A Little Christmas Charm

by Kathryn Freeman

  Gabby had a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘The timing of it?’

  ‘Yes. Mum had just died, Dad was reeling from it, and Alice moved to another country.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I’m not being fair. Ever since she met Pierre, my brother-in-law, a move to France had been on the cards. And then he got a job over there. They did offer to postpone the move for a bit, but I told them to go for it. A few months was hardly going to make much of a difference to Dad, and they needed to get on with their new life.’

  ‘So you were left helping your dad with his grief.’

  He felt a kick of emotion at the sympathy swimming in her eyes. ‘I’m not sure I was much help. I don’t think anything can help, when you lose the love of your life. I was there for the practical stuff; sorting out her clothes, the paperwork. Making sure he ate, taking him out of the house.’ It was the emotional side he’d failed at. How to support a man who’d lost the will to live?

  ‘It sounds like you’re a better son than I am a daughter.’

  Shocked, he stared at her. ‘How on earth did you figure that?’

  ‘You were there for your dad when he needed you.’ An intense sadness settled across her face. ‘I’ve grown so far apart from my mother I wouldn’t even know if she needed me or not.’

  Dropping the roller, he hunched down next to her. ‘The distance isn’t your fault, Gabby. She’s the one who created it. She’s the only one who can fix it.’ Not as indifferent to her mum as she makes out, he realised as he planted a soft kiss on her forehead. As badly as the woman had let her down, Gabby still wanted a relationship with her.

  And if she was still open to that, maybe, just maybe, she’d also be open to other relationships. He just had to show her that he wasn’t like her mother. She could rely on him.

  ‘Tell me about your mum,’ she asked when they started work again.

  Automatically he smiled, which proved time was a healer, because even a year ago he’d have teared up instead. ‘She was the best,’ he said truthfully. ‘I honestly can’t imagine a better mum. She was warm, friendly, up for anything. Nothing ruffled her.’ He huffed in annoyance. ‘That sounds so bland, when she was anything but that. There was no side to her, you know? She was straight as a die. She wasn’t afraid to tell me when I’d let her down, but mostly she spent her time doing the opposite. Telling me how proud I made her.’ He stopped as the grief he’d thought had dulled, began to bite again.

  ‘Sounds like you take after her,’ Gabby said softly.

  Another wave of emotion flooded through him, constricting his throat. ‘I’d like to think so.’

  ‘And your dad? Tell me what he was like when your mum was alive.’

  Owen sucked in a breath, allowing the emotion to subside. ‘He smiled a lot more. My mum was the giggler, but Dad was the one who made her laugh. Made us all laugh, really. Not in a slapstick way, but in a dry, clever way.’

  ‘You get your sense of humour from him?’

  He grinned. ‘Are you saying you find me funny?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ She gave him a sly smile. ‘When you’re not pissing me off. Anything else you get from your dad?’

  ‘My drive, I guess. If he wanted something, he went after it until he got it. Dad always told us that’s how he convinced Mum to be his. He wore her down.’ Deliberately Owen caught her eye and held it. ‘So be warned.’

  Before she could get all flustered, he put down the roller. ‘Time for a break. I’ll raid the fridge and find us some lunch while you sit back and admire the work we’ve done so far.’

  She carefully wiped the brush with a rag and put it into the jar of white spirit. Then she crouched down and inspected what she’d done. ‘It would look better if you’d had some masking tape. Who paints without it?’

  ‘People who actually want to get on with the painting? People who don’t have swathes of time on their hands? Sensible people who know that once the furniture is in place, nobody is going to notice a wonky paint line?’

  At her huff of frustration, he bolted from the room. And chuckled all the way to the kitchen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nine days before Christmas

  Gabby woke to the smell of paint in her nostrils, a warm body surrounding her, and cramp in her fingers from holding a brush all day yesterday. Gently she eased them out, before relaxing back against the pillow.

  The sex had definitely been worth it.

  Smiling, she turned to face Owen, who grumbled in his sleep as she wriggled in his arms.

