Their Christmas Family Miracle

by Caroline Anderson

  He nodded, his mouth twitching into a slight smile, and she felt relief flood through her at this tiny evidence of his humanity. She went into the kitchen and spooned formula into a bottle, then poured hot water from the kettle on it, shook it and plonked it into a bowl of cold water. Thankfully there had been some water in the kettle so it didn’t have to cool from boiling, she thought as she ran back upstairs and collected the children, suddenly ludicrously conscious of how scruffy they looked after foraging in the woods, and how apprehensive.

  ‘Hey, it’s all right, he wants to meet you,’ she murmured reassuringly to Kitty, who was clinging to her, and then pushed the breakfast room door open and ushered them in.

  He was putting wood on the fire, and as he closed the door and straightened up, he caught sight of them and turned. The smile was gone, his face oddly taut, and her own smile faltered for a moment.

  ‘Kids, this is Mr Forrester—’

  ‘Jake,’ he said, cutting her off and taking a step forward. His mouth twisted into a smile. ‘I’ve already met Edward. And you must be Kitty. And this, I take it, is Thomas?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Thomas, sensing the change of atmosphere, had gone obligingly silent, but after a moment he lost interest in Jake and anything except his stomach and, burrowing into her shoulder, he began to wail again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I—’

  ‘Go on, feed him. I gave the bottle a shake to help cool it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She went into the kitchen, wondering how he knew to do that. Nieces and nephews, probably—although he’d said he didn’t have any family. How odd, she thought briefly, but then Thomas tried to lunge out of her arms and she fielded him with the ease of practice and tested the bottle on her wrist.

  Cool enough. She shook it again, tested it once more to be on the safe side and offered it to her son.

  Silence. Utter, blissful silence, broken only by a strained chuckle.

  ‘Oh, for such simple needs,’ he said softly, and she turned and met his eyes. They were darker than before, and his mouth was set in a grim line despite the laugh. But then his expression went carefully blank and he limped across to the kettle. ‘So—who has tea, and who wants juice or whatever else?’

  ‘We haven’t got any juice. The children will have water.’

  ‘Sounds dull.’

  ‘They’re fine with it. It’s good for them.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. It’s good for me, too, but that doesn’t mean I drink it. Except in meetings. I get through gallons of it in meetings. So—is that just me, or are you going to join me?’

  ‘Oh.’ Join him? That sounded curiously—intimate. ‘Yes, please,’ she said, and hoped she didn’t sound absurdly breathless. It’s a cup of tea, she told herself crossly. Just a cup of tea. Nothing else. She didn’t want anything else. Ever.

  And if she told herself that enough times, maybe she’d start to believe it.

  ‘Have the children eaten?’

  ‘Thomas has. Edward and Kitty haven’t. I was going to wait until you woke up and ask you what you wanted.’

  ‘Anything. I’m not really hungry after that sandwich. What is there?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’ll give the children eggs on toast—’

  ‘Again?’ Kitty said plaintively. ‘We had eggs on toast for supper last night.’

  ‘I’m sure we can find something else,’ their host was saying, rummaging in a tall cupboard with pull-out racking that was crammed with tins and jars and packets. ‘What did you all have for lunch?’

  ‘Jam sandwiches and an apple.’

  He turned and studied Kitty thoughtfully, then his gaze flicked up to Amelia’s and speared her. ‘Jam sandwiches?’ he said softly. ‘Eggs on toast?’

  She felt her chin lift, but he just frowned and turned back to the cupboard, staring into its depths blankly for a moment before shutting it and opening the big door beside it and going systematically through the drawers of the freezer.

  ‘How about fish?’

  ‘What sort? They don’t eat smoked fish or fish fingers.’

  ‘Salmon—and mixed shellfish. A lobster,’ he added, rummaging. ‘Raw king prawns—there’s some Thai curry paste somewhere I just saw. Or there’s probably a casserole if you don’t fancy fish.’

  ‘Whatever. Choose what you want. We’ll have eggs.’

  He frowned again, shut the freezer and studied her searchingly.

