She showered and dressed in jeans and a thick sweater over a shirt, then went downstairs and made herself some toast with chocolate spread. Crumbs in the sink told her that he’d already prepared his own breakfast, and when she peered around the corner, she saw the door to the smaller living room half closed. But that was okay. She’d leave him to his own devices today. There was plenty she could do on her own.
She made herself a mug of coffee and went through into the larger living room, where she curled up on the sofa and flipped through a magazine she’d brought with her while she ate her breakfast.
After about ten minutes, he appeared in the doorway.
She looked up in surprise. He was leaning against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his jeans. He wore a thick, cream-colored Aran sweater over a blue shirt and walking boots.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” She smiled. “How are you doing?”
He shrugged. “Okay. Did you sleep all right?”
“Yes, thanks. You?”
“Not bad.” He glanced over at the window. “Did you see the sky?”
“Yeah. Reckon it’s going to snow today.”
“Looks like it.” His gaze came back to her. “What are you doing?”
“Riding a bike.”
“I meant, what are you doing next?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t thought about it yet.”
“I was going to go for a walk.”
Holly sipped her tea. He looked back out the window, his eyes far away, and she knew he was thinking of his wife.
Suddenly, he glanced back at her. “Want to come?”
A smile spread across her face. “Sure.” She finished her tea. “I’ll get my coat and shoes.”
…
They traced the loch northward, eventually reaching Fort Augustus after about an hour, and they wandered through the village, stopping for a cup of tea and a cake before continuing to follow the path for another hour or so. Then they turned back.
It was bitterly cold, and their breath misted before their faces in clouds of icy white. But they walked swiftly, and even though her nose and ears were cold, Holly could feel a trickle of sweat between her breasts every time they picked up the pace.
For a long time, they walked in silence, enjoying the peace and quiet, seeing squirrels and deer in the woodland and once a fox, his coat a flash of dusky red in the undergrowth. Woodpeckers and siskin finches flitted in the bushes, and overhead, sparrowhawks hunted for mice in the fields.
Holly kept her thoughts to herself and enjoyed the burn of cold in her lungs and the presence of the tall, brooding man next to her. Even though he wasn’t talking, she found being with him strangely comforting, and wondered whether he felt the same way about her. Was that why he’d asked her to go with him instead of spending the day on his own? She’d thought he wouldn’t want anything to do with her, especially today, but she hadn’t suggested the walk—he’d asked her to accompany him.
Eventually, however, she forgot that she wasn’t supposed to talk and said, “I wonder if she gets lonely?”
Noel raised an eyebrow. “The moon? Lady Macbeth? The Queen?”
“Sorry, I meant Nessie. Or do you think there’s two of them?”
He looked at the loch, which was now an icy blue-gray color underneath the lowering clouds. “I would imagine if there were creatures, there would have to be more than one. There’s probably a whole family down there. Aunts, uncles, cousins, you name it.”
“All coming over for Christmas dinner, and Nessie’s down there wishing she could swim off on her own for a bit of peace and quiet.”
He gave a soft laugh. “You have a strange way of looking at things, Miss Jones.”
“Why do you insist on calling me that?”
He shrugged and smiled. “I’ve called you that in my head since you started at the school.”
“Oh.” She digested that information. “I didn’t think you’d noticed me.”
“Oh, I noticed you.” He looked over the lake and didn’t elaborate.
They walked in silence for another five minutes.
Then he said, “Tell me about Jackass.”
She pulled a face. “You don’t really want to know about him.”
“I want to understand why he let you go. I met him once when he came to pick you up after a parents’ evening. He didn’t look like a lunatic.”
She laughed. “I’m no angel.”
“The best women aren’t.”
She met his amused gaze and then glanced away, biting her lip.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell me.”
So she told him. About how she’d met Jackson when he’d brought his younger brother to the fete her previous school had run. About how it had been good for a while, because he was so like every girl’s dream guy—fit and energetic, good-looking, strong and heroic. The sex had been terrific, she told him, lowering her eyes as she said it.
And then, after the first few years, she tired of the incessant parties and the immature behavior of his friends at the station. They started spending more time apart, him going out, her staying home, doing the quieter activities she enjoyed. Gradually, they drifted apart. The sex grew less regular and less enjoyable, eventually becoming mundane, with a feeling for both of them of going through the motions.
“So, it wasn’t really a surprise when he rang me,” she finished. “But it’s strange how sometimes you refuse to see the truth, you know? How you hide it, even from yourself.”
Noel nodded but didn’t say anything. It was nearly lunchtime, and she saw with surprise they were only ten minutes or so from the house.
She sighed. “I’ve been talking for ages. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You have a very soothing voice.”
“Is that a nice way of saying I’m sending you off to sleep?”
“Not at all.” He smiled.
“Ah, but you’re such a gentleman, you wouldn’t tell me I was boring even if I was.”
“Holly, you’re not boring me.”
It was the first time she could remember him saying her first name. Her cheeks grew surprisingly hot considering it was so cold.
