Christmas in Cornwall

by Briggs, Laura

  I looked at Gemma, hoping she would let this subject go. “Really, there's nothing to say," I insisted. "Trust me, I'm not trying to romance Matt into a corner or anything like that."

  That was when I realized Matt was looking right at me as I said these words. His dark eyes held a look I couldn’t quite identify, but my mind instantly leaped to guilt and hurt without reason. No one bothered to reply to me, because they were all talking about something else now. Luckily for me, Andy chose that moment to start telling a story about a Cornish wrestling match he'd attended last year.

  “I think I’ll have a pint,” said Matt. He offered a polite smile to our group as he excused himself — I felt as if he barely glanced at me — before he turned and headed towards the crowd at the bar.

  Great. Just perfect. He probably thought I had disowned our relationship in front of our friends, that I was just toying with him all these months. What had I been thinking, brushing off the idea of a romance between Matt and I? As if he would suspect me of making mountains out of molehills by confessing that I felt something for him, after those passionate kisses? You weren’t thinking, you were panicking. And now Matt thinks…oh, who knows what Matt thinks.

  But I had to find out, and the sooner the better. Resisting the urge to follow him immediately, I waited for a discreet moment to pass before I left our table. Matt was near the end of the bar, where his pint was only now being filled and set before him. A dark amber liquid that took on a hazy glow in the light from the Christmas bulbs overhead.

  “Not thirsty?” I asked, moving next to him. My smile feeling a tad meek as I waited for him to say something in response.

  "Merely giving myself a moment for thought," he answered.

  “Get you something, Julianne?” The bartender, Pete, had noticed me there, his smile one of expectation.

  “A hot chocolate,” I said quickly, wishing I had a more private place for this discussion. But I couldn’t suggest we leave just yet, so this would have to do. Pushing aside the steaming mug that Pete delivered a moment later, I steeled myself for explanation.

  “Matt,” I began, quietly, “I’m sorry about what I said at the table a minute ago. I was just feeling a bit cornered and I …well, sort of panicked, I guess. It wasn’t what I meant to say at all. I didn't mean it."

  He looked at me. "Didn't mean what?" He looked puzzled.

  Oh. Rats. He hadn't heard a word I said at the table. I felt my face grow hot. "Um, I — I thought you — I thought you got the wrong impression."

  "Wrong impression of what?"

  I was in this conversation now, whether I wanted to be or not. Might as well take your chance, Julianne, I thought, desperately. Looks like this is your moment after all.

  "What I said back there, about not wanting to force things between us, was true ... but it didn't mean I didn't want a romance with you. I do. Really. I only wanted them to see that I wasn't rushing it.”

  He looked at me again. A definite, pointed look that made me shiver, despite the pub’s warm and toasty atmosphere. “Are you sure, Julianne?” he asked. Not skeptically, but earnestly. "There's no reason you would want to think about ... us ... a little longer?" Quietly, his eyes searching my face for the answer.

  My stomach seemed to twist, the noise around us fading to a dull hum. Was he uncertain? Was he thinking that I'm not the one for him? "What doubts would you think I had?"

  Matt was hesitating. "We haven’t known each other very long. Not by some people’s standards," he said. "I wouldn't be angry if you thought that weeks aren't enough to build a true flame. Disappointed — for reasons I think are fairly obvious, given what's happened between us. But not angry.”

  Something about the way he said it made me think that 'disappointed' was Matt's substitute for a stronger emotion. It was the look in his eyes when he said the word, before he looked away.

  I cringed at the word ‘doubts,' imagining he believed that's why I might hold back. Doubts that we could be more than what we were at the moment.

  Doubtful I was not, and no matter what came of it, I wanted him to understand how I felt. Here goes nothing, I thought, without need of a pint to brace my nerves.