  ‘I thought you were the early riser.’

  He blinked open a sexy blue eye. ‘You tired me out.’

  ‘You mean decorating a room in a day tired you out.’

  His smile could only be called smug. ‘No. You tired me out. After the decorating.’

  She touched a hand to his face, feeling the bump of her heart again. This was so easy. Painting with him. Eating in his kitchen to the glow of a dozen candles he’d somehow managed to find and light while she’d had a shower. Going to bed with him, waking up with him. Sharing banter, but also the harder conversations, as they had yesterday. If she didn’t let her mind go too far beyond this, she was fine. More than fine. She was happy.

  Dad always told us that’s how he convinced Mum to be his. He wore her down.

  Her pulse turned skittish as she remembered Owen’s warning.

  A warm hand clasped hers. ‘Where have you gone?’

  She gave herself a mental shake. She wasn’t going to ruin what she had by worrying about hypotheticals. ‘I’ve gone to a place where I get breakfast in bed. Delivered by a man wearing nothing but a smile.’

  His chest shook with laughter. ‘Subtlety isn’t one of your attributes, is it?’ Before she could say anything more, he leapt out of bed and dragged on one of the many pair of jeans dumped over the armchair. ‘As it’s December and frigging freezing in this house, despite the expensive new boiler, I’m covering up my important parts. I don’t want to ruin the image you have of me by appearing in front of you naked. And cold.’

  With that he wrenched the door open and bounded down the stairs. Laughing at his retreating figure, Gabby sat up and glanced round his room, noting the small personal details that helped build a picture of the man she was becoming alarmingly attached to. A screwdriver and assorted screws had been abandoned on top of a large antique chest of drawers, along with receipts, a few pens, and a roll of mints. The drawers were partly opened, with various socks and T-shirts trying to escape. A bottle of cologne sat on the bedside table and she reached over to sniff, appreciating the deeply male scent yet knowing it was a hundred times more potent when he wore it. Spying the framed photographs on the fireplace she slid out of bed, slipping on one of his abandoned shirts before walking over to the pictures.

  ‘No need to wear that on my account, though I am digging the whole naked-except-for-one-of-my shirts look.’ She turned to find him carrying two mugs, a mountain of toast and wearing an appreciative smile.

  ‘Is this your mum?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sadness filled his eyes and his smile turned nostalgic. ‘The curly-haired girl standing beside her is Alice, though she doesn’t look anything like that now. Not as cute, not as unwrinkled, and she irons her hair. In case you wondered, the handsome devil Mum’s got in her arms is me.’

  Gabby studied his mother’s wide smile, the thick wavy blonde hair. The direct blue eyes. ‘You look a lot like her.’

  ‘I have her colouring, yes.’ He nodded over to the photograph next to it, featuring the same lady many years older, laughing into the eyes of handsome man with greying hair and a more reserved smile. ‘That’s her with Dad, a year before she fell ill.’

  ‘They look happy.’

  ‘They were.’

  Gabby felt a dart of envy. What must it have been like to grow up with parents who loved each other? And knowing they loved you, too? It made her ache for something she’d spent years telling herself she didn’t want. A relationship with her own mother. Enough t
o keep a photograph of her on the mantelpiece.

  She heard a clatter and then he was standing behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. ‘Hey, what’s wrong?’

  She swallowed, carefully placing the photograph back on the mantelpiece. ‘Nothing a dose of caffeine can’t fix.’

  His expression told her he wanted to push, but then he sighed and stepped back. ‘Then you’re in luck. Get back into bed.’ He took one look at her face and laughed. ‘Please.’

  She scrambled under the duvet, watching as he picked up the tray again. ‘You do realise this is the first time I’ve ever had breakfast brought to me in bed.’

  Surprise flashed across his face and he glanced down at the toast-laden tray. ‘Damn, if I’d known that, I’d have brought you something more elegant.’

