I pull into the tiny parking lot behind the row of shops where Louisa’s apartment is. From here, I can see the lights on in the living room of her apartment directly above Stitched With Love. The string of colorful lights I hung around her windows earlier this month are illuminated, and I can just make out the glow of her small Christmas tree inside. I wonder if she switched them on for my benefit when I asked to come over, since I doubt she’s feeling all that festive tonight.
At our group Christmas celebration two days ago, I kept a close eye on Louisa and, despite her attempts to hide it, I could see the lingering sadness in her eyes when she thought no one was paying attention. She’s a creature of habit, our Louisa, and having her closest friend take off to London at the last minute must be throwing her for a loop.
With my recent purchases in hand, I make my way to the back door of the building. After Lulu buzzes me in, I pause and use the streaky window as a mirror to prepare my surprise before climbing the stairs to the second floor.
Louisa opens the door before I can knock. She stares at me for a beat, eyes wide, and then laughs so hard she has to use the door jam for support. It’s the best sound I’ve heard all day, and the sight of her pink cheeks and sparkling eyes makes the itchy beard and fluffy red hat worth it.
“Well, hey there, Santa,” she says. “You’re a few hours early. Aren’t you supposed to wait until after I go to bed?”
“Aye, normally.” I step past her when she moves aside to let me in. “But I come bearing gifts in the form of festive food, and it would be a shame if you were asleep and couldn’t enjoy them.” I hold up the bakery bag stamped with the logo of our favorite café, Cravings.
Her eyes go wide once more as she plucks the bag from my fingers and peers inside. “Mince pies! How did you manage this? They’ve been sold out of them every single time I’ve been there this month.”
“Santa has his ways,” I say with an enigmatic smile, tapping the side of my nose the way I’ve seen my cousin Hugh do when he plays Santa. Louisa expressed her disappointment to me a week or so ago at her inability to find mince pies at any of the bakeries, cafés, or supermarkets in Bellevue. Since mince pies were always a holiday tradition back home in Scotland, I filed that wee tidbit away and kept an eye out during my travels around town. When I couldn’t find any, I beseeched Willow Stewart, the co-owner of Cravings, to make a special batch for Louisa, and she happily obliged. I picked them up half an hour ago after borrowing part of my cousin’s Santa suit.
“You are the absolute best,” Louisa says. “Will you come in and have one of these with me, or do you have to get back to your sleigh?”
“I’ve got plenty of time.” I resist the urge to say ‘I’m all yours’. I can imagine how she’d react: a pretty blush followed by a nervous giggle, with the wheels almost visibly turning in her mind as she comes up with a response she won’t say out loud.
“Great. Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Whisky?” She smirks as she says the last one; when she found out about my fondness for a good Scottish whisky—or scotch as it’s called here—she bought a bottle to keep on hand.
“Tea with a splash of whisky would hit the spot.”
She tells me she’ll meet me in the living room in a minute, so I take my time shucking my boots, hanging up the red velvet Santa jacket and matching hat, and removing the big white beard. I may have only worn the get-up for a few minutes, but it was worth it to see the grin on Lulu’s face.
In the living room, I sit and admire the Christmas tree. It’s small, only about four feet tall, and decorated with an assortment of colorful baubles, woodland creatures in wee scarves and hats, and lacy snowflakes. Before long, Louisa enters the room carrying a tray with a plate of tarts, two cups of tea, and the bottle of whisky.
“Did you know children in Scotland leave mince pies for Father Christmas instead of biscuits? And whisky is often customary in place of the milk you lot leave here in Canada and the States.” I add a splash of whisky to my tea and hold up the bottle in offering.
“No, I didn’t know that,” she says, holding out her cup. “Just a tiny bit.”
“A wee nip,” I say. She grins and, even though she’s looking at the cup rather than at me, the flash of her smile fills me with warmth. “So, I spoke to Spencer earlier and offered to drive him and Hollie to the airport tomorrow. They insisted they’d take the bus, but I said traveling on Christmas Day was bad enough, they could at least have a friend act as their personal chauffeur. Or friends, if you’d consider coming along for the ride.”
Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “I’d love to. It’d be nice to have a couple extra hours with Hollie.”
“That’s what I thought. And we’d be back in time to catch the tail end of the Christmas party at Evie’s parents’ place.”
“Wow, you’ve thought of everything.”
I’ve certainly tried to. This week will likely be difficult for Louisa with Hollie gone, but I’m hoping she’ll let me step in and help fill the void. The majority of the time we’ve spent together since October has been in a group setting, and I’m hoping this week will present opportunities for us to spend time alone.
For weeks, I’ve been biding my time for the right moment to tell Louisa how I feel about her. She’s confessed her aversion to dating, her nervousness around most men, and what she considers a general lack of experience in the romance department, so I don’t want to frighten or overwhelm her. I do want her to see what I see when I look at her, though: an incredible woman who’s intelligent, funny, sweet, and beautiful.
