A Cosy Candlelit Christmas: A wonderfully festive feel good romance (An Unforgettable Christmas Book 2)

by Tilly Tennant

  Isla hadn’t really expected much in the way of shops. St Martin was a small town – a village, practically – and the tourist websites she’d checked out had shown only a handful of places in grainy photos. However, their variety and charm had been deeply understated. They were fascinating; far removed from the corporate chains she was used to in the high streets of Britain. Each one was unique and quirky, from the tobacconist that sold toys and postcards, the air dripping with the sweet, earthy scents of dried leaves and smoky flavours, to the boucherie, its window hung with cooked and cured meats and shelves inside crammed with honey, cheese and wine, the unmistakable smell of garlic on the air. Isla lingered there for a long time and looked carefully at everything, torn over a decision to buy that gift for her father after all, but in the end she decided against it. Instead, she settled on plopping a jar of mountain honey on the counter to take home for her mum, paying wordlessly for it as the shopkeeper chatted amiably in French that was too fast for her to catch the few words she might understand. All she managed was a sheepish merci and au revoir as she left the store, but the shopkeeper, a sprightly looking man who had to be at least ninety years old, didn’t seem to mind.

  There was a gift shop selling stuffed animals dressed in ski suits, quaint wooden toys and miniature alpine chalets, clocks and watches, sunglasses, silver jewellery and colourful beads and bright rustic-looking pottery. Isla wanted to buy almost everything she saw, despite having almost wiped out her budget for Christmas presents in Dorchester before she’d left. Then there was a glut of ski equipment and clothes shops, and even though she didn’t ski Isla couldn’t resist a peek inside. She knew one of them must belong to her dad, so she didn’t linger long.

  Eventually she reached the shop Dahlia had recommended and was delighted to find that the assistant spoke perfect English which, she had to assume, was the reason Dahlia had told her to go there.

  ‘Bonjour,’ the young assistant greeted brightly as she walked in. The floor and shelving were honeyed pine, row upon row of T-shirts, fleeces and ski wear hanging from them. There were racks of sunglasses and goggles and a radio was playing Christmas carols quietly in the background. Over by an oil-fired heater, a tabby cat lazily licked a paw and Isla vaguely wondered how on earth such an ordinary-looking cat managed in mountain terrain. In the corner of the shop, a grey-muzzled dog lifted its head and gave Isla the most cursory of glances before settling back to sleep again.

  ‘I’m looking for some boots…’ Isla lifted up a sodden foot, clad in her own wholly inappropriate fashion footwear.

  ‘Ah,’ the girl replied with a grin. ‘Perhaps something more suited to our snow?’

  ‘I hadn’t expected it to be quite this… wet,’ Isla said with a smile. ‘I can’t imagine why.’

  ‘I am sure we can help you there. Please… come this way and I will show you what we have…’

  ‘Almost everyone’s out skiing or snowboarding,’ Dahlia told her sagely as she polished a great brass bell that hung over the counter. Isla had returned to change into her new boots and grab a last coffee in the now deserted bar before heading off to the restaurant to make her appointment. It was tempting to get something stronger but perhaps being tipsy wasn’t the best way to meet her dad for the first time in twenty-four years.

  ‘I’m not staying long. I’ve got to be somewhere in an hour or so…’

  ‘You want a drink?’ Dahlia asked briskly as she rubbed at the bell.

  ‘A drink would be great… What’s the bell for?’

  Dahlia stopped and blinked at Isla. ‘It’s not for anything,’ she said. ‘Belonged to my grandfather,’ she added, as if that were explanation enough.

  ‘Right,’ Isla replied, none the wiser. But then, she barely had anything that belonged to the generations who had gone before her, so it was hard to imagine treasuring an old heirloom in such a way. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘His boat. He was a fisherman.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you – drowned in a storm just after I was born. This was in my grandma’s garage when we cleared out the house and my mom let me keep it. Don’t suppose she was going to do much with it.’

