25 Days 'Til Christmas
Page 31
“You did that yourself. You are the strongest woman I have ever met. I think you’re amazing. I . . .” He paused, looking into her eyes, gauging whether he should say . . .
Kate put a finger on his lips. “Nearly,” she said. “Nearly, but not yet.”
Daniel looked at his watch. “I,” he said, with infinite regret, “now have to go and help sad, lonely people.”
Christmas Day
Poor Dorothy, thought Kate as she watched The Wizard of Oz for the umpteenth time. Kate felt like she had spent the last four years since Tom’s horrific death trying to find a way back home, like Dorothy, only to discover that home was not a place, it was people and had been there all the time. All she had to do was to wake up.
She looked down and dropped a kiss onto Jack’s head. He was slumped on the sofa beside her, tucked under her arm, still in his pajamas even though it was evening. They were a new pair she had given him that morning among his other presents, along with a pair of warm furry slippers and a fleecy checked dressing gown, perfect for their chilly flat. He had no interest in sensible stuff though. The standout gifts for Jack were the Marvel figures—expensive luxuries she had only been able to afford because of the money from the jewelry sale. Money she had earned, fair and square, from her own talent, she remembered with quiet pride.
In contrast to Jack in his classic checked pajamas, she was wearing a fetching reindeer onesie, complete with antlers, which Jack proudly announced he and Daniel had bought together before they got the tree. She would have to have words with that man. She looked a complete twit. It was even worse than the elf costume. Much more comfortable and cozy though, she had to admit.
It had been an amazing Christmas Day. They were both stuffed, from the pancakes with mincemeat at breakfast to the “everything in a Christmas Dinner” sandwiches they made for lunch, because—let’s face it—the turkey, cranberry and stuffing leftovers made such amazing sandwiches, why not just cut to the chase? The Christmas pudding from the Apple Café was unexpectedly delicious—much better than the black, heavy lump she had been given at the staff Christmas party, which felt like it had happened years ago. She and Jack had laughed, cooked, eaten, opened presents, played silly games, and then—when Jack was exhausted—they had watched Christmas telly with a box of Quality Street until they were dazed and dozy with excess.
Kate scooped him up and carried him to bed. Toothbrushing could wait ’til morning, just for once. He barely stirred as she popped him under the duvet and pulled it up to his chin.
As she went back into the sitting room, her phone trilled its text signal.
Is he in bed? it asked.
Yep, she texted back.
Fancy a Christmas toast?
Go on then.
As soon as she texted, the doorbell rang, a short burst, so short she almost thought she had imagined it.
Surely not . . . She opened the door, and there he was, the melting snowflakes on his shoulders catching the light from the tree, more of them sparkling in his hair, his kind, lovely face breaking into a broad smile.
“There was one more thing I needed to make my Christmas miracle,” smiled Kate at the sight of him.
“This?” he asked holding out a bottle of chilled champagne.
“Okay, there were two more things I needed,” she amended, taking it from him.
“And what was the other one?” he asked, stepping inside and wrapping his arms around her, his hazel eyes dancing as he gazed down at her.
“This,” she said, standing on tiptoes and pressing her lips to his.
Acknowledgments
I have adored writing this book, and it has brought unexpected advantages. Who knew that it would end up being my personal air-conditioning system? Writing about snowballs and mince pies during the hottest of hot summers since the last really hot summer feels like an elegant reversal of the Narnia stories where the White Witch made it “always winter and never Christmas.”
The Bristol setting has also been a delight to write. I never knew so much about the city until now and have blatantly set my story in real places, although—as always—real people are not included. I thank all the Bristolians who helped with my “research.”
My agent, Julia Silk, is amazing and seems to dedicate her life to keeping me busy, which is just as well, as who knows what mischief I would get up to if I didn’t have enough to do. Grateful thanks to her and the whole team at MBA Literary Agency for their energy and expertise.
I also want to acknowledge the extraordinary support of all my family and friends, who provide gin and laughs and even take the trouble to read the damned thing: Alex, Claire, Clare, Kate, Nancy, Carolyn, Charlie, Catherine, Georgie, Sarah, Anna, Vicky, Kim, Helen, Sharon, Lisa, et al.—you know who you are . . . To say nothing of my stalwart husband and children, who have to endure all those late and hastily cooked suppers.
And finally, my humble thanks to the following: I owe a huge debt to the lovely Laura Gerrard for instigating the project, and to the delightful Clare Heys for picking it up with such enthusiasm. I am pleased to thank the rest of the Orion team, Olivia Barber, Brittany Sankey, Alex Layt, Victoria Oundjian, et al. for their hard work and expertise, and not least the work of the rights department at Orion for doing such a sterling job persuading other countries to take up the baton. As a result, this story seems to be gathering a momentum all its own, and I am delighted to be working with Tessa, Elle, and the excellent team at William Morrow, HarperCollins US; Claudia Winkler and the team at Ullstein; Norstedts in Sweden; Cappelen Damm in Norway; and, well, everyone else, everywhere else . . . I admire you all.
Let’s do this!
About the Author
POPPY ALEXANDER wrote her first book when she was five. There was a long gap in her writing career while she was at school, and after studying classical music at university, she decided the world of music was better off without her and took up public relations, campaigning, political lobbying, and a bit of journalism instead. She takes an anthropological interest in family, friends, and life in her West Sussex village (think The Archers crossed with Twin Peaks), where she lives with her husband, children, and various other pets.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
25 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS. Copyright © 2019 by Sarah Waights. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, 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 hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design and illustration by Nathan Burton
Originally published as 25 Days ’til Christmas in Great Britain in 2018 by Orion Books, an imprint of the Orion Publishing Group LTD.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Digital Edition OCTOBER 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-295881-5
Version 07302019
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-295879-2
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