  “No,” I said, the word carrying a firm edge. "No doubts. Not about you." His brows went up, and I immediately lowered my voice. “Not about how much I enjoy being with you," I continued, softly. "How close we’ve grown lately and how I’m—”

  I almost said it. Almost said, ‘I’m falling in love with you’ right there in the middle of the village pub. But the noise of our fellow patrons, the loud guffaws that echoed suddenly from a group of rowdy construction crew members two tables away, caused me to hesitate a fraction of a second about the here-and-now stance I was taking to declare my love for Matthew — right in the middle of someone else's crude punch line about a Cornish farmer and a fish wife.

  I could see that Matt was waiting for my next words, but any chance of my finishing them was put on hold by another patron joining our end of the bar. The elderly gentleman known as Old Ned among the locals, his status as a fixture at the Fisherman’s Rest all but legendary in the village. He was there nearly every evening, and from what I observed in previous visits, spent a great deal of his time in hopes of getting one of his neighbors to buy him a round at the bar.

  Sitting down on the vacant stool beside us, he offered Matt and me a doleful greeting. “We’ll be havin' a harsh winter, then,” he said, with an air that indicated this was the opening of a much longer observation on the climate and weather patterns of Ceffylgwyn.

  “How’s that then, Ned?” Matt tore his glance away from mine and was indulging Ned's comment. A moment later, I could see a wry smile growing at the corner of Matt's mouth as his eyes met mine in mutual surrender. With despair, I could feel my chances to fix this conversation slipping away, as Ned continued.

  “The holly berries, lad. Up above us on the mirror there,” he said, with a nod to the garland surrounding the antique looking glass that hung above the shelves of bottles. “Bright and red as can be, aren’t they? That means a bitter cold is on its way this winter. Ice and maybe even some snow, though snow’s a rare sight indeed.”

  “Snow for Christmas might be nice,” I said, still looking at Matt as I spoke, my lips moving automatically, with words that had nothing to do with what was in my head. In my eyes, I hoped he could read an apology for our unfinished conversation. If only I could be sure he understood what I had been planning to say.

  From his seat at the bar, Old Ned gave a melancholy sigh.

  “Now the February of my sixteenth year that was as harsh a winter as any I’ve ever seen," he began. "Snowed something fierce and broke through the roof of the old school house. Brought down many a good tree on me dad’s old farm, too. We’ll not be seein the likes of that winter again soon.”

  "Maybe so," said Matt. "I fancy there's some around here who wouldn't mind a touch of white at Christmas. Reminds them of home." He was still looking at me, and neither of us was making the slightest move to look away. I felt him take my hand, and felt relief that if nothing else, Matt understood that I hadn't been trying to get rid of him.

  Ned sighed again. “What’s that in your glass there, lad?" he asked Matt. "A bit o’ rum perhaps? I could do with a touch of something strong to warm me up on a night like this….”

  ***

  I was still kicking myself for not finishing that sentence at the pub. The rest of the evening had flown by, and our group of friends broke apart shortly after Matt and I extracted ourselves from Old Ned at the bar—Matt’s pocket missing a few coins more as a result. The drive home was all too short, our conversation consisting mostly of the floral arrangements for the charity ball. Matt had agreed we should meet at the hothouse to go over possible selections. None of it had been about what either of us were feeling, and whether we were taking our relationship to a more serious step. Such as me calling Matt my 'boyfriend' in public, and not just secretly in my head whenever I watched him trimming hedges a
t Cliffs House.

  First, though, I had a meeting in London with Dwight and his friends, who sounded really anxious to escape their dilemma. Of course, I hadn’t told Matt about it yet, or about an old flame of mine moving to London. Now seemed like a bad time for bringing it up.

  Dwight had arranged for us to meet in one of the conference rooms at the firm where he worked in Westminster. I had been to this part of London several times now, taking in the landmarks from Big Ben to the Royal Opera House. It had a palpable feel of excitement, this constant motion and hum of thousands of people in one place. A different world from Ceffylgwyn, to be sure, but not so different from Seattle.

  Normally, I would be happy to lose myself in the shops, but today was about work, not pleasure. I was doing a favor for someone and needed to be amicable, polite, and on time to prove there were no hard feelings between me and Dwight now.

