by Kate Hewitt
“He’s…interesting,” she said at last. This was met with a chorus of enthusiastic oohs.
“And he must be interested in you,” Ellie said excitedly, “to buy a cupcake every single day.”
“It’s just because I’m running this promotion—”
“What man buys a cupcake three days running?” Harriet demanded.
“I don’t think he eats them himself,” Olivia interjected. “He said as much, really.”
“Then who does he give them to?”
“Maybe his poor, widowed mother?” Ellie suggested helpfully.
“Or a homeless person?” Alice added.
“There aren’t any homeless people in Wychwood-on-Lea,” Harriet protested, and then fell silent, looking slightly abashed. Alice had been homeless before she’d landed a job taking care of Lady Stokeley, her husband’s great-aunt, until she’d died a year ago.
“Maybe he buys them for his girlfriend or his wife,” Olivia broke into their happily-ever-after musings. “Or his adorable little child. Honestly, everyone. It isn’t like that.”
“But it must be a little like that,” Ellie persisted, “for you to have mentioned it at all.”
“I shouldn’t have—”
“There must have been a little bit of flirting,” Ava added shrewdly. “A little banter over the buttercream? Cosying up with the cupcakes?”
“Oh, honestly.” Laughing, Olivia tossed a throw pillow at her, and Ava caught it, smiling. “Maybe a tiny bit,” she allowed, and was subjected to another chorus of excited squeals. “But nothing much.”
“Do you know his name?”
For some reason Olivia didn’t want to reveal Simon’s name. He hadn’t actually introduced himself, after all. It felt a little stalkerish, to say his name when she’d got it from his debit card. “No.”
“Well, that’s your goal for tomorrow,” Harriet announced. “Learn Mystery Man’s name.”
“I’ll try.” Saturdays were a bit hit or miss; sometimes she got a boatload of walkers and day-trippers, other times the shop stayed empty all day. As for Simon Blacklock? Would he show up on a Saturday? Did he even live in Wychwood? She realised how little she knew about him; in fact she knew nothing about him except perhaps that he was a bit clumsy.
“What’s everyone doing for Christmas?” Olivia asked in a blatant bid to shift the attention from herself. “Will you all be in Willoughby Close?”
Thankfully the conversation moved on; Harriet was going to her parents for Christmas, and Alice and Henry would be at the manor, with at least a dozen guests coming from London. Ellie was heading up north, and Ava and Jace were having their first Christmas with baby William.
“What about you, Olivia? Would you like to come to ours?” Alice asked.
Olivia shook her head. Christmas at Willoughby Manor would be lovely, with roaring fires and a table for twenty groaning with food, but she already had plans. “I’ll be in Witney, with Mum.” She always had Christmas with her mum—a present each in the morning, a roast dinner for two, and a glass of sherry while listening to the Queen’s speech.
“How is your mum getting on in her new flat?” Ava asked.
“Okay, I think.” Olivia visited her mother every Sunday afternoon, and so far Tina had seemed to like it well enough, but sometimes she worried that her mother’s retirement at age seventy-three had doused some spark inside her. “I’m hoping she gets more involved with all the things they have on. It’s quite a community—there’s bridge, tennis, even salsa dancing.”
“I can see Tina enjoying that,” Harriet said, and Olivia smiled. A few years ago, perhaps, she could have seen her mum throwing herself into those sorts of things, but she lived a much quieter life now—just as Olivia did.
By the time she left Willoughby Close, feeling slightly tiddly after two glasses of wine, Olivia’s good humour was mostly restored. Her friends were wonderful, and so what if they had husbands and houses and all the rest? Olivia had always maintained that if she’d really wanted to get married, she would have done.
She’d had a few boyfriends over the years, but no one she’d felt like going the distance with, and if marriage and babies had been that important to her, she suspected she would have put a ring on it regardless.
As it was, she’d always liked her own company, as well as her freedom, although running Tea on the Lea had kept her in one place, precluding holidays, for the last few years. She’d told herself that once she got the shop on steady financial footing, she’d close it for a week and go away somewhere tropical and relaxing, but she hadn’t managed that yet.