  She wished he wouldn’t do that. Her arm was aching, Thomas was starting to loll against her shoulder and if she was sitting down, she could probably settle him and get him off to sleep so she could concentrate on feeding the others—most particularly their reluctant host.

  After all, she’d told him she could cook—

  ‘Go and sit down. I’ll order a takeaway,’ he said softly, and she looked back up into his eyes and surprised a gentle, almost puzzled expression in them for a fleeting moment before he turned away and limped out. ‘What do they like?’ he asked over his shoulder, then turned to the children. ‘What’s it to be, kids? Pizza? Chinese? Curry? Kebabs? Burgers?’

  ‘What’s a kebab?’

  ‘Disgusting. Anyway, you’re having eggs, Kitty, we’ve already decided that.’

  Over their heads she met his eyes defiantly, and saw a reluctant grin blossom on his firm, sculpted lips. ‘OK, we’ll have eggs. Do we have enough?’

  We? Her eyes widened. ‘For all of us?’

  ‘Am I excluded?’

  She ran a mental eye over the meagre contents of the fridge and relaxed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good. Then we’ll have omelettes and oven-baked potato wedges and peas, if that’s OK? Now, for heaven’s sake sit down, woman, before you drop the baby, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be looking after you?’ she said, but one glare from those rather gorgeous slate grey eyes and she retreated to the comfort of the fireside, settling down in the chair he’d been using with a sigh of relief. She’d have her tea, settle Thomas in his cot and make supper.

  For all of them, apparently. So—was he going to sit and eat with them? He’d been so anti his little army of squatters, so what had brought about this sudden change?

  Jake pulled the mugs out of the cupboard and then contemplated the lid of the tea caddy. Tea bags, he decided, with only one useful hand, not leaves and the pot, and putting the caddy back, he dropped tea bags into the mugs and poured water on them. Thank God it was his left arm he’d broken, not his right. At least he could manage most things like this.

  The stud on his jeans was a bit of a challenge, he’d discovered, but he’d managed to get them on this morning. Shoelaces were another issue, but he’d kicked his shoes off when he’d got in and he’d been padding around in his socks, and he had shoes without laces he could wear until the blasted cast came off.

  But cooking—well, cooking would be a step too far, he thought, but by some minor intervention of fate he seemed to have acquired an answer to that one. A feisty, slightly offbeat and rather delightful answer. Easy on the eye. And with a voice that seemed to dig right down inside him and tug at something long forgotten.

  It was the kids he found hardest, of course, but it was the kids he was most concerned about, because their mother was obviously struggling to hold things together. And she wasn’t coping very well with it—or maybe, he thought, reconsidering as he poked the tea bags with the spoon, she was coping very well, against atrocious odds. Whatever, a staple diet of bread and eggs wasn’t good for anyone and, as he knew from his experience with the cheese sandwich, it wasn’t even decent bread. Perfectly nutritious, no doubt, but closely related to cotton wool.

  He put the milk down and poured two glasses of filtered water for Edward and Kitty. ‘Hey, you guys, come and get your drinks,’ he said, and they ran over, Edward more slowly, Kitty skipping, head on one side in a gesture so like her mother’s he nearly laughed.

  ‘So—what are kebabs, really?’ she asked, twizzling a lock of hair with
one forefinger, and he did laugh then, the sound dragged out of him almost reluctantly.

  ‘Well—there are different kinds. There’s shish kebab, which is pieces of meat on skewers, a bit like you’d put on a barbecue, or there’s doner kebab, which is like a great big sausage on a stick, and they turn it in front of a fire to cook it and slice bits off. You have both in a kind of bread pocket, with salad, and your mother’s right, the doner kebabs certainly aren’t very healthy—well, not the ones in this country. In Turkey they’re fantastic.’

  ‘They don’t sound disgusting,’ Kitty said wistfully. ‘I like sausages on sticks.’

  ‘Maybe we can get some sausages and put sticks in them,’ Edward said, and Jake realised he was the peacemaker in the family, trying to hold it all together, humouring Kitty and helping with Thomas and supporting his mother—and the thought that he should have to do all that left a great hollow in the pit of Jake’s stomach.