  The bride and groom were younger than I expected: the bride was still at university, and the groom was an intern at the company Dwight worked for. Dwight introduced us in the conference room, where posh chairs and an armless sofa stood against a glass wall that overlooked the busy street below.

  “Coffee, Julianne?” he asked, reaching for a phone on the nearby table. “Water or wine, if you prefer.”

  “Nothing, thanks.” I still didn’t feel quite right about this somehow, even though I wasn’t exactly shirking any of my duties at Cliffs House to be here. Things with Matt must have me on edge, perhaps, making me feel more restless than usual.

  “We’re just so relieved you could fit us in,” said the bride, whose name was Daphne. She was petite and slender, with dark locks that were cut in a fashionable pixie style that made me wonder if Susan didn’t have a point about my hair after all. Her clothes were equally chic, with designer jeans, a spotless white cardigan, and a pair of diamond stud earrings that could only be genuine.

  She seemed a little bit nervous, constantly fiddling with the pair of designer sunglasses she held in her lap. I warmed to her instantly, as well as the groom, a shy sort named Benjamin, whose face was freckled beneath a shock of auburn hair.

  “We’ve been so worried,” he explained, taking his fiancée’s hand as they sat on the sofa across from my chair. “Christmas is a busy time for our families as it is, you see. Having this mix-up with the wedding agency has been rather stressful for all of us.”

  “Let’s see if we can’t sort it out,” I told them, putting on my most reassuring smile. "I'm sure I can take care of a few things left on your list."

  As Dwight had promised, much of the work had already been done for the ceremony. Leafing through the wedding portfolio, I was relieved to see the bridal couple had very definite ideas of what they wanted: a ceremony in the colors of silver and blue for a modern but tasteful Christmas theme, with orchids for the bouquet and blue roses and white lilies for the table centerpieces at the reception. The bride’s dress had already been commissioned from a designer in Paris. Two of the biggest obstacles were already handled, albeit pricey ones. I wondered how an intern and a student could afford this extravagant wedding — short of paying off charge cards for the next twenty years, of course.

  “This is very impressive,” I told them, refraining from comment on its extravagance. "And it shouldn't be hard for me to follow this plan at all. It looks like your previous planner just hadn't confirmed some of your reservations...or helped you choose a caterer."

  They both relaxed in response. Having been dumped by their previous wedding planner, they were probably apprehensive about trusting someone else — even someone whose services were being volunteered for free. “Very chic and elegant,” I continued, closing the book on my lap. “So let's talk about the caterer first.”

  “We’ve had some trouble agreeing on that choice," admitted the bride. "I wanted something rather simpler, but Benjamin—” with a glance at her soon-to-be-husband “—thinks it should be a formal dinner rather than champagne and hors d'oeuvres. But a dinner seems a bit much this late in the season. I mean, it's already practically Christmas, isn't it?”

  "I think either choice works," said Dwight. "I'll bet Julianne has some good ideas on this issue. Maybe some contacts in the city who could offer you a great deal, too."

  Thinking practically when it came to their budget, I noticed. I sensed this was an area of contention between the couple, maybe: of practicality versus pride. Maybe Benjamin was the one in favor of having a showy wedding with lots of flowers and a towering cake, no matter the expense.

  “Why don’t we go over the types of foods each of you have in mind?” I suggested, pulling a sketch pad and pencil from my shoulder bag. "I think we can find a compromise on paper."

  By the time our meeting was over, we had covered several possibilities for the reception food, including a platter of beef tenderloin sliced thin, rolled into finger-size pieces with a mustard sauce garnish that would surely resemble a meal despite appetizer servings; and finger foods ranging from asparagus tips in hollandaise to chocolate truffles frosted to resemble mercury glass Christmas balls in the wedding’s colors of silver and blue.

  That last idea was mine, and the happy couple had deemed it perfect, especially as a wedding favor for their guests in lieu of the old-fashioned "cake slice." I arranged to email them a list of suggestions for caterers who were skilled enough to provide this menu — and known to discount large packages — then to contact the top three for price negotiations once they had narrowed it down. I promised to negotiate the best price possible from their choice. After all, the groom was only an intern, the bride a student — wanting to impress their family with beef tenderloin in any size slice wouldn't be cheap, I knew.

