Christmas Eve dawned frosty and pale; the kind of wintry day that made Sam grateful for her fur-lined boots and thick coat as she hurried to Martha’s for some last-minute mince pie supplies. Even the sky looked washed out – an insipid bluey-grey, instead of the biting brightness Sam usually associated with hoarfrost – and she doubted they would have snowfall the way they had the year before. Although she had to admit the village green looked almost as though it had snowed; the feathery white frost that covered the grass appeared, at first glance, as though a billion delicate flakes had settled there. The rooftops of the houses were glistening white too; the effect was like a living Christmas card and Sam couldn’t help wishing Gabe had seen it before he left for Spain. Although he must have seen frost before, she reminded herself, feeling foolish. And even if he hadn’t, he’d be back in time for the New Year’s Eve party and the current cold snap was forecast to continue well into January. There would be plenty more frosty mornings to come and, judging from Gabe’s cool manner as he’d said goodbye to her, not all of them would be outside the Star and Sixpence.
‘The order for the New Year’s Eve party menu will be arriving on 29th,’ he’d reminded her the day before as they’d stood in the bar, a small suitcase at his feet. ‘Don’t pack it away – I’ve arranged for Olivia to come in and inspect it. She’ll put everything away, ready for New Year’s Eve.’
There hadn’t been a problem with the quality of the ingredients she’d ordered since his run-in with Laurie, but he obviously wasn’t taking any chances if he was making one of his sous-chefs come in especially to check the delivery. But Sam had merely nodded. ‘I understand.’
He reached for his case. ‘I’ll be back on the 30th, but you’ve got Olivia’s number if there are any problems before then.’
‘Have a good trip,’ Sam said. ‘Feliz Navidad.’
He almost smiled then. ‘Merry Christmas, Sam. I hope you get what you want.’
Unlikely, Sam thought as she watched him walk away. Christmas might be a time for miracles, but even Santa couldn’t bring her the Gabe she’d known before Franny’s wedding.
She shrugged the memory away as she pushed back the door of the bakery. A cloud of cinnamon-spiced warmth enveloped her and the warm voice of Michael Bublé singing ‘White Christmas’ lifted her mood.
Martha beamed at her from across the glass counter. ‘And here she is – the very woman. We were just talking about you, Sam.’
‘Really?’ Sam said, glancing from the baker’s smiling face to old Mrs Harris and even older Miss Hudson. ‘All good things, I hope.’
Miss Hudson nodded. ‘Of course, dear. We were just saying how very good you are at bringing attractive men to Little Monkham – first that lovely actor chap – what was his name again?’
‘Nick Borrowdale,’ Mrs Harris supplied promptly, her iron-grey curls bobbing with enthusiasm. ‘The one from Smuggler’s Inn.’
‘That’s him,’ Miss Hudson agreed. ‘And now Gabriel.’
‘The angel Gabriel,’ Martha said, with a distinctly unholy wink.
Mrs Harris sighed. ‘I do love a man who can cook. What’s your secret, dear? How do you tempt them here?’
Sam laughed. ‘I don’t have a secret. It’s the Star and Sixpence they come for, not me.’
It wasn’t strictly true; Nick had only ventured to Little Monkham because she’d asked him to, long before they’d become an item. But he’d still tirelessly given his time to support the pub, so Sam told herself it wasn’t much of a lie.
‘Well, we’re very grateful,’ Martha said. She paused in the act of wrapping up Sam’s order. ‘I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing much of either of them over Christmas.’
Sam shook her head. ‘Gabe flew back to Seville yesterday, I’m afraid. And I don’t actually know what Nick is doing at the moment – the last I heard, he was filming in Morocco. You’ll have to make do with Micky Holiday.’
Now it was Miss Hudson who sighed. ‘If only.’
‘He’s performing at the New Year’s Eve party,’ Sam said, lifting the boxes of mince pies from the counter top. ‘Nessie and I will make sure there’s plenty of mistletoe around if it helps?’