  No child should have to do that. He’d spent years doing that, fighting helplessly against the odds to keep it all together, and for what?

  ‘Good idea,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll get some sausages tomorrow.’ He gathered up the mugs in his right hand and limped through to the breakfast room and put them down on the table near Amelia. She looked up with a smile.

  ‘Thanks,’ she murmured, and he found his eyes drawn down to the baby, sleeping now, his chubby little face turned against her chest, arm outflung, dead to the world. A great lump in his throat threatened to choke him, and he nodded curtly, took his mug and went back to the other room, shutting the door firmly so he couldn’t hear the children’s voices.

  He couldn’t do this. It was killing him, and he couldn’t do it.

  He’d meant to sit with her, talk to her, but the children had unravelled him and he couldn’t sit there and look at them, he discovered. Not today. Not the day before Christmas Eve.

  The day his wife and son had died.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WELL, what was that about?

  He’d come in, taken one look at her and gone.

  Because she’d sat in his chair?

  No—and he’d been looking at Thomas, not her. And had she dreamed it, or had there been a slight sheen in his eyes?

  The glitter of tears?

  No. She was being ridiculous. He just wanted to be alone. He always wanted to be alone, according to Kate, and they’d scuppered that for him, so he was making the best of a bad job and keeping out of the way.

  So why did he want to eat with them? Or was he simply having the same food?

  She had no idea, and no way of working it out, and knowing so little about him, her guesswork was just a total stab in the dark. But there had been something in his eyes…

  ‘I’m just going to put Thomas to bed, then I’ll cook you supper,’ she told the children quietly and, getting up without disturbing the baby, she took him up to the attic and slipped him into his cot. She’d change his nappy later. She didn’t want to risk waking him now—not when he’d finally settled.

  And not when Jake had that odd look about him that was flagging up all kinds of warning signals. She was sure he was hurting, but she had no idea why—and it was frankly none of her business. She just needed to feed the children, get them out of the way and then deal with him later.

  ‘Right, kids, let’s make supper,’ she said, going back in and smiling at them brightly. ‘Who wants to break the eggs into the cup?’

  Not the bowl, because that was just asking for trouble, and she sensed that crunchy omelettes wouldn’t win her any Brownie points with Jake, but one at a time was all right. She could fish for shell in one egg.

  She looked out of the window at the herb garden and wondered what was out there. Sage? Rosemary? Thyme? It was a shame she didn’t have any cheese, but she could put fresh herbs in his, and she remembered seeing a packet of pancetta in the fridge.

  She cooked for herself and the children first, then while she was eating she cooked his spicy potato wedges in a second batch, then sent the children up to wash and change ready for bed.

  ‘I’ll come up and read to you when I’ve given Jake his supper,’ she promised, kissing them both, and they went, still looking a little uncertain, and she felt another wave of anger at David for putting them in this position.

  And at herself, for allowing him to make them so vulnerable, for relying on him even after he’d proved over and over again that he was unreliable, for giving him the power to do this to them. He’d walked out on them four years ago, and letting him back again two years later had been stupid in the extreme. It hadn’t taken her long to realise it, and she’d finally taken the last step and divorced him, but their failed reconciliation had resulted in Thomas. And, though she loved Thomas to bits, having him didn’t make life easier and had forced her to rely on David again. Well, no more. Not him, not any man.

  Never again, she thought, vigorously beating the last two eggs for Jake’s omelette while the little cubes of pancetta crisped in the pan. No way was she putting herself and her family at risk again. Even if Jake was remotely interested in her, which he simply wasn’t. He couldn’t even bear to be in the same room as her—and she had to stop thinking about him!

  She went out and picked the herbs by the light from the kitchen window, letting Rufus out into the garden for a moment while she breathed deeply and felt the cold, clean air fill her lungs and calm her.

  They’d survive, she told herself. They’d get through this hitch, and she’d get another job somehow, and they’d be all right.

  They had to be.

