Snowflakes Over Moondance Cottage

by Rosie Green

  But maybe now . . . maybe it’s time to start being brave . . .

  ‘I’ve never been here with Martin. He doesn’t like Christmas,’ comments Mum, matter-of-factly.

  ‘Lots of people don’t,’ mutters Isla, staring glumly into her hot chocolate. ‘It’s a funny time of year.’

  Mum sighs and pats Isla’s hand absently.

  ‘I’m fancying a bit of Christmas cake,’ says Isla. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ To my surprise, I feel quite hungry. I thought I’d hate being here, haunted by our last visit with Dad. But actually, I’m feeling fine. ‘Mum?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  I give Isla cash to go off and buy cake. Then I turn to Mum with a smile. ‘Isn’t this lovely? All of us out together? What do you think, Mum? Don’t you think we should we do it more often? I noticed they have fresh cranberries . . .’

  She’s peering out of the window and doesn’t appear to have heard me.

  ‘Mum?’ My stomach shifts uneasily. ‘What is it?’

  Suddenly, she’s on her feet, her nose to the window, staring at the shoppers milling around the stalls outside. And then without a word to me, she’s hurrying from the café, a frantic look on her face, as if someone’s about to snap up the last of the Christmas goodies.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘Mum!’ My heart sinks. Not this again. I glance over at Isla but she’s in the process of paying at the till and hasn’t seen Mum hurry past.

  A second later, I’m on my feet and racing after her, not wanting to lose her in the crowd. I almost catch her up at the main doors but I lose her in a group of people coming in. And when I rush outside, she’s nowhere to be seen. I scan the crowds frantically – and eventually I spot her. She’s walking briskly away from the stalls at the front of the manor, and along the path lit with strings of fairylights that I know leads to the treehouse.

  There’s a tall man up ahead of her and my heart sinks as I realise she’s trying to catch him up.

  I can understand why she thinks it might be Dad, though. He’s the same height, the same build, dark hair . . . even the way he’s walking seems familiar. For one wild, glorious moment, my heart is telling me it’s him! It’s Dad!

  Then the man turns, hearing our echoing footsteps on the path behind him, and my mad hope bursts like a party balloon.

  It’s a total stranger.

  Of course it is.

  I grab Mum’s hand to stop her. She tries to shake me off but she hasn’t the strength, and I can tell it’s not just that she’s out of breath with running. Mum also saw her hope die when the stranger turned around.

  I put my arm around her and, still gasping from the chase, lead her away, in the opposite direction.

  ‘It was him.’ She stares up at me, agony and disbelief written across her face. ‘I must have followed the wrong man. He must have gone that way.’ She starts scanning the people around us, looking for his face, as my heart breaks for her.

  ‘Come on, Mum. Let’s go and have our cake. Isla will be wondering where we’ve got to.’

  To my relief, she doesn’t argue, but allows me to lead her back to the café.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Isla splutters through a mouthful of Christmas cake. ‘Has something happened? You look terrible. Both of you.’

  Pulling Mum’s chair out, I grimace at Isla and Mum sinks down with a little sigh.

  ‘I saw your dad,’ she says in an exhausted voice.

  ‘Oh God, not again!’

  I glare at Isla. Then I take Mum’s hand. ‘Mum . . . I wish it could have been Dad. I wish it with all my heart. But wishing won’t make it happen.’

  ‘It definitely wasn’t him?’ She stares bleakly at me for a moment.

  I shake my head.

  ‘I really thought it was.’

  ‘You’re grieving, Mum. It’s perfectly natural not to be yourself for a while after you lose someone special.’

  ‘You sound like a manual for bereaved persons,’ comments Isla dryly.

  ‘Thank you, Isla. You’re not helping!’ I snap.

  Turning my back on Isla, I shuffle round in my seat to face Mum. ‘You know, when you were chasing after that man just then, I actually believed for a moment that it might be Dad. I really thought our story was going to have a happy ending after all.’ Hot tears well up but I’m smiling through them. ‘As I was panting along, trying to catch you up, I was actually imagining how incredible our Christmas would be, if Dad came back.’