  ‘What do you do with it?’

  Dahlia grinned. ‘Mostly clean it.’

  ‘It must mean a lot to you.’

  Dahlia stopped rubbing again and gazed at the gleaming brass. ‘Well, I suppose it must. Never really given it much thought.’ She smiled at Isla, stowing the cloth and polish under the counter. ‘That’s enough talk of my old junk… What will you have to drink?’

  At 11.40 a.m. Isla stepped out into the bitterly cold street in her new boots and enormous, down-filled coat to make her way to the restaurant. People smiled and nodded as they passed, but though her mouth automatically stretched in reply she could barely keep her mind on her surroundings. It was a shame, and on a different day she might have appreciated the drama of the mist rolling in apace to consume the distant peaks while the egg-yolk sun fought against heavy clouds to own the rest of the sky. Her mind was full of the conversation she’d had earlier with Dahlia about her grandfather’s bell. It wasn’t the bell that fascinated her, but the idea that Dahlia treasured it so much without really understanding why. She hadn’t known the grandfather who’d left it behind and yet she was connected to him through it. Isla barely knew her dad and she’d never even had that much to help her keep hold of him. Would today have been easier if she had? Would she have felt she’d known him, just a little better? Perhaps it wouldn’t have made any difference in the end and she tried hard not to dwell on it now.

  Not knowing how long it would take her to find the restaurant where they’d agreed to meet, Isla arrived there early. She wanted to stand outside to wait, nervous about going in first, but eventually the weather got the better of her.

  Inside, the restaurant was slick and modern with mood lighting and chrome fittings. Not at all as she’d expected considering what she’d seen of the town that day. The maître d’ switched smoothly from French to English as she returned his greeting and showed her to a table big enough for five – Isla, her father, his wife Celine and… two others? Children? She ordered a coffee and settled down to wait.

  So she waited for her newly found family, trying to imagine how it would go. They’d all sit politely around the table after brief introductions and drinks orders and listen as her father divulged who was getting what. Perhaps she was the only one who didn’t already know? What if she didn’t want what was on offer? What if there were conditions she didn’t agree to and she let them all down? Would she agree to them anyway? Powerful emotions would be bubbling under the surface like a geyser ready to blow, but she’d have to keep them in check – keep a cool head.

  After a quick glance at her watch, she turned her eyes to the windows. She’d had ten minutes waiting alone, long enough for the nerves to tie her insides in knots and she wished they would hurry up and get here because she didn’t know how much more she could take. If they didn’t arrive soon she might just leave some money for the coffee and make a run for it.

  Outside snowflakes stuttered sporadically from a rapidly whitening sky. At least her hotel wasn’t too far away to walk if the weather got a lot worse. How bad did it get up here? You saw things on the news all the time about snowstorms and avalanches, but did they really happen as often as it seemed? Did they get many here in St Martin? The residents she’d met that morning appeared relaxed and carefree enough, so perhaps not.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by movement in the corner of her eye. From her table she had full view of the main restaurant entrance and the doors opened now to reveal a party of four – a middle-aged man, a woman of around the same age and a younger man and woman in their late teens or early twenties. Isla’s gaze flicked across the four of them but rested in the end on the man. Her father. She didn’t see anything of herself in those features – dark hair shot through with grey, strong-jawed and heavy-lidded – but she knew him. Like a sluice
gate suddenly opened, the memories poured back; images she’d locked away for so many years, of him sitting in an armchair laughing at something on the TV, eating at the table with them, ruffling her hair, folding a coin into her hand for an ice cream, tucking her into bed with a kiss. Memories so at odds with the picture she’d built of him since he’d left that the pain and confusion were almost too much to bear. She stiffened in her seat and suddenly her grip on the cup and saucer she was holding felt weak. With a shaking hand she placed it on the edge of the table in front of her, certain she’d let it go crashing to the floor if she didn’t.

