knew her busy friend would appreciate.

  Mina had a set of unicorn pajamas and a cuddly tiger, and Charley had a rainmaker and a set of bath toys. Kate carefully wrapped her gifts and put them into piles under the tree.

  Mac’s gifts were mostly books and clothes—he never bothered to buy himself clothes. And Evelyn had a set of lavender bath-and-pamper goodies, which Kate had purchased in the Blexford Manor gift shop.