  She went back in with Rufus and the herbs, made Jake’s omelette and left it to set on the side of the Aga while she called him to the table.

  She tapped on the door of what she was beginning to think of as his cave, and he opened it almost instantly. She stepped back hastily and smiled. ‘Hi. I was just coming to call you for supper.’

  He smiled back. ‘The smell was reeling me in—I was just on my way. Apparently I’m hungrier than I thought.’

  Oh, damn. Had she made enough for him?

  He followed her through to the breakfast room and stopped. ‘Where are the other place settings?’

  ‘Oh—the children were starving, so I ate with them. Anyway, I wasn’t sure—’

  She broke off, biting her lip, and he sighed softly.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was rude. I just walked out.’

  ‘No—no, why should you want to sit with us? It’s your house, we’re in your way. I feel so guilty—’

  ‘Don’t. Please, don’t. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, and I don’t need to, but it’s quite obvious that you’re doing your best to cope and life’s just gone pear-shaped recently. And, whatever the rights and wrongs of your being here, it’s nothing to do with the children. They’ve got every right to feel safe and secure, and wanted, and if I’ve given you the impression that they’re not welcome here, then I apologise. I don’t do kids—I have my reasons, which I don’t intend to go into, but—your kids have done nothing wrong and—well, tomorrow I’d like to fix it a bit, if you’ll let me.’

  ‘Fix it?’ she said, standing with the plate in her hand and her eyes searching his. ‘How?’ How on earth could he fix it? And why didn’t he do kids?

  ‘I’d like to give the children Christmas. I’d like to go shopping and buy food. I’ve already promised them sausages, but I’d like to get the works—a turkey and all the trimmings, satsumas, mince pies, Christmas cake, a Christmas pudding and cream, and something else if they don’t like the heavy fruit—perhaps a chocolate log or something? And a tree. They ought to have a tree, with real decorations on it.’

  She felt her eyes fill with tears, and swallowed hard.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she said, trying to firm her voice. ‘We don’t need all that.’

  ‘I know—but I’d like to. I don’t normally do Christmas, but the kids have done nothing to deserve this hideous uncertainty in their lives, and if I can help to make t
his time a little better for them, then maybe—’

  He broke off and turned away, moving slowly to the table, his leg obviously troubling him.

  She set the plate down in front of him with trembling hands. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Then just say yes, and let me do it,’ he said gruffly, then tilted his head and gave her a wry look. ‘I don’t suppose I’m allowed a glass of wine?’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘You wouldn’t let me have the whisky.’

  She gave a little laugh, swallowing down the tears and shaking her head. ‘That was because of the painkillers. I thought you should drink water, especially as you’d been flying. But—sure, you can have a glass of wine.’

  ‘Will you join me?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be alone?’ she said softly, and he smiled again, a little crookedly.

  ‘Amelia, just open the wine. There’s a gluggable Aussie Shiraz in the wine rack in the side of the island unit, and the glasses are in the cupboard next to the Aga.’

  ‘Corkscrew?’

  ‘It’s a screwtop.’

  ‘Right.’ She found the wine, found the glasses, poured his and a small one for herself and perched a little warily opposite him. ‘How’s the omelette?’

  ‘Good. Just right. What herbs did you use? Are they from the garden?’

  ‘Yes. Thyme and sage. And I found some pancetta—I hope it was OK to use it.’

  ‘Of course. It’s really tasty. Thanks.’

  He turned his attention back to his food, and then pushed his plate away with a sigh when it was scraped clean. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any pud?’

  She chuckled. ‘A budget yogurt?’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Maybe not. There might be some ice cream in the freezer—top drawer.’

  There was. Luxury Belgian chocolate that made her mouth water. ‘This one?’ she offered, and he nodded.

  ‘Brilliant. Will you join me?’

  She gave in to the temptation because her omelette had only been tiny—elastic eggs, to make sure he had enough so she didn’t fall at the first hurdle—and she was still hungry. She dished up and took it through, feeling a pang of guilt because she could feed her children for a day on the cost of that ice cream and in the good old days it had been their favourite—