Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin

by Catherine Ferguson

  Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin

  CATHERINE FERGUSON

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  AVON

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

  1 London Bridge Street

  London

  SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  Copyright © Catherine Ferguson 2017

  Catherine Ferguson asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © October 2017

  ISBN: 9780008215743

  Version: 2017-08-25

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  By The Same Author

  About the Author

  Keep Reading…

  About the Publisher

  For Carole. Half-cousin? Or twice-removed? Still not certain. Just really glad you’re my cousin!

  Prologue

  When I woke, I knew – even before I drew back the curtains – that it had snowed overnight.

  The light was subtly different and there was an eerie, muffled quality to the early-morning sounds out in the village of Angelford, where the shop-owners were gearing up for another chaotic, till-ringing day of pre-Christmas cheer and gift-buying.

  I slipped out of bed and crossed to the window. The snow glittered in the weak early-December sunlight, swathed like a smooth layer of white icing over our tiny front garden, making comical bulbous shapes out of the holly bush and the little rickety gate.

  Standing there, I thought of that other Christmas long ago, when I was twelve. Our mad snowball fight. How I’d battled to keep the snowballs coming to defend myself, hurling them too soon in my excitement so that they ended up as little more than puffs of snow rising up into the air. I remember squealing with laughter as icy water leaked down the back of my coat, my hands numb and raw with the cold because, despite Mum’s best efforts, I wouldn’t wear my gloves.

  The snow always brought the memories of that time flooding back.

  Not that I ever forgot.

  I’d tried to wipe it from my mind. Pretend it didn’t matter. But meeting my real dad when I was twelve, only for him to turn his back on me, wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you could blot out at will.

  I’d spent four days with him that Christmas. Days that were full of kindness and laughter and learning all about exotic Italy, the place where he was born. And how to make the perfect snowball. Alessandro Bianchi made me feel that I was worth knowing. He’d listened intently to the things I told him about my life and laughed at my jokes, such a stark contrast to the way my bullying stepfather, Martin, made me feel. Although it had happened years ago – I was thirty now, all grown up – I could still recall that breathless sense of wonder when Mum told me Alessandro was my real dad.

  I’d had a sense that I was on the brink of something really special; that a whole new life was opening up for me …

  How wrong I’d been.

  My insides clenched and I turned away from the snowy scene.

  It never did me any good to think about the time my real dad came to visit; to linger on those few days I spent with him, as Mum stood by, wary and watching, like a hen protecting her chick.

  In my hopeful childhood innocence, I’d assumed it would be the start of something real and life-changing. But in the end, those few days of Christmas turned out to be sparkling but transitory, like the snow itself. All too soon they had melted away into nothing …

  Chapter 1

  When I open the door to my best friend, Erin, she’s standing there trying not to smile and give the game away. But I can see by the sparkle in her green eyes that she has news.

  She flicks back her long blonde hair as if to build up the drama. Then she whips something from behind her back and pushes it into my hands.

  ‘What’s this?’ I laugh. It’s a beautiful scarlet apron sprigged with a modern design of snow-white Christmas trees. ‘For me?’

  She nods gleefully. ‘For you, Poppy. You’re going to need it. Mrs Morelli wants you to cook for her on Saturday night!’ Her last few words are more of an excited squeal.

  I glance wide-eyed from her to the living-room door. It’s open just a crack. ‘Are you mad?’

  Her face falls a fraction. ‘But why not? It’s only a dinner party for eight.’

  I stare at her in horror. It’s all very well cooking for Harrison, and occasionally Erin and Mark as well. I’m never happier than when I’m doing that. But cooking for eight strangers?

  ‘Oh God, Erin, you haven’t told her I’ll do it, have you?’ My heart is beating frantically. Partly because cooking for a living would be a dream come true, if I’m honest. But mostly because I know that I could never pull it off in a million years.

  Erin grins. ‘I might have,’ she says coyly, before catching my dismayed expression. ‘Hey, don’t worry. I just said I’d check with you.’

  I breathe out slowly, my hand on my chest.

  ‘But … oh, Poppy, you’re a brilliant cook!’ Her face twists into a frown. ‘You’re wasted at that Pretty Flaming Cheek Hotel.’

  ‘Pretty Flamingo Boutique Hotel,’ I remind her tartly, although she knows full well.

  I’ve been a waitress in the restaurant of the Pretty Flamingo Boutique Hotel since I was sixteen and started working shifts at weekends for extra pocket money. Fourteen years later, I’m still there. I used to dream of going to catering college, but it would have meant moving away from home and I knew Mum needed me close by. Working in the next village means it’s easy to pop in and check on her in between shifts.