  Mum makes a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob.

  ‘So you see, you’re not the only one thinking you see him everywhere. I do, too.’

  ‘And me,’ puts in Isla, and I look over at her in surprise. She shrugs. ‘I see Dad everywhere. In the street, on the telly, in my dreams.’ She snorts. ‘He was modelling a suit in a Sunday supplement magazine last week. But it’s the dreams that are the worst because they seem so real, and then I wake up and it hits me that he’s gone, and I’m back to square one, feeling the pain all over again.’

  A stunned silence follows Isla’s little speech.

  ‘You need to see the doctor, though, Mum,’ Isla says firmly, but in a kinder tone. ‘Because you can’t keep putting yourself through this.’

  Mum instantly sits back. ‘I do not need to see a doctor. I’m absolutely fine.’

  Isla sighs. ‘Yes, but you’re not, are you? You’re clearly unstable and no one would blame you after what you’ve been through. Honestly, Mum, you wouldn’t be the first person to lose your marbles after a tragedy like we’ve all experienced. But the maddest thing of all is your refusal to visit the GP. A doctor would be able to give you something to calm your head down a bit. It’s definitely worth a - ’

  ‘Isla.’ I cut her off through clenched teeth. ‘Mum’s had a shock. She doesn’t need to hear this right now.’

  Isla looks put out. ‘Well, I’m sorry, I’m sure. But at least I don’t pander to her imaginings that Dad’s still alive, like you do. She needs to face up to the truth so she can accept it and move on - whether that’s with or without the aid of some nice helpful chemicals.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Isla,’ I mutter. ‘You know I said you could move in? Well, I think I’ve changed my mind.’

  Mum is staring into space, looking lost. She turns to me and says, ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Are you sure? What about your cake?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Okay, well, we’ll all go. Isla?’

  ‘Suits me,’ she says grumpily. She scrapes back her chair and stomps out of the café with Mum and I hurrying to catch her up.

  We wave Mum off then get in my car.

  Before I start the engine, I sit back with a sigh. ‘Look, it would have been Dad’s birthday tomorrow. To be honest, I was wondering if that was why Mum had another “episode”, thinking she saw him. You know?’

  Isla nods. ‘That occurred to me, too.’

  ‘So perhaps we should do something tomorrow, the three of us? It’ll be a hard day for Mum to face on her own.’

  ‘She’s got Martin.’

  ‘Has she, though?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I shrug. ‘He’s always at his daughter’s these days, ever since she split with her husband.’

  ‘You mean Lisa is his excuse not to be with Mum?’

  I laugh. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it that bluntly. But . . . well, I do wonder if maybe things aren’t as rosy for Mum and Martin as they used to be.’

  Isla shrugs. ‘These things happen.’

  I cast her a sharp look. ‘Are you and Jamie all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her head comes up, her eyes sharp as flint. ‘We’re fine. Why wouldn’t we be?’

  I sigh inwardly. ‘No reason. So do you want to do something tomorrow? For Dad’s birthday?’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll phone you,’ she says. It’s clear she just wants to go.

  We drive back to the village in silence.

  ‘
So what about moving in?’ I remind her, as we draw up outside the hotel. ‘You said tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, well, you’re not the only one to have changed your mind about that,’ she snaps, trying to unclip her seatbelt. ‘Perhaps it’s better if I just stay at the hotel.’ She tugs on the belt in frustration.

  ‘Here, let me.’ I reach over and unclip it. She gets out and shuts the door and I watch her go with a chill in my heart. She doesn’t even turn to wave.

  So much for my brilliant idea that a ‘family outing’ might draw us closer again.

  All it’s done is prove that we’re as isolated from each other as ever . . .

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  My sleep that night is disturbed.

  It happens from time to time. I’ll have these really vivid, scary nightmares where I’m desperately trying to escape from something I can’t even see. Sometimes, I’m on a boat and it’s a stormy night, gales battering the little craft. I’m huddled in a berth, the blankets over my head, terrified because I can sense there’s an evil presence on the other side of the door. Things are crashing around me on the boat but all I can think is that I’m certain I’m going to die . . .

