“Who’s that, do you think?”
Lindy’s nose was nearly pressed to the glass as she watched the rather battered blue estate pull up to Willoughby Close.
“I have no idea who that is,” Roger replied, “especially as I cannot actually see out the window, and therefore have no view of the person in question.”
“I think someone’s moving into number three!” Lindy said excitedly. A woman was climbing out of the car, one hand to her back like she had a crick in it. “Who could it be?”
“Again, I have no idea.”
“I know you don’t,” Lindy replied, laughing. “But I’m curious.”
She turned to give him a smile, which he returned warmly. Two weeks on from the ball, nearly New Year’s, and everything still felt new, precious, and just the tiniest bit fragile.
Their dance had been a triumph—they’d stumbled, yes, and once they’d almost fallen, but still. Lindy wouldn’t have changed a single thing about it—especially not when they’d finished by turning to the camera where they could see Ellen sitting up in bed, tears trickling down her cheeks and a wide smile stretching across her face. Around them everyone had clapped and cheered, and Roger had looked surprised and a bit shaken by the enthusiastic applause. Several Year Sixes had high-fived him, and Ollie had rugby-tackled his legs. Roger had looked pleased, and Lindy’s heart had expanded with love.
The rest of the ball had passed in a happy blur, and a week later they’d spent Christmas together—a bittersweet and beautiful day.
Lindy had woken up to snow falling like icing sugar, and she’d thrown on clothes before running over to Roger’s cottage.
“Merry Christmas!” she’d yelled, and he’d looked bemused, still in his pyjamas. Lindy had gathered up some of the first snow to make a snowball, but it had been too powdery and had fallen apart in her hands. She’d laughed and thrown it anyway, dusting Roger’s pyjamas in white, and he’d caught her up in a kiss that felt magical, the beginning of everything.
But that Christmas had been an ending of sorts, as well. They’d gone to the hospice that morning to visit Ellen and there had been something both sad and sweet about the scene—the Christmas tree in the entrance of the hospice, the fairy lights spangled on the end of Ellen’s bed.
“It’s still Christmas,” she reminded them with a papery smile. “And I’m still here.”
They’d sat by her bed as they’d opened presents—Lindy had bought Ellen a pair of fluffy slippers, which she’d oohed and aahed over, and Roger had given her a watercolour of her cottage, to hang in her room. They’d stayed for Christmas dinner, even though Ellen had insisted they have a proper one later.
“I hope you’re cooking a turkey,” she told her son severely, and Roger assured her he was. They’d decided, after the ball, to spend Christmas at Lindy’s cottage, so Toby wouldn’t be left alone for too long. As they said goodbye to Ellen, Lindy promised to visit her again soon. Ellen squeezed her hand and gave her a look full of love.
“You don’t know happy you’ve made me,” she said.
“And you don’t know how happy your son has made me,” Lindy returned with a smile.
Ellen had given her a knowing look. “Oh, I think I do,” she said.
Back at the cottage, Toby had scampered around while Roger had got the turkey ready and Lindy had put on Christmas carols and made mulled wine. It had felt surprisingly easy, to move around each other in the little kitchen, to exchange quick smiles or even a kiss as Nat King Cole had belted out ‘The Christmas Song.’
This was what normal, regular people had, Lindy thought. What they took for granted, and yet she didn’t think she or Roger ever would. They knew how precious it was, how every moment felt like a miracle, and for that she was grateful.
While the turkey cooked, they’d opened their presents under Lindy’s little tree while Toby tried to eat the wrapping paper.
Lindy had got Roger a blue shirt—surely a man couldn’t have too many—and a huge, polka dot umbrella.
“Because if you’re going to be prepared,” she told him, “you can at least do it with style.”
Roger had reduced her to sentimental tears by giving her a watercolour of Wychwood’s high street and a small wooden box with a picture of Cornmarket Street painted on its lid.
“To start a new collection of treasures,” he’d explained, and Lindy had thrown her arms around him in loving gratitude. She didn’t think Christmas got any better than this.
Since then, they’d spent the last week with Ellen, who was fading a little more every day yet was peaceful about it, or by themselves, walking Toby or watching movies, simply being with each other. On New Year’s Eve they’d gone to Ava and Jace’s for a party, but they’d both been glad to get home to simply be with each other.
“It’s a woman,” she told Roger now as she twitched the curtain to make it a little less obvious that she was blatantly snooping. “With two kids, I think,” she added as a lanky, sulky-looking boy unfolded himself from the back of the car, and an older girl with long, dark hair and fingers flying over her phone walked into number three without even looking up. “Teenagers. And a dog!” The smiley-faced golden retriever loped behind them, ears perked and tongue lolling. Lindy reached down to pet Toby, who was seeming anxious by all the unexpected activity. “No dad, though, at least not with them. Perhaps he’s coming separately.”
“Perhaps you’ll find out in time, from the woman herself,” Roger said as he came to the window.
“We could invite her over for dinner,” Lindy suggested and Roger slid his arms around her waist.
“I suppose we could,” he agreed. He was warming up to social occasions, slowly but surely, and they had Simon and Olivia’s wedding to look forward to next week.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Harriet had whispered to Lindy at Ava and Jace’s party. “He’s not unsuitable at all. In fact, he’s completely gorgeous.”
“I know,” she replied, brimming with both pride and love. “I’ve snagged myself quite a catch.”
Now Lindy rested her head against his chest as she let the curtain fall and her musings about her new neighbour were momentarily forgotten.
Really, she had everything she wanted right here, she thought, as Roger’s arms tightened around her and he rested his chin on top of her head, for now and always. For ever.
The End
Find out about Willoughby Close’s newest resident in the next book in the series, Remember Me at Willoughby Close!
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