If I can do that, maybe Louisa will open up and admit what I’ve known for some time, which is that my feelings for her aren’t one sided. I haven’t missed the way she watches me or the longing in her eyes when she thinks I’m not paying attention. Nor have I missed the hushed conversations with her friends when I’m just out of earshot, where they shoot surreptitious glances in my direction. Subtlety is not one of Louisa’s many charms, but to come right out and say what I’m feeling would be to risk frightening her off or causing her to clam up. That’s the last thing I want.
I’ve done my best to be a friend and show her she can trust me, count on me. I love spending time with her, and although it’s difficult sometimes not to act on impulses—for instance, she gnaws on her lip sometimes when she’s nervous, and it makes me want to nibble on that lip myself—I haven’t. And I won’t, not until she’s ready.
We settle back on the couch and sip our tea in silence. In the time we’ve known each other, Louisa has gone through three phrases: at first, she was shy around me and didn’t say much. She’d speak when spoken to and we even had some interesting and memorable talks, but she almost never initiated conversation. After that was a short period where she spoke in quick, run-on sentences and attempted to fill every silence with chatter. This newest phase is my favorite; she’s relaxed and seems comfortable around me, chatting easily, or allowing companionable silence to fill the space between us, like now.
“Are you sad not to be going home for Christmas?” she asks suddenly.
I sip my tea, buying myself a moment to come up with a response. “There’s really nothing to go home to—”
She winces, her cheeks flooding with color. “I’m so sorry, Fergus, that was an incredibly insensitive question.”
I set my tea on the coffee table and rest my hand on her knee. What can I say, some impulses are too much to resist. This one at least is innocent enough and seems to put her at ease. “It’s fine, love, don’t worry yourself. This will be my second Christmas without my mum. It won’t necessarily be easier, but I don’t think it will be quite as painful as it was last year spending it alone in her house in Scotland.”
Louisa covers my hand where it rests on her knee. “That must have been awful.”
“It was hell.” And it was. After a prolonged illness, my mum died last summer. I had moved from Edinburgh back to my childhood home in Callander to live with her and care for her earlier in the year, and I was lost in a fog for months after her death. Last Christmas passed in a whisky haze as I packed up her house and prepared to sell it.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Scotland and still consider it home, but I have no close family left there and no place to stay anymore,” I continue. “I’ve created a family of sorts and a home here, though.” I turn my hand under hers and lace our fingers together. Louisa is part of that family and home. A big part.
“I’m glad. Tomorrow will be an unconventional Christmas, but we’ll make it a good one.”
“We will. We’ll draw out the celebrations all week, right ’til your birthday on Saturday.” I study the emotions that pass over her face—surprise first, then that hesitant look she gets when she’s the focus of attention and thinks she shouldn’t be. Once that passes, a hint of excitement lights her eyes.
“Okay,” she says. One simple word, but it leaves me feeling oddly triumphant. This woman deserves to be celebrated, and I’m going to show her that.
I reluctantly let go of her hand so I can reach to pick up my tea. It’s then I notice a pamphlet from Evie’s real estate agency peeking out from under the plate holding the mince pies. “Planning to invest in some real estate in the new year?”
Louisa’s eyes dart from the pamphlet to me and back again. “Umm…well…not exactly?”
I was only kidding, but the slightly panicked look on Louisa’s face has my full attention. “Not exactly?”
Louisa lets out a heavy sigh and slumps back on the couch. “I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I have to move in the next few months.”
“Have to?”
She nods. “This apartment belongs to the woman who owns the dress and alteration shop downstairs. She was a friend of my mom’s, and she let me move in here when I was ready to live on my own about ten years ago. She’s planning to retire in the spring and she’s selling the shop and the apartment, so I’ll need to find somewhere else to live.”
The way she twists her fingers in her lap tells me the thought makes her anxious. I’ve often wondered why she lived in such a small, rather shabby apartment when I know she could afford something better. I suppose it goes back to her being a creature of habit; Louisa feels comfortable and safe here, and change is difficult for many people who deal with severe anxiety. That was certainly the case for my mum.
“It’s fine, though,” she says in a rush. “I need more space anyway. It’d be nice to have a proper office and not have to work at the kitchen island or the coffee table. And I really should have something more modern with better amenities. And I can find a place that’ll finally allow me to have a pet.” Her gaze slides briefly to her closed bedroom door as she says that last part.
“Lulu.” She startles when I say her name, her head whipping back in my direction. “I know you said it’s fine, but it’s okay if it’s not fine. If you have mixed feelings about such a big change.”
She sighs again, and this time it ends on a quiet groan. “I hate the thought of moving, Fergus.” She whispers the words, as if making a confession. “People have been telling me for years that I’m wasting money by renting, but I’m not ready to be a homeowner. I don’t want to be responsible for everything on my own.”
“That’s understandable,” I say. “You need to do what feels right, and if that means continuing to rent, that’s what you’ll do. You know we’ll all help you find a place, even if it’s somewhere temporary while you search for something you truly love.”
She offers me a shaky smile. “Do you have any room to spare in that Victorian mansion of yours?”