  The maître d’ swung an arm to indicate Isla at her table and they made their way across the room. Isla wanted to stand up to greet them. She wanted to be composed and refined and sophisticated and nonchalant. But her heart was thudding with such a force she was certain she’d topple over. So she sat, shaking in her seat, staring at the group like a deer in headlights as they approached. The moment had come, and it was too late to back out now.

  ‘Isla…’

  Her father’s first word to her in twenty-four years, the first time in all that time she’d heard his voice. There was a moment of uncertainty, during which she couldn’t read what he was thinking as he silently appraised her and she didn’t know how to react. But then he broke into a stiff smile.

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ was all he said.

  His wife took Isla by both hands and leaned across the table to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘I’m Celine,’ she said. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

  Celine McCoy, Isla thought, Mrs McCoy. She was suddenly fired with a brief rush of anger. Mrs McCoy was her mother. Isla tried to calm herself. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t get emotional. As she dragged in a breath, Celine swept a hand at the young man and woman who were now both regarding Isla with some curiosity as they took their seats. ‘This is my son, Benet, and my daughter, Natalie.’

  Both children were the spitting-image of their mother: honey-blonde hair, aquiline noses, intelligent eyes – perhaps hazel, perhaps greener in better light – slim and lithe and effortlessly at ease. Infinitely more at ease than Isla was surely looking right now.

  ‘You’re our sister?’ Natalie asked, her words curled into a soft accent as she looked between Isla and her father, and in her voice Isla detected some incredulity. It was hardly surprising when they were as fair as Isla was dark.

  ‘Half-sister,’ Isla mumbled. ‘My mother’s Nigerian.’ She looked at her dad. ‘Do they know anything about my mum?’

  ‘Well, no…’ her dad began awkwardly.

  Isla turned back to Benet and Natalie. ‘I guess you were expecting me to look a lot more like Ian then – at least the same colour.’

  Benet looked blankly at Natalie and then at his parents.

  ‘Never mind,’ Isla said, casting a glance at her father, who simply moved to pull out a chair for his wife to sit.

  ‘Have you settled in at your hotel?’ Ian asked.

  ‘It’s nice,’ came Isla’s vague reply.

  ‘And how are you finding St Martin?’

  ‘It’s pretty.’ She tapped a fingernail on the handle of her coffee cup. Small talk. In the midst of something this huge they were engaging in small talk? What about starting with the stuff that really mattered, like what he’d been doing for the past twenty-four years that was so important he couldn’t even send her one single birthday card?

  The waiter came over and they ordered drinks. As he glided away again, Ian turned his attention back to the table. He was silent as his gaze fell on Isla once more and his new family simply watched him. What was he thinking? Was he already regretting asking Isla to come? Did he approve of the way she’d turned out? Was he thinking she looked like her mother? Did that cause him pain, or sorrow, or regret? Did it make him realise he’d missed her? Did he feel like he’d made a mistake all those years ago? Did he feel like this was a mistake now?

  Isla shot the briefest glance at his new wife and wondered whether the same questions were running through her head too. Was she looking at Isla and feeling a pang of jealousy? Worried that his first daughter would remind Ian of his first wife – perhaps remind him of the love they’d once had? Because Isla knew, no matter what had happened to tear her parents apart, they had been in love once. Anyone who’d seen the way Glory talked about him in the years since couldn’t fail to understand that it had been deep and fierce. Did Celine know that? Had Ian told her what it had been like in the early days?

  ‘You are well?’ Celine asked, and Isla sensed in it the need to say something, anything, to break the silence. Perhaps the tension was getting to her too.

  ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘The food is good here,’ Natalie put in with a nervous smile. ‘You will eat with us, Isla?’

  ‘I think so,’ Isla replied, throwing another glance at Ian, who was still staring at her. She wished he’d just say what was on his mind, but perhaps it wasn’t something he could share in front of his new family.

  ‘How long will you stay in St Martin?’ Celine asked.

  ‘A few days. I promised my mum I’d be home for Christmas.’