  “You were brilliant back there,” Dwight told me, as we walked through the lobby afterwards. “Really, Julianne, Design a Dream didn’t appreciate what they had."

  I blushed and rolled my eyes. "Thanks," I said. "Maybe I should drop my old boss a taunting letter, listing all my accomplishments. She'll beg me to come back."

  "You should think about doing this freelance,” said Dwight. “You could charge thousands for that kind of insight. I'm a consultant. I could help you set it up, make it possible. And all at the discount I reserve for friends when I consult.”

  Friends. That word to describe us felt slightly weird, I decided. Maybe I wasn't quite ready to forget all of our relationship's bitter moments after all.

  “No, thanks," I answered, smiling. "Freelance doesn’t suit me as well as being part of Cliffs House full time. Even the promise of thousands wouldn't lure me away.”

  “I can see that.” He smiled. At the lobby doors, he stopped me with a hand on my arm. “Let me buy you lunch,” he said. “In thanks for salvaging my friends' wedding.”

  “Oh…” I glanced at the time on my phone. “There's no need for you to do that, really,” I answered. “I know you must be busy and I should really be getting back to Ceffylgwyn.”

  “Even busy people have to eat,” he remarked, with a persuasive grin. “Come on, Julianne. For old times’ sake. A quick bite is all I’m suggesting. There’s a charming fish and chips shop about a block from here. What do you say?”

  “All right,” I said. After all, fish and chips was a quick lunch, as he said, and there was nothing remotely romantic about splitting it with an old-flame-turned-ex, except to maybe the wildest imaginations in Ceffylgwyn's gossip circle. There would still be plenty of time for me to catch an afternoon train back to Cornwall, especially since the train would probably be late. This I had learned the hard way from using public transportation regularly.

  “Are you living at Cliffs House, then?” Dwight asked. He was seated across from me at a table by the window. The shop was crowded with hungry customers, but Dwight and I had been fortunate enough to nab a table shortly after we walked through the door.

  “I’m living there for now,” I explained, pulling a piece of fish from the basket between us. “It’s difficult to find a place for rent near Ceffylgwyn—at least for re
asonable rates. Lord William and Lady Amanda have been incredibly gracious, though, letting me stay until a good accommodation becomes available.”

  “They sound like perfect employers,” he mused.

  “They are. It's the best position I've ever had.” My cheeks colored slightly, thinking of one particular reason I was so happy at Cliffs House. One I didn’t feel like discussing with my ex. “So,” I began, clearing my throat, “how does London suit you?”

  “It's great,” he said, reaching for his cup of coffee. “In fact, better than Seattle at times. It's hip, it's modern, but there's a kind of dignity about it. Not the sleepy, quiet atmosphere one pictures so much of the time when hearing about England,” he added, sipping his coffee with a smile.

  Meaning a village like Ceffylgwyn, presumably.

  When Dwight and I had been together in Seattle, his love of the city had been obvious. Of the two of us, he was the virtual addict to convenience — takeout delivery, valet parking, ATMs — while I was the one who was always out of patience with public transportation, long lines, and 'out of order' signs on elevators and escalators.

  Then again, I was the only one of us who had to make my way everywhere by bus or by foot, since Dwight owned a car. Until after we broke up, I never thought about the fact he never offered to go a little out of his way to give me a lift to work, or to run errands on my day off, as if I liked the harassment of foot traffic and broken crosswalk signals.

  He seemed to guess my thoughts. “Clearly village life agrees with you, Julianne. Convenient locale, a slower pace of life. You used to hate Seattle sometimes, remember? All those times you complained about the smog, and the rain, and how every coffee shop had about a billion customers?"

  "Sure," I answered. "Not that I didn't like Seattle. Just not the inconveniences, sometimes."

  "You look as fantastic now as you did in that red gown the other night," said Dwight. "Coming here has obviously been amazing for you. I've never seen you look so content. Like there's this glow about you or something."