  When I wake, it’s after eight, and I’m in the shower when I remember it’s Dad’s birthday. If he’d been here, I’d have already been planning something extra-special for his big milestone sixtieth birthday next year . . .

  Mum sounds cheerful enough when I phone her. ‘I’m watching your dad’s favourite antiques show, then I’m going to do some painting.’

  ‘You don’t want some company?’

  ‘Thank you, Jess, but I’m fine. I’m quite tired, so I might have a nap this afternoon.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  I end the call, feeling exhausted myself.

  I go to my desk and try to start work on the commission for The Bookbinder Inn, but I can’t seem to concentrate, so eventually I give up. The calm and creativity of the studio is what I need right now.

  It’s late afternoon when I arrive at Moondance Cottage.

  Seb’s van is in the driveway and I feel the familiar flutter of butterflies in my stomach.

  I haven’t actually seen him (I’ve made sure of it) ever since that weirdest of Hallowe’en nights when I shocked him with my mask and he fell backwards onto the lawn.

  That’s not why I’m avoiding him, though. It’s because I keep thinking about his parting words that night: I was thinking about you. And the truth is, I’m scared.

  Because when he said that, I realised that I’d been thinking about him, too, which was weird because I thought I didn’t even like him. But obviously, I do.

  It’s all so confusing.

  I get out of the car and walk up the driveway to the side of the house, and I suddenly realise I can smell smoke. Looking over the garden gate, I can see plumes of it rising up into the chilly November air.

  A bonfire?

  My heart leaps in my chest.

  Dad! He’s come back for his birthday and built this bonfire in celebration!

  With trembling fingers, I wrench open the gate and stumble through – and sure enough, flames are crackling in the exact same spot Dad always used. Feeling light-headed with emotion and lack of sleep, I walk over to the fire, breathing in its lovely smoky scent.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me burning stuff,’ says a voice and I turn, my hopeful heart desperate for a happy ending.

  It’s Seb standing there. And my stupid fantasy vanishes like snow falling on a bonfire.

  ‘You should have asked me first. Why didn’t you ask me?’ I demand, and he flinches at my harsh tone.

  ‘Sorry. I would have, if you’d been here.’ He shrugs. ‘You’re usually here first thing. I thought you weren’t coming today.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong because here I am.’ I kick at the ashes. ‘And this is a bloody poor excuse for a bonfire, isn’t it? You couldn’t even call it a bonfire.’

  ‘Careful.’ He takes a step towards me, his eyes full of puzzled concern.

  ‘Make sure you douse it with water when it goes out so it doesn’t reignite,’ I tell him brusquely. In the studio, I slam the door behind me and lean against it, letting the tears fall.

  I can’t bear this.

  If we knew Dad was dead, we could get on with our lives. But the not knowing pierces your heart every single day, and if you’re not careful, it leads to you making a complete and utter dick of yourself in front of Seb!

  With a death, you have an ending. But we don’t have that with Dad.

  Maybe that’s the cruellest loss of all - never being able to stop hoping, even when you know deep down, your dreams are never going to come true . . .

  I’ve been worrying about Mum thinking she sees Dad all over the place – but really, I’m just as bad as her.

  Anger is taking over. And helpless frustration. I’m raging inside at life and it needs an outlet. Marching to the bench, I pull the lid off a box of baubles. They lie there, individually wrapped in tissue paper, twenty-four unique globes of glass, destined for The Treasure Box.

  I unwrap one and hold it up. Light filters through it, enhancing the beautiful pink and cobalt blue colours. It glints as I turn it round in my hand.

  A perfect glass bauble.

  I worked so hard to produce it. Sweating in the heat from the kiln to ensure it was exactly right. But what does it matter – what does any of it matter - if Dad isn’t here, working alongside me?

  Angrily, I dash the open box off the bench so hard, it flies across the room and hits the wall before dropping to the concrete floor. Some of the baubles roll free of their tissue paper nest, one landing near my foot.