‘Just make sure Ruby isn’t looking,’ Martha said. ‘Now, I don’t suppose we’ll see you at the carol service this afternoon, will we?’
Sam shook her head. ‘No, Nessie has decided she wants to go, so I’ll be mulling the wine and warming the mince pies ready for you all afterwards.’
‘Very important work,’ Mrs Harris said approvingly. ‘Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the fayre on the green.’
‘Very true,’ Miss Hudson said. ‘But don’t let us keep you, dear. I’m sure you still have lots of preparation to do.’
‘I have,’ Sam said, wondering if anyone in Little Monkham thought she was capable of doing her job. She dredged up a cheery voice and smiled as she left the shop. ‘See you later, ladies. Happy carolling!’
*
The carol service was every bit as festive as Nessie remembered. St Mary’s was resplendent in red, gold and green, with wreaths of glorious many-berried holly wrapped around the tall candlesticks that flanked either side of the nativity scene on the altar. Father Goodluck was in jolly form as he led the congregation through the readings and much-loved songs. Lit up by the glow of the candles all around her, it did Nessie’s heart good to hear Owen and Luke singing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ and hers was not the only jaw to drop when Micky stood up and delivered a flawless first verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. Who would have suspected that his raspy rock vocals hid a beautiful tenor voice that caused goosebumps, Nessie wondered as she listened in spellbound delight. Franny would be rubbing her hands with glee at the thought of recruiting him to the choir.
Eventually, the service wound its way to ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. Nessie had planned to sneak out early to help Sam, but she found herself wedged in between Henry and Martha’s husband, Rob, and she didn’t want to disturb them. So she held her candle high and tried not to worry whether she was hitting all the notes. It certainly didn’t seem to be something that troubled Henry.
As the final organ notes died away, Henry blew out his candle and turned to Nessie. ‘Merry Christmas, in case I miss you at the fayre,’ he said, pressing his hands on hers and squeezing in a way that conveyed more than he ever could with words. ‘See you on Boxing Day for a lunchtime pint.’
All Nessie’s hopes of making a quick getaway were thwarted by the kindness of the people around her. Few of them mentioned the miscarriage directly, but the acknowledgement of her loss was present in every smile, every warm word, every hug. By the time the crowd had thinned enough for Nessie to think about making for the door, her throat ached and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. But they weren’t tears of sadness; they were tears born from feeling supported, from being surrounded by good wishes and love.
Luke dashed past the end of Nessie’s pew, his face alight as he chased one of his friends. She opened her mouth to remind him to take care on the well-worn flagstones, but he was gone before she could get the warning out. And then she saw Owen, head bowed in front of the altar, gazing down at the nativity scene with slumped shoulders.
‘Go to him,’ a soft voice urged, and Nessie turned to see Ruby hovering a few feet away, compassion etched across her elegant features. ‘He needs you.’
‘I don’t think he does,’ Nessie replied helplessly. ‘He’s shut me out – won’t even talk to me.’
‘Because he’s trying to be strong,’ Ruby said. ‘Men aren’t supposed to feel the loss of a baby as keenly as a woman – that’s society’s expectation, isn’t it? But it’s my experience that we all grieve when we lose something we love. Why should Owen Rhys be any different?’
The words caused a lump to form in Nessie’s throat. She took a slow steadying breath and held onto the cool hard wood of the pew. ‘Kathryn says he was like this when Eliza died too.’
‘He was,’ Ruby agreed. ‘But that’s the trouble with the deep ones. They retreat far inside when something hurts and they don’t always see that others are hurting too.’
Nessie glanced across at Owen again. He didn’t seem to have moved; she wasn’t sure he was even aware that everyone around him had gone.
‘The saddest thing is that neither of you needs to struggle alone,’ Ruby went on. ‘Go to him now. Join your pain with his. I promise you it helps.’