Olivia breathed in the frosty night air as she turned down the road towards Wychwood’s high street. The sky was full of stars, the air clear and cold. A huge Christmas tree had been erected in the middle of the village green, now a dark, hulking shape under the moonlight; the official turning on of its lights would be on Wednesday, and Olivia was planning to keep the shop open, with some extra Christmas goodies available, and invitations for her mince pies and mulled wine evening the following week to be handed out.
As she turned down the high street, she noticed the Christmas lights that had been strung between the ancient buildings, and the star of Bethlehem on top of the parish church, all waiting for the official ceremony on Wednesday.
Everything felt expectant and hushed, just as it must have been two thousand years ago. Olivia smiled at the thought, the last of her restlessness banished.
She had a good life here, even if it wasn’t the same kind of busy as her friends’. Still smiling, she unlocked the door to the shop and headed to the stairs in the back, her cosy flat, and the ever-changing affections of Dr Jekyll.
*
“Oh, Olivia, you shouldn’t have.”
Tina James took the scarlet poinsettia Olivia presented with a pleased smile and a slightly fretful air. “I wasn’t thinking to decorate all that much really, but a plant is always nice.”
“Not decorate!” Olivia planted her hands on her hips in not-so-mock outrage as she glanced around the compact open-plan living area of her mother’s retirement flat. It was Sunday afternoon, and she’d spent a rainy, rather miserable Saturday on her own in the shop, unpacking Christmas decorations and stringing lights and ribbons in an attempt to stave off any flicker of loneliness. No one came in all day, so she might as well have closed the shop and spent the day doing errands or even just reading a book.
She’d flipped the sign to closed firmly at five, refusing to wait for Simon Blacklock to make an appearance. The twelve triple chocolate cupcakes she’d baked she’d brought here to donate to the communal lounge, and she’d told herself not to mope about it. She’d sold all her cupcakes on Friday, and none on Saturday. That was simply the nature of the business. Perhaps she wouldn’t bother making cupcakes next Saturday, and make the cupcake promotion Monday to Friday only. “Why not, Mum?” she asked now. “You’ve always loved decorating.”
Even when they’d been living in a poky little flat in Middlesbrough, her mother had made sure to garland it with holly and evergreen. There had always been a real, live Christmas tree adorned with glittering baubles, and oranges studded with cloves nestling in a bowl, filling the small space with festive fragrance. Olivia had spent hours playing with the ceramic figures of a well-worn and well-loved nativity set.
“Oh, but there isn’t much point here, is there, really?” Tina said with a shrug. “Cup of tea?”
“Yes, please.” Olivia placed the tin of shortbread she’d brought for her mum on the kitchen table, a feeling of unease rippling through her. She’d had her doubts about her mother moving to the sensible but seemingly soulless flat in nearby Witney; her mum had loved the cosy little flat above the shop, as well as paying attention to all the village comings and goings. Admittedly there had been more goings than comings, at least into the shop, but still. Tina had felt a part of things. She didn’t know a soul in Witney.
“Have you gone to one of those bridge mornings?” Olivia asked brigh
tly as Tina filled the kettle at the sink. “You always talk about trying one out.”
Tina shook her head, her back to Olivia. “I don’t think I’ll go. I’m getting too old for cards.”
“Too old… Mum, you’re only seventy-three.” Olivia gazed at her mother in uneasy alarm. She’d read about how retiring and moving to communities that catered for elderly residents could age a person, make them feel isolated and old before their time. She just never imagined her mother would feel that way.
“Still.” Tina shrugged. “Bridge is such a fussy game, anyway.”
“But you love bridge.” Tina had taught her the game when she was still in primary school, complicated as it was. She’d deal out all four hands on the kitchen table and they’d play two each while Tina talked her through all the complex bidding rules.
“I used to.” Tina gave her a rueful smile. “Things change. Anyway, tell me, how things are at Tea on the Lea?”