When they got back to the house, they stripped off their coats, boots, scarves, and gloves, and Noel made up the fire again while she prepared lunch—a simple affair of French bread, cold meat and cheese, and a beer for them both. As she worked, she wondered how he was feeling. He hadn’t talked about his wife at all, and although Holly knew that Christmas Eve was the day she’d passed away, she wasn’t sure what time. She sensed it was late, though, could almost feel his apprehension as he waited for the moment to approach.
He came into the kitchen and washed his hands. “The fire’s going.”
“Great.” She gave him a smile and pushed his plate and beer over to him. “Now, be honest with me. What do you want me to do? I’ve got books to read, puzzles to do. I’ll be quite happy curling up in the other room. You only have to say.”
He met her gaze. His glasses had flecks of ash on them, and she resisted the urge to reach out and brush them off. “I was going to watch a film,” he said eventually, running a hand through his hair. “Paul’s got quite a selection. You can join me if you want.”
He didn’t want to be alone. She could sense it, and also his unease, because he felt that he should want to be alone.
She picked up her plate and beer. “Okay. But no horror movies. I scare easily.”
His lips curved and he picked up his plate. “So no Alien, then?”
“Absolutely not. You want me to have bad dreams?”
“Maybe. With my snoring and your screams, Nessie won’t stand a chance.”
Laughing, they went into the living room. They stood in front of the shelves of DVDs and Holly told him to choose one. He settled for Die Hard, and she placed it in the DVD player before curling up in the armchair, while he stretched out on the sofa, feet crossed on the arm.
The fire crackled and danced in the gra
te, and they ate their lunch and watched John McClane fight terrorists in his vest, and then when the film finished, Noel told her it was her turn to choose. So she picked The Bourne Identity, and they watched Jason Bourne outfox the CIA while they ate mince pies and had another beer.
Next, he picked Casino Royale, and she ogled Daniel Craig, and Noel ogled Eva Green while pretending to ogle Judi Dench, giving Holly the giggles.
Halfway through, he went into the kitchen and reappeared with a tumbler full of whisky and a glass of wine for her, throwing himself back onto the sofa without another word. Holly said nothing, curling up in the chair to watch the rest of the film as she sipped the chardonnay.
When Casino Royale finished, she could sense a change in his mood and wondered whether she should migrate into the other living room, but he gestured to the shelves and told her it was her turn, so she shrugged and picked Ocean’s Eleven and slotted it into the DVD player, happy to stay for as long as he wanted her.
Ten minutes into the film, he went into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of Laphroaig and the rest of the chardonnay and poured them each a second glass, leaving the bottles on the table. Holly drank her wine and watched him slowly unravel. First, the Aran sweater came off as the room grew warm from the fire, and he undid a few buttons and rolled up his sleeves. As Danny Ocean organized his team to outwit Terry Benedict, Noel’s hair grew more ruffled and he slumped lower in the seat, topping up her glass along with his so that she wondered if it was refilling itself, as it never seemed to grow empty.
By the time Danny’s eleven started the heist, Holly had migrated to the sofa next to Noel, tired of contorting herself in the chair, and they both stretched out with their feet on the coffee table, poured themselves another drink, and bickered amicably about which film had been the best.
By the end of the film, her legs were across his lap, and he was stroking her feet as if they’d known each other for twenty years.
And then the film ended. Holly was feeling decidedly tipsy and hazily relaxed, but she could see the tenseness reappear in his shoulders as he gently moved her legs off his lap and stood to look out the window.
“Is it snowing?” she asked drowsily.
“Not yet. But it will soon.”
She looked at her watch—it was just after nine. She watched him come back and sit in the armchair. His glass was half full, and he swirled the liquid around the base, looking at the fire.
She cleared her throat. “You want to watch another film?”
He shook his head.
“You want me to go, Noel?” she asked gently. “It’s okay—I understand.”
He met her gaze then. She could see the pain deep in his eyes like stones at the bottom of a river. But, to her surprise, he gave a small, almost unnoticeable shake of his head.
So, she poured herself another glass of wine and stretched out along the sofa. “Tell me about her.”
He stared at her, blinking. “I don’t know if I can.” His voice was almost a whisper.
Holly shrugged. “Nothing deep. What did she look like? What was her favorite music? What job did she do?”
He took a deep breath. And then he started talking.
…
Once he started, Noel thought he’d never be able to stop. He talked for hours. He talked about when he’d first met Ella that day outside the cinema, and he’d told her she looked just like Julia Roberts in the film he’d been to see. He described how beautiful she was, and how much she enjoyed her job illustrating children’s books. He explained how they’d talked about having a large family—she’d wanted at least four kids. He related the moment they’d found out she had breast cancer, about how they’d gone home and she’d fallen apart, but he hadn’t been able to believe it.
And he told Holly how hard it had been at the end, and how he’d held his wife as she died. By the time he finished, his throat was tight, his cheeks were wet, and his glass was empty again.
The terrible thing, though, was that he wasn’t really upset because of Ella. He’d told Holly the anecdotes about his life with Ella as if he were looking at photos in an album, but that was all they were becoming. Memories he could flick through in his head like a slideshow. Emotionally, he felt strangely numb. He could remember the pain, the loneliness, the grief he’d felt when she died. But now…
“I’m starting to forget her,” he said.