Nessie nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
‘And don’t worry about the fayre, or the pub,’ Ruby finished, with the faintest hint of severity. ‘We’ll cope.’
But Nessie was already moving, slipping out of the row and making her way down the aisle to where Owen stood as though carved from wood. She waited at his shoulder for a moment, unsure what to do next, then she slid her hand into his and followed the line of his stare.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but understanding hit her like a heavyweight punch when she realised what had him so transfixed: the small wooden cradle, which would remain empty until the Christmas Day service. The cradle she’d worked hard to avoid seeing until now.
They stood for a few moments, side by side, as the last of the congregation made for the exit. There was a solid thud as the door swung closed, shutting out the cheerful chatter of the crowd, and then the silence settled around them.
His breathing gave him away. At first, Nessie thought she had imagined the catch, the faint irregularity that reminded her of her own efforts to hold back tears. She forced her own breathing to slow and listened hard, her fingers clutching his. When the second barely audible sob came, she was sure and felt an answering call go out from her own sorrow. Her fingers tightened around his.
‘It’s okay, you know,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right to cry.’
Almost as though her words had released something, Owen’s shoulders began to shake. Immediately, Nessie turned to wrap her arms around him. He sank his face into her shoulder and she felt him shudder with each indrawn breath. She bit her cheek, determined not to cry, determined to show him that she could be strong so he didn’t have to be. He wept for a long time. But gradually, slowly, the shuddering became less and he raised his head to look at her through eyes that shone like wet coal.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. There’s nothing to be sorry for,’ she said, daring to reach up and stroke his tear-stained cheek.
He let out a broken sigh. ‘There is. But I don’t know where to begin.’
Nessie glanced at the crib again. ‘Today was always going to be hard. Maybe it’s been harder for you than it has for me.’
Owen was quiet for a second or two, then shook his head. ‘No. There’s… there’s something I need to tell you.’
Nessie’s heart plummeted to her boots: this was it, the moment he told her she wasn’t the woman he’d thought she was. The moment he said what she’d whispered to herself every night since they’d got the news – that he blamed her just as much as she blamed herself. She steeled herself, preparing for the blow. ‘Go on.’
‘You’re right, these past few weeks have been hard. But not for the reason you might think.’
She blinked hard and waited, misery burrowing into her stomach. ‘Why then?’
He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m not sad about the baby – of course I am. I know you are too, desperately sad. But that moment in the antenatal clinic isn’t what gives me nightmares.’ He looked her straight in the eyes. ‘It’s the thought of losing you. When they wheeled you away on that bed, to have your operation, I started to worry that I’d never see you again. That’s what happened with Eliza, see – she was there one minute and gone the next. I thought I’d lose you the way I lost her.’
Nessie gasped. ‘Oh, Owen.’
‘I know it isn’t rational,’ Owen said wretchedly. ‘But I can’t control it. And once that thought spirals out of control, it eats away inside until it’s all I can think about. I can cope with the loss of our baby, Nessie. I can’t cope with the thought of losing you.’
Nessie wanted to sob for both of them. ‘I’m fine,’ she said quietly, taking both his hands in hers. ‘Doing really well, all things considered. And I promise you, I’m not going anywhere.’
His gaze was dark and fearful as he stared at her. ‘I hope not. Because I love you. And I need you. Luke needs you too.’
Tears spilled down Nessie’s cheeks at the words. ‘I love you too. Both of you.’
Owen let out a long breath and pulled her into his arms. ‘Good,’ he said, his lips against her hair. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you earlier.’
She managed the ghost of a smile, despite her tears. ‘It’s okay. You’ve told me now. That’s all that matters.’
Nessie had no idea how long they stood together, whispering back and forth. She only knew that it felt so good to be in Owen’s arms at last, listening to his voice as he talked. Their troubles weren’t over – not by a long way – but this could be the start of their recovery. And Nessie allowed herself a tiny prayer of thanks to the yule log because perhaps now – finally – they might find peace together. Maybe now their hearts could begin to heal.