  She made a grab for the coffee. ‘I’ll hold you to that next time.’ And how easy it was to say that. To know, without doubt, that she’d find herself in bed again with him soon. She looked up to find him grinning at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ He settled into the space next to her, putting the tray between them. ‘Just pleased to see you’ve accepted the inevitability of sleeping in my bed again. And again.’

  ‘I’ve accepted that if you’re offering to provide breakfast in bed, I’m inclined to accept.’ Taking a piece of toast, she moaned in pleasure as she bit into it. ‘When are you picking your dad up?’

  ‘I said around lunchtime. The doctor needs to take a final look at him this morning.’

  Should she volunteer to go with him? No, she wasn’t going to get herself in a state over what was the right thing to do. Not this time. If he wanted her to meet his dad, he’d ask. Otherwise, it wasn’t any of her business. Anyway, she hardly wanted to spend her Sunday afternoon helping Owen look after his dad.

  Funny then that the thought of spending it alone in her quiet, organised, tidy home had suddenly lost its appeal.

  He didn’t want to say goodbye to her, Owen realised as they finally made it downstairs after a lazy morning of making love, talking, and making love again. But he could hardly subject her to an afternoon with an invalid pensioner. Plus, he didn’t want the pair of them to meet for the first time with his dad all cranky from hospital.

  ‘Do you want a look at your handiwork? See if it passes muster in the daylight?’

  He opened the door to what would be his dad’s room. The dark wood floorboards and green walls were unusual for a bedroom, but would make a great study once his dad was back at home. Gabby had helped him carry the spare bed downstairs last night – in bits – and he’d assembled it, with a lot of cursing.

  ‘It looks good, Owen, really good.’ She smirked up at him. ‘Even the parts you did.’

  He had no comeback, he thought as he gazed into her smiling eyes. His heart felt too full. ‘Did I ever really thank you for everything you did yesterday?’

  ‘You thanked me this morning. Twice, if I recall.’

  For once he didn’t want to banter. ‘I’m serious, Gabby. When I invited you over I didn’t intend for it to be that much hard work.’ He shook his head, feeling a twinge of shame. ‘I want to date you. To treat you. To make you feel special.’ To make you fall in love with me, he almost added. ‘Yesterday I ended up using you for slave labour.’

  She frowned, placing a hand on his chest. ‘I enjoyed it. I don’t need the fancy stuff. I’m a modern, independent woman.’

  ‘You might not need it, but I want to give it to you.’ He bent to kiss her, finding a primitive pleasure in smelling his shower gel on her. ‘I’d better get you home before I decide to stuff my dad and take you back upstairs for the rest of the day.’

  They were both quiet on the journey back to her house. Owen’s mind was taken up with wondering how much he’d get to see her over the next few days, with his dad staying. As for her mind, he had no clue what she was thinking, other than whatever it was, her brain was working overtime on it.

  After pulling up outside her house he put the car into park before cupping her face and giving her a long, drugging kiss. ‘Thank you again.’

  Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day with your dad.’

  ‘I’d rather be with you.’

  ‘Even if I got you working?’ She smiled. ‘Payback’s a bitch.’

  ‘I’ll do anything.’ Unable to resist, he kissed her again. ‘As long as I’m with you, I’ll do anything.’ Knowing she was about to freak out, he quickly kissed the tip of her nose. ‘Except getting rid of mice. I can’t stand the things. Twitchy nose, big feet and long creepy tail.’

  His deflection tactic worked and she laughed as she waved him goodbye.

  When Owen entered the ward he found his dad sitting on the chair next to his bed, coat on, bag packed, waiting for him.

  ‘Looks like you’re ready to leave.’

  His dad heaved himself onto his walker. ‘I was ready an hour ago.’

  Okay then. Owen held his tongue and picked up his father’s bag. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier with a wheelchair?’

  Wrong thing to say.

  ‘I’m not a damn cripple.’

  ‘You’re a man recovering from a hip operation. Wheelchairs are allowed.’

  His dad began to make his way across the ward with the speed of a geriatric tortoise. ‘Physio says I should walk.’