  It’s a perfect blue bauble, the colour rich and velvety like a darkening sky on a summer’s night.

  And I stamp on it.

  It smashes into bits and I grind the pieces into the floor. Hearing the cracking sound feels satisfying, so I do it again. A pink and white striped one this time.

  Tears are rolling down my face. I feel like my heart is literally breaking, just like these stupid Christmas decorations . . . one after the other, I crush the baubles beneath my foot . . .

  Then something makes me stop.

  I’d like to say it’s Dad’s voice in my head, soothing me, but it isn’t. It’s a dose of harsh reality.

  If I break all these baubles, I’ll have to make them again and time is short. I hate myself even more for thinking this. How can I be so bloody practical when my lovely dad is dead?

  Then another thought occurs to me. What would Dad say if he could see me now?

  I smile sadly. He would give me one of his lovely big bear hugs first of all. Then he’d try and make me laugh to snap me out of my negative mood, and he’d help me clear up.

  Gazing down in horror at the mess I’ve made, I fall to the floor to rescue the unbroken baubles, grabbing each one and wrapping it in tissue. Shards of glass dig into my knees and I’m glad. The physical pain is easier to bear than the mental agony . . .

  The door opens.

  I look up as Seb enters softly. He stays by the door, looking from my tear-streaked face to the mess on the floor.

  ‘It’s okay. I’ve calmed down now,’ I tell him, my voice still thick with tears.

  ‘Hey, you’re bleeding.’ He’s over in a couple of strides, helping me up off the floor. We both stare down at the blood that’s seeping through the knees of my pale grey tracksuit bottoms.

  He pulls a chair over. ‘Sit down here. I’ve got a first aid kit in the van. Back in a sec.’

  As soon as he’s gone, I gingerly pull up each trouser leg to inspect the damage. It’s not pretty. I grab some kitchen roll to try and stem the bleeding but however hard I dab the wound on my right knee, blood continues to pump out.

  Then Seb is back.

  He hunkers down in front of me, placing a mug of water on the floor and dipping some cotton wool into it. Then he carefully removes the kitchen towel I’m holding over my knees and starts sluicing the wounds wit
h the warm water. I stare at his bent head. His dark brown hair is thick and lustrous, and I have an almost overwhelming urge to push my fingers into it. He’d glance up at me with those amazing azure eyes that mesmerise me every time he looks at me.

  This isn’t part of the plan, Jess! You’re supposed to be avoiding him!

  I swallow hard. It sounds horribly loud in the silence. It’s a bit difficult to avoid a man when he’s gently patting your knees dry and applying a soothing cream, taking such care that your heart twists with longing. I watch those big, capable hands as he works. And then, of course, I’m imagining those fingers caressing me all over. On my neck, my bare back, everywhere . . .

  He finishes and looks up. ‘The bleeding seems to have stopped. The cuts aren’t too deep, so that antiseptic cream should be enough to help them heal.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I mutter sheepishly.

  He smiles. ‘I think you’ll live.’ He places his hands gently on my thighs.

  We lock eyes for a moment and my heart pounds. His gaze drops to my mouth, his smile fading, and the air around us seems to pulse with tension.

  Then he breathes in sharply and gets to his feet, holding out his hand to me. I allow him to pull me up but my head swims at the sudden movement and I sway against him. His strong arms around me are what I need. So very badly.

  I can’t deny it any more. I haven’t got the strength.

  The realisation sweeps through me like an express train rushing through a village station.

  I’ve fallen hard for Seb Morgan and there’s not a single thing I can do about it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I stay there for a moment, in the circle of Seb’s arms, my head against his chest. I can hear the quick, rhythmic beat of his heart.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he murmurs, and I glance up into his eyes.

  ‘I think so.’

  He’s gazing down at me . . . his lips are so near . . . if I were to reach up on tiptoe, I’d be near enough to place my mouth on his . . .

  He bends his head a fraction towards me, and my heart races so fast I can barely breathe. Then just like before, he puts a subtle but definite distance between us, still holding my arms.