“Sure,” she says, her voice reassuringly warm. “I can give you until tomorrow morning. Will that be long enough?”
“Of course,” I say quickly, not at all sure it will be. “That’ll be just fine.”
“I can’t do it. I absolutelycannotwrite a Christmas romance. I’m going to have to say no.”
It’s a few hours later, and I’m standing in the main room of the village hall, watching my Aunt Lorraine issue directions to a group of volunteers who’re all busily hanging up Christmas decorations. The hall is festooned with fairy lights, like most of the other buildings in town at this time of year, but the interior hasn’t changed in decades, and the magnolia walls and faint ‘gym hall’ scent are the only clues I’m not living in a simulation here in Bramblebury, which was looking almost sickeningly festive on the way here.
“Don’t be silly, Holly, of course you can write a whatever-it-is,” says Lorraine, looking at me sternly over