“They’re fine. I’ve brought you some shortbread. I’m running a cupcake promotion before Christmas.”
“Cupcakes…!”
“Yes, one per day,” Olivia said, and then proceeded to explain all about the promotion, never mind that she hadn’t sold any yesterday. Her mother listened avidly, but after a few minutes Olivia could tell her mind was elsewhere, and she tried not to feel worried, or worse, hurt. Her mother was usually eager for all the details, wanted to know about the shop she’d started ten years ago.
“What can I do to help?” she asked once they’d finished their tea. “Any errands need running? Ironing? How about a good scrub out of the toilet?”
“Oh, Olivia, I’m not an invalid.” To Olivia’s surprise her mother almost sounded annoyed. “I’m perfectly capable of doing those things myself.”
“Of course you are,” she answered after a moment, trying to sound cheerful rather than offended. “I’m just trying to help, Mum.”
“Oh, darling, I know.” Tina sighed and then reached across the table to squeeze Olivia’s hand. “Please forgive my grumpiness. I’m feeling a bit out of sorts, and I don’t even know why.”
“Is it because it’s Christmas?” Olivia asked gently. “You always did up the flat so nicely…”
“I don’t know what it is. Just getting used to being here, I suppose.”
“We could have Christmas at the flat over the shop instead of here,” Olivia suggested. “I haven’t got a tree yet, but I was planning on it…”
“A tree in that flat? It would take up half the sitting room.”
“A tabletop one, then. Like you did last year.” Her mum had had a small tree in the flat for ten years; it didn’t make sense for her to resist now. Still, Tina just shook her head. “They do a nice lunch here on Christmas Day. I think I’ll just go to that.”
“What?” Olivia stared at her mother, startled and dismayed. “But I thought we’d be spending the day together, the way we always do?”
“We can, of course, but I’m sure you have better things to do, haven’t you?” Olivia blinked, trying not to feel hurt. She’d spent Christmas Day with her mother every single year of her life. Why on earth was her mum backing out now? She almost sounded as if she didn’t want Olivia there.
“I don’t have better things to do, Mum,” she said after a moment. “Of course I don’t. Why don’t you come to the flat? Or we could go to Alice and Henry’s… You remember my friends?” Tina gave a little shake of her head, and Olivia couldn’t tell if she didn’t remember or didn’t want to go. “They’ve invited us to Willoughby Manor for Christmas dinner.” Although she’d already turned down Alice’s invitation, Olivia knew it would always be open. “It’s lovely…a big manor in the countryside, roaring fires…”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Tina rose from the table, the teacups rattling in their saucers as she whisked them to the sink. “I’ll think about it, I suppose.”
“Do. Even if we don’t go there, we could still spend the day together.”
“Yes, well, we’ll see.” Tina’s tone was repressive, and so Olivia dropped the subject, still feeling uneasy.
Soon after that she couldn’t think of any reason to stay longer, and as her mum seemed restless, almost wanting her to go, she decided to take her leave even though she’d only been there a little over an hour.
“I suppose I should get going,” she said as she reached for her coat. “I still have my weekly shop to do.” Tina stood by the sink, her arms folded, her smile a little distant. “You are…you are happy here, Mum?” Olivia couldn’t keep from asking, needing the reassurance. “Aren’t you?”
Tina looked surprised, and then, to Olivia’s dismay, her gaze slid away from hers. “Yes,” she said. “Of course I am. Don’t worry about me, Olivia.”
But of course she did worry, unable to keep from going over their conversation as she stocked up at Waitrose, adding some Christmas decorations—a porcelain angel, another set of fairy lights—to top up her supply. She bought her baking supplies in bulk from a wholesaler and had them delivered, but she enjoyed browsing the baking aisle and getting a few extras—edible gold stars, a tube of silver icing.