He took off his glasses, wiped his face, and leaned his head on the back of the armchair, looking up at the ceiling.
Holly had listened to him ramble, interjecting occasionally with a question but mostly just listening, her beautiful face filled with compassion. Now he heard her get up and refill his glass, and then she walked out of the room. He was surprised at how disappointed he felt, and he raised his head slowly, wishing he wasn’t so drunk so he could go after her and thank her for listening.
Then, to his surprise, she came back. She was carrying her other case, and he watched as she unclipped it and took out her sax.
She put the strap over her head and ran her fingers along the keys, perched herself on the edge of the table by the window, and began to play.
The deep, mellow tones of the saxophone filled the room, running right through him from his heel bones to his breastbone, reverberating in the cavity of his chest. He caught his breath, stunned by the beauty of both the sound and the woman playing the instrument, her blond curls glowing like beaten gold in the firelight, her eyes closed as she gave herself to the music.
Like when she’d played the guitar, she played whatever took her fancy, from recognizable love songs to classical pieces to spiraling jazz, switching from piece to piece, giving it her all. Noel felt himself caught up in the music, his emotions whirling with the notes in a kind of magical maelstrom, and he wasn’t surprised when about an hour later he looked past her through the window and saw it was snowing.
He got to his feet unsteadily, and Holly let the music trail off, putting down the sax, her mouth red and swollen from playing. She followed him to the front door, and he opened it and went outside, looking up in wonder as the white flakes fluttered out of the sky, coating everything in a layer of silvery white.
“It’s midnight,” said Holly beside him. “It’s Christmas Day.” She looked up at him over her shoulder and smiled. “Happy birthday.” Turning toward him, she raised herself on tiptoes and kissed his cheek, her hand coming up to touch his face lightly.
She went to pull back, but Noel caught her arm. His eyes met hers, and then he slid his hand behind her head and bent to kiss her properly.
Her mouth was incredibly soft, her lips cool, but when he brushed them with his tongue, she opened them willingly. Her arms came around his neck and he held her to him tightly, closing his eyes and giving himself up to the kiss, tasting the sweetness of the wine and enjoying the press of her lips, the sweep of her tongue against his. It was a dreamlike moment, the snow swirling around them, and even though it was cold enough to freeze certain appendages, he felt warm all the way through.
Eventually they pulled back, and Holly smiled, her green eyes glowing. “Happy birthday,” she said again.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Jones.”
“Merry Christmas, Noel the Brave.”
She went into the house, and he watched her walk up the stairs to her room before turning back to the cold, dark night, drinking in its icy beauty one last time. He went back into the living room, banked the fire up, and sat heavily in the armchair. There was a half inch of whisky left in the glass, and he swirled it around as he thought about what he’d just done.
“I’m sorry, Ella,” he whispered.
It had been three years since she died. He hadn’t even thought of another woman in that time, let alone kissed anyone else. After all, he’d sworn to love her forever. Till death us do part. The words rang in his head. Death had come between them, and it wasn’t either of their faults, but she’d left him alone and his heart longed to love someone else. He needed a woman in his life—h
e needed love, sex, marriage, kids. He wanted it all.
The guilt of his admission hung over him like snow clouds over the loch. Ella had once told him—before she’d fallen ill—that if she died and he went with anyone else, she’d haunt him relentlessly. She’d said it jokingly, and of course he would have felt the same way—the thought of her with another man would have torn him apart. But what if their roles had been reversed and he’d been the one who died? Would he have wanted her to meet someone else? Get married, have children?
Romantically, he’d have hoped that she wouldn’t have remarried, declaring that nobody would match up to him. Realistically, he would have expected her to mourn him for a year, spend another year feeling guilty for getting over him, then the third year start dating—warily at first, but growing more confident as time passed and she realized moving on wasn’t the same as being disloyal.
So, why did it feel so disloyal to set himself the same goals?
He’d been dreading Christmas Eve, but the truth was that he’d actually enjoyed the day with Holly. Walking with her in the cold December air, watching films and bickering with her on the sofa, listening to her play, kissing her out in the snow.
What did she think of the kiss? Obviously, she’d just come out of a breakup, they were both drunk as skunks, and she’d needed comfort as much as he had. It was pointless, though, to try to second-guess what she was feeling before he’d even sorted out his own emotions. This wasn’t about her per se—it was about the realization that it was time to move on.
He wanted to fall in love again.
Holly had just been a trigger, he told himself, a catalyst in the chemical reaction as his grief evolved into something else. It could have been any woman who prompted this insight—Holly had just been in the right place at the right time.
And yet…he thought of how he’d watched her around the school over the past year, amused and puzzled by her at the same time. Of how he’d felt when he walked into the storeroom, and she’d burst into tears in front of him. He thought about the softness of her lips under his, the way she’d opened her mouth willingly, the look in her eyes before she’d gone up to bed. And he kept thinking about it as he finished off the whisky, and outside the snow fell across the countryside like the soft jangle of silver bells.
Kiss Me for Christmas Page 18