I chuckle. A few months ago, my cousin Hugh, who’s an international businessman and philanthropist—and also currently my boss—bought a Victorian mansion that was formerly a funeral home. He’s unsure what he wants to do with it, so while he figures that out and assembles a crew to do renovations, I’ve been living in the caretaker’s apartment on the second floor. I had been staying with Hugh and his wife Ivy before that while looking for a more permanent place, so this has been an ideal situation; we all get our privacy, and I’m able to keep an eye on things at the house so it’s not sitting empty.
“I’d be happy to share my flat with you,” I tell Louisa. “Or you can have your pick of any of the empty rooms until construction starts.”
She’s about to answer when a thumping sound draws her attention to her closed bedroom door once more. Her cheeks are pink as she turns back to me, but she doesn’t say a word.
“Louisa?” I prompt after another soft thump sounds from behind the door.
“I don’t suppose you’d believe it was the wind? Or maybe a ghost? Surely there are ghosts kicking around in that two-hundred-year-old house of yours.” When I shake my head, she presses her lips together, appearing resolute. She rises from the couch and walks the few steps to her bedroom, giving the door a light tap before inching it open. She squats down and speaks in a soft, high-pitched voice before scooping something into her arms.
She returns to the couch with a beautiful dark-gray cat. The cat looks at me warily with huge, green eyes as Louisa retakes her seat beside me.
“A cat,” I say, completely unnecessarily.
“A cat,” Louisa echoes. I wait a beat, expecting an explanation, although she doesn’t offer one. I watch as Louisa rubs the cat’s head and it presses its body against her chest, closing its eyes. A second later, a low, rumbling purr fills the silence.
I’m about to ask what’s going on when Louisa speaks. “He’s from the shelter. Someone dropped him off there a month or so ago. He’s had all his shots and he’s been neutered, so they weren’t sure why someone just left him.”
Louisa volunteers at the local animal shelter in her spare time. She loves animals, so it’s a good way for her to spend time with them since she’s not allowed to have a pet in her apartment. Or at least that’s what she’s always said…
“He took a liking to me right away,” she says around a smile as the sound of purring kicks up a notch. “He doesn’t really bother with any of the other volunteers or employees. Apparently nobody has considered him for adoption so far, which makes absolutely no sense to me because he’s so beautiful and he’s such a lovebug.”
She presses a kiss to his head and, for one ridiculous moment, I’m jealous of a cat. God help me.
“So you decided to adopt him?” I ask.
There’s that sweet blush again. Her gaze flicks to mine briefly before returning to the cat. “Not exactly…”
“Louisa Henshaw, did you kidnap this cat from the shelter?” Once again, I’m joking, but her wide-eyed expression tells me I’m not far off the mark.
“Sort of?” A laugh bursts out of her, startling the cat. He side-eyes her before closing his eyes again. “The shelter is closed for the next week except for bare-bones staff going in to check on the animals,” she says in a rush. “I couldn’t stand the thought of him being there all alone with no one to play with or pay attention to him. A few of the staff members and volunteers took animals home for a few days, and I offered to take this guy, even though I’m not technically allowed to have a pet in the apartment.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “You surprise me, Lulu. I never expected such hijinks out of you.”
“Hijinks,” she repeats slowly.
“Aye, is that not a word you use here?”
“No, it is, but…” She trails off, sitting back further on the couch. The cat rearranges himself so he’s lying with his head tucked under Louisa’s chin. “He didn’t have a nametag or anything when he was dropped off. The shelter normally gives the animals names because apparently it helps with the adoption process, but no one could think of a name for him. I think it should be Hijinx, with an X, like Binx from Hocus Pocus.”
“Won’t naming him make it harder to give him back?” I ask as gently as possible.
“Yes. So maybe I won’t give him back. If I’m being forced to move, maybe I’ll figure out a way to adopt him.”
I chuckle again, shaking my head. I’m about to tell her I like this unexpected, somewhat rebellious side of her when something occurs to me. “How about this? If you have an attack of conscience or your landlord finds out you’re harboring a secret pet, I’ll take him until you get a new place. My flat is closed off from the rest of the house, so he’d be contained, but still have plenty of room.”
“You’d do that?” Louisa asks.
Oh, this woman. When will she realize I’d do anything for her, especially when it means bringing that lovely, heartstopping smile to her face? “I’d be happy to. In fact, when the shelter opens up again after the holidays, why don’t you start the adoption process?”
She makes a little squealing noise that has the cat meowing in response. I can tell she wants to hug me; Louisa and her friends are a huggy bunch. Our initial few embraces were quick and stiff, but after the first time she melted against me and let me hold her properly, I became addicted to having her in my arms. Now hugging her is yet another impulse I don’t hesitate to act on. With the cat in her lap, she’s unable to hug me, so she hugs him instead, the lucky wee beast.
An hour later, when Louisa walks me to the door, I gather her close, drawing in the warmth of her body before heading out into the cold, snowy night.
“Off to do your Christmas Eve duty, Santa?” she asks as I collect the Santa jacket, hat, and beard from the closet.
“Aye, something like that. I’ll see you tomorrow, Lulu.”
I suspect, much like Jolly Ol’ Saint Nick himself, I have a twinkle in my eye as I think about cooking up a bit of Christmas magic for Louisa. If I have my way, this will be a week that changes both of our lives.