  Owen wanted to point out that he could walk all he wanted, when he got home, but at this rate home wasn’t going to happen this side of Christmas. Once again, he held his tongue.

  An hour later and Owen had his dad settled in an armchair by the fire. For all his irritation with the man, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret at how diminished he looked. Pale from being stuck in hospital, thinner too, it was heartbreaking to see this man wither away in front of his eyes. It wasn’t that long ago his dad’s grey eyes had twinkled. Not that long ago that the man’s face had lit up when his mother had walked into a room. Now he was a shell. A man who seemed to have given up on life even though he still had kids who loved him, and a grandchild he could fuss over. If he could be bothered.

  ‘Where’s Clarissa?’

  Damn. He’d decorated a bedroom, made a bed – none of which his dad had shown any enthusiasm over – but he’d forgotten to fetch the damn budgie. ‘I’ll go and get her now. Do you need anything before I go?’

  ‘Have you been looking after the hens?’

  ‘Of course.’ His dad had wanted them brought over, too, but Owen had managed to persuade him they were fine where they were.

  He was halfway out of the room when his dad spoke again. ‘Smells of paint.’

  ‘Yes. We decorated your room yesterday.’

  It slipped off the tongue so easily Owen wasn’t aware he’d said it, until his dad gave him a searching look. ‘We?’

  ‘I did it with Gabby. My girlfriend.’ It sounded a bit juvenile. Surely there was a better term for a thirty-two-year-old man to use? Partner. Fiancé. Wife, he tried out. Unlike five years ago when Stella had mentioned the word, his heart failed to detonate in panic. Interesting.

  ‘Why haven’t I heard about her?’

  Owen sighed. Because you haven’t asked. Because we only talk about practical things. Never about anything important. ‘We’ve not been dating long.’ As he didn’t want his dad to think Gabby was a brief fling, he added. ‘She’s special though.’

  ‘If she’s special, why did you have her doing hard labour in your house?’

  This time Owen failed to hold his tongue. ‘You might have forgotten the concept, but I work, Dad. When else was I going to get the room ready for you but at the weekend? And how was I supposed to make that happen, if I’m enjoying a fancy day out with my girlfriend?’

  Immediately his dad stiffened. ‘I told you I’d be fine in my own house.’

  ‘And I told you I wanted to have you where I could keep an eye on you for a few days until I’m certain you can get about by yourself.’

  ‘If you’re working and seeing your woman
, I might as well be at home.’

  Anger fizzed through him – dangerous when mixed with the heavy dose of guilt. It’s your dad, he reminded himself. He might not show it, but he’s in pain. Likely a bit depressed, too. He’d brought him home to take care of him, not yell at him. ‘I’ve cleared my schedule for next week. I’ve got a few meetings I have to be at but outside them, I’m working from home.’ He didn’t mention Gabby. He wasn’t sure how he was going to work that, but he would, somehow. Even if it meant inviting her to spend the evening with a father and son who’d lost the ability to talk to each other. ‘Right, I’ll go and get Clarissa.’

  Maybe the budgie would do what the son clearly couldn’t, and manage to cheer the old man up.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Seven days before Christmas

  It was three days since she’d waved goodbye to Owen outside her house. Not that three days was long to go without seeing him. Oh hell, who was she kidding? It felt like an age. She was so used to chatting to him most days – even if it was just at work. It was only now she realised that even before they’d started dating, encounters with Owen Cooper; meetings, chats round the coffee machine, had been a high spot in her day.

  Cindy had given her a knowing look when they’d walked past his empty office. ‘Pining for your man, honey?’

  ‘I’m not pining. He’s not my man.’

  Cindy had let out one of her big, bawdy laughs. ‘You ready to give him up then?’

  The stab of jealousy had been so fierce she couldn’t ignore it. ‘No,’ she’d mumbled.

  Cindy had given her a wide, satisfied grin. ‘Thought not.’

  Well now she was back at home, and still feeling out of sorts. When her phone bleeped, and she saw who was messaging her, she smiled for the first time that day.