Back in Wychwood-on-Lea, Olivia tried to banish her worries and hurt by finishing the decoration of the shop. So far she had strung fairy lights all around, and lined the display cases and stands with red velvet ribbon. A sprig of mistletoe adorned the front door, whose brass handle now sported a cluster of jingle bells. She’d cut fresh holly and placed it in the corners of the display case, and now she added the newly purchased angel to the display case, and strung some more lights outside, to make the shop a bit more welcoming as dusk began earlier and earlier.
As the sun started to sink, the high street lost in shadow, she decided to start on a batch of mince pies for the Christmas light turn-on on Wednesday. It was time for Christmas baking, cupcakes included, to begin in earnest.
Baking always helped to banish worry; the methodical mixing, rolling out of dough, cutting the shapes helped to give her a focus and soothe her spirit. It reminded her of her childhood, standing next to her mum on top of a little stool, tiny hands patting out the dough or stirring the batter as her mother lovingly instructed her.
Soon, with the little kitchen in the back of the shop full of delicious, spicy smells, and Christmas carols blasting from the battered CD player in the corner, Olivia started to feel better. Her mum was probably just feeling a bit unsettled, being in a new place for Christmas.
And now that she had a little space to sort through her own thoughts, Olivia remembered that her mother protested them spending Christmas together just about every year, worried that Olivia was giving up more exciting plans to be with her mum. Maybe her protests this year hadn’t been quite as half-hearted as they had been in the past, but still. There was nothing to worry about, surely. Her mum was in a period of adjustment, just as she was. They’d both get over it soon, Olivia reassured herself. Of course they would.
She had just slid the first tray of mince pies out of the oven, admiring their perfectly baked tops, puffed and golden, when a determined tapping on the front door had her straightening in surprise. The shop was clearly closed, even though the lights were on. It was after five on a dark and wintry Sunday evening.
Still the tapping continued, and Olivia went to see who couldn’t read a closed sign.
She nearly stumbled in her step as she saw the tall, rangy figure by the door, his nose nearly pressed to the glass.
Fumbling with the lock, her heart doing its silly dance once more, Olivia opened the door.
“Sorry, am I too late? Are you closed?” Simon asked as he pushed an unruly lock of dark hair away from his forehead.
“I am closed,” Olivia admitted even though she half didn’t want to. “I was just baking mince pies for tomorrow.”
“Mince pies…” There was a note of longing in his voice that made her smile.
“Would you like to come in and have one?” Olivia asked, feeling bold, and the smile that bloomed across Simon’s fac
e was answer enough.
“I’d love to,” he said, and stepped inside.
Chapter Four
Olivia busied herself with fetching two mince pies from the back, all the while giving herself a stern talking-to to calm down. She arranged the pies on plates decorated with lace doilies, and then scrapped the doilies as a step too far, even though she normally served them with everything.
“Here we are,” she called out cheerfully, bringing the plates to one of the tables at the front of the shop, only to stop uncertainly at the apologetic look on Simon’s face.
“I’m so sorry…but I can’t stay.”
“Oh.” Olivia willed herself not to blush as she glanced down at the two plates, her expectation so cringingly obvious. Thank heaven she hadn’t used the doilies.
“I should have said,” Simon continued. “I’m an absolute oaf—but you know that already, don’t you? From when I nearly knocked your Victoria sponge over—”
“And the lemon drizzle.” Olivia did her best to sound wry as she fetched a paper napkin and wrapped the mince pie up in it before thrusting it towards him “Here you are, then. Enjoy.”
“How much…?”
She waved him away, half wanting him gone. Actually, all wanting him gone. She felt so stupid, so obvious, hoping that he’d sit down with her and have a chat. Clearly he just wanted her baked goods. “It’s on the house.”
“No—”
“Really.” Her voice came out sounding the tiniest bit hard, and she tried to soften it with a smile.
He stared at her for a moment, his paper-wrapped pie in his hand, a look of regret on his face, etched deep into the lines running from his nose to his mouth. “The reason I have to run off,” he said at last, “is because I’m playing in an Advent carol concert at the parish church in half an hour. You…you don’t fancy coming, do you?”
“Coming…” Olivia repeated blankly, too shocked to process what he was saying, and now Simon was the one who was blushing.