  ‘Ah.’ Celine’s short reply hinted at relief.

  ‘There’s nothing to do at Christmas here anyway,’ Benet said, causing Ian to throw him a sharp look and Celine to purse her lips. ‘There’s nothing to do any time,’ he added belligerently. He looked to be in his early twenties but sounded more like a moody thirteen-year-old. Isla liked Natalie and Celine so far – as much as she could – but Benet was a bit off somehow. Was there a hint of distaste in the looks he gave her when he thought nobody was taking any notice? But then, perhaps that was to be expected a little in the circumstances.

  ‘I’m sure it’s lovely and peaceful here all the time,’ Isla said. ‘And there seems like a lot to do.’

  ‘If you’re a tourist and you have money filling your ski boots,’ he replied, and this time she was sure Ian gave him a shove under the table that shut him up.

  ‘Perhaps we should get down to business,’ Ian said, in a sudden and unexpected change of tack.

  Business? Was that all it was to him? Isla fought the urge to squeal in frustration. She wanted answers, to know what had kept him away for all those years. She would get them, but perhaps now wasn’t the time. She pressed her lips into a hard line and faced him, forcing herself to pay attention as he continued.

  ‘So, we all know that my mother’s last will and testament contains some strange stipulations and some surprising gifts. I thought it fair to wait until we were all together to go into the details. I’m not sure everyone is going to like what’s in here, but we have to respect Grandma Sarah’s final wishes.’ From a leather satchel he produced a wad of paper and laid it on the table, smoothing a hand over the pages to straighten them out. All eyes went to the document; in between those pages lay the answers – some of them at least.

  Ian glanced up and eyed each of his family in turn, except for Isla. A moment ago he was staring, and now he couldn’t look? Isla was aware that perhaps she was putting up a wall too, but surely if anyone was entitled to erect an emotional barrier, it was her. His job – the job of any decent father – was to break it down, no matter what it took.

  And then he began to read – phrases and words Isla had never heard before and barely had the concentration to start unravelling the meaning of. She wasn’t interested, because all she could think about was the proximity of the father who had scarcely given her a second look. The little girl still locked inside her was desperate for him to notice her, to tell her he’d missed her, that he’d been wrong to leave her. The same little girl who had bought Christmas presents he would never open. For so much of her adult life she’d hushed that little girl, hid her in the cupboard and pretended to the world that she didn’t care. But she did care – had always cared. He was breaking that little girl’s heart, all over again.

  Natalie and Benet were attentive, nodding at various points, and e
very so often they and Ian would glance at Celine for approval or in a silent cue for any questions to be aired before he continued. When she gave an encouraging smile or nod they would continue. Despite the tumultuous emotions running through her head, Isla had to be impressed that they were keeping up with the words of this hellishly complex document in a language not their own.

  Isla’s gaze strayed to the windows where the snow was falling faster now. She pictured herself bolting from the table and running for the door. What was she doing here? What had possessed her to come? She should have listened to her mum, who’d known this was never going to end well. Glory had been right – her dad didn’t want her; he only wanted his inheritance.

  Isla was catapulted back into the room when she heard her name along with the words holiday home followed by a collective sharp intake of breath from Natalie and Benet. All eyes were now on her.

  ‘Serendipity Sound?’ Natalie asked, turning to Ian, who nodded, and then to Celine. ‘She left her holiday home to… to Isla?’

  ‘Yes,’ Celine replied, not in the least flustered by the clear disbelief in Natalie’s voice.

  ‘That was supposed to be ours!’ Natalie cried. ‘It was supposed to be given to Benet and I!’

  ‘It’s just a cabin,’ Ian said in a dull voice.

  ‘It is worth a lot of money,’ Benet replied indignantly.

  ‘I don’t want it.’ Isla spoke into the gap, surprised to hear her own voice. ‘What’s the point of me owning that?’

  ‘Perhaps your grandmother wanted you to spend more time here,’ Celine said. ‘Owning a vacation property would allow you to do that.’