  The hotel is owned by Evelyn and David Nutter, a couple in their fifties, although it’s Mrs Nutter who cracks the whip and makes sure to squeeze every last drop of profit from the business. She’s always been okay with me, although Erin doesn’t agree. She isn’t a fan of their hard-nosed approach to business and she thinks
the Nutters take me completely for granted.

  ‘You must admit they do have a flaming cheek the way they treat you. You’re always being leaned on to do extra shifts by that Mrs Nutjob, and you’re far too nice to say no!’

  I grin at her. ‘Erin, I enjoy being a waitress and I’m good at it. And Mrs Nutter is just trying to make the hotel a success so she and Mr Nutter can retire into the sunset.’

  Erin grunts. ‘I know you’re good at your job. I’m not arguing with that.’

  ‘And I’m about to be promoted to restaurant manager, remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember. Mr Hastings is retiring and everyone knows you’re the perfect person to step into his shoes.’ She tries to look pleased. ‘And that’s brilliant, of course. It just seemed like fate when Mrs Morelli mentioned she was looking for a caterer.’

  Her voice rises when she’s excited or agitated. I put my finger to my lips and indicate the living-room door, behind which my boyfriend is sitting on the sofa, poring over numbers on his laptop.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, leaning closer. ‘Didn’t mean to announce it to the entire universe. Is Harrison in?’

  ‘Yes. Harrison’s just back from work,’ I tell her in a normal voice, so he knows we’re not whispering and plotting. (Hardly necessary, really. When Harrison’s looking at numbers, he’s in his own little world.) ‘I’d invite you in but Harrison’s showing me some – erm – financial projections.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, marvellous!’ She beams, and I can see from her expression that she’s already planning a speedy escape. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’

  Erin is thinking of buying a flat with her boyfriend, Mark, and last time she popped by, Harrison helpfully gave her a detailed run-down on the advantages and pitfalls of what every bank in Britain is currently offering in the way of mortgages. Well, it seemed like every bank to me. But that’s only because I’m not particularly great with numbers.

  Harrison is quite the opposite. He’s an accountant and currently in line for promotion at the big London firm where he works. He commutes every day from our home in Surrey and will often work late at the office on the nights I’m serving dinner at the hotel.

  ‘Better get home. I’ve bought oysters and some fizz for tonight,’ says Erin, showing me the bottle in her bag.

  ‘Ooh, what’s the occasion?’

  She gives me a rather lewd wink. ‘No occasion. Except getting Mark in a loving mood, if you know what I mean.’

  I grin. ‘Do I really need to know about this?’

  She pulls a face. ‘He’s been a bit distracted of late. I think they’re working him too hard, poor lamb. Feeding each other oysters is sure to get us back on track.’

  ‘They are supposed to be an aphrodisiac.’

  ‘Exactly! You should try them on Harrison.’

  ‘Seafood brings him out in a rash. He’s more a steak pie man.’

  Erin starts slip-sliding up the snowy path. ‘I’ll let you get back to your financial projections,’ she calls. ‘You’ve got a good one there, Poppy. Mark wouldn’t know his APR from his VPL.’

  I grin. ‘Er, neither would I. APR? Um … Annual Percentage Thingy?’

  She nods. ‘Annual Percentage Rate.’

  ‘And VPL?’ I cast around for possible words. ‘Very Preposterous Logarithm?’

  She giggles. ‘Visible Panty Line, actually.’ Closing the gate behind her, she sets off for her flat at the other end of the high street, pausing only to call, ‘Think about Mrs Morelli.’

  ‘I don’t have to. It’s not happening. But thank you for this.’ I hold up the Christmas apron. She shakes her head at me with weary affection, and I wave her off.

  Erin and I met six years ago when she started weekend-waitressing at The Pretty Flamingo to make extra cash to fund a course in flower arranging. She couldn’t stand working for the Nutters so she didn’t last long. But she’s since found her perfect job working in a florist’s in a neighbouring village, and her dream is to one day own her own shop.

  When she first arrived at the hotel, I thought she was loud and a bit of a show-off.

  Actually, I still think she’s loud and a bit of a show-off, but she’s also very kind and loyal with a fabulous sense of humour. The day I realised this, was also the day I was almost sacked by Mrs Nutter for breaking a porcelain statue of a flamingo.

  I’d been serving a couple at lunch and I’d thought they were acting a bit oddly. They were already drunk when they sat down, and they spent the entire time whispering together, giggling and glancing over at me. My suspicions turned out to be right. At the end of the meal, they left without paying.

  Realising what had happened, I dashed out after them, telling my friend and fellow waitress Maxine to let Mr Hastings know. I’ve no idea what I thought I was going to do – I just knew that I had to do something to stop them. I was racing through reception when my foot caught on a rug and I went flying against a big glass-fronted cabinet.

  The cabinet housed the owners’ precious ‘pretty flamingo’ statue, which gave the hotel its name – and when I jarred the cabinet, the flamingo inside toppled over and smashed. (Although at least Mr Hastings was able to catch the car number plate of the couple doing a runner.) Being young and naive, I felt sure I’d be sacked on the spot. But instead, I had the insurance excess docked from my next month’s wages.

  When she heard about it, Erin was furious on my behalf and marched me along to see Mrs Nutter. Erin explained why she thought the whole thing was very unfair on me, since all I’d been doing was trying to stop the thieves. I don’t think the Nutters were used to being challenged by their employees. Next month, the money was returned to me.

  Erin and I have been the best of friends ever since.

  Now, staring up at the frosty, star-studded night sky, I pause for a moment at the door, hugging myself against the cold. It’s only two weeks till Christmas Day and they’re predicting we’ll have a white Christmas this year.

  A little sigh escapes at the memory of that long-ago snowball fight. My feelings about the white stuff are always bittersweet. Which is why it’s definitely best not to dwell on it …

  Resolutely, I turn my thoughts back to Erin.

  Oh God, Mrs Morelli and her dinner party!

  A little jolt of panic surges up in my chest. It’s lovely that Erin has such faith in me. And to be fair, it’s not just her own opinion of my cooking talents that she’s going on. When we went on our cookery course down in Cornwall last year, the tutor, Greg Allan, took me to one side on the last day and said some very complimentary things. I can remember his exact words. ‘You’ve got an incredible flair for combining flavours and textures, Poppy. I think you have real talent as a cook.’

  It felt truly amazing, hearing that from an expert. But I’m starting to wish he’d never said it. Erin was with me at the time and, ever since then, she’s been dropping ‘hints’ the size of ten-tonne boulders that I should ditch the waitressing and become a self-employed caterer instead.

  But although she knows me as well as anyone alive, what even Erin fails to grasp is my lack of faith in myself.

  I just can’t do it.

  I don’t mean that I can’t cook. Because I know I can. In fact, apart from when I’m waitressing at the hotel – where everything is so very familiar after fourteen years of working there – my own kitchen is the only place I ever feel totally confident. But to set up on my own and take that huge leap into the unknown would take courage and a level of self-belief I simply don’t have.

  Sure, part of me would love to do it. Every time Erin mentions my ‘cooking enterprise’ as she calls it, a little spark of joy, apprehension and excitement leaps inside me. Just for a moment, I think: maybe I could …

  But then the memory of my stepfather’s mocking face slips into my mind. Let’s face it, she’s far too timid. She’ll never amount to anything.

  Martin lives in Australia now, with his new wife, and all the rows and the horrible tensions of my childhood
are just a bitter memory. I should be able to move on but that’s easier said than done. I’ve told myself a million times that it was nothing personal. Martin was just a troubled man with anger issues, who basically couldn’t tolerate the fact I was another man’s child. But I still can’t stop the little voice in my head, nagging me that he was probably right to doubt that I’d ever be a success in life.

  Closing the front door, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks. Dark-brown eyes clouded with memories of the past. Waves of dark glossy hair, almost black, tumbling over my shoulders, so strikingly similar to Alessandro’s colouring in the one creased photo I have of my real dad.

  ‘Poppy? Come and look at these financial projections. I think you’ll be stunned.’

  Harrison’s voice brings me back to earth. Thankfully, my lovely boyfriend doesn’t have a bee in his bonnet about me changing my career! In fact, I think he’d be happy if I was a waitress at The Pretty Flamingo for the rest of my working life. He loves my food and is always so appreciative. He thinks cooking is a marvellous hobby to have. But as for turning a pastime into a job? Harrison thinks it would be far too risky.

  The one time I mentioned it, he gave a sort of worried grimace, checked the time in Hong Kong on his watch and said something about the unrest in the Middle East having an effect on oil prices. I couldn’t quite fathom his thought processes, since the only oil I’d be concerned with was of the cooking variety. But I got the gist. Financially, it was too much of a risk in the current climate to start a brand-new venture.

  I walk into the living room, and Harrison pats the seat beside him. ‘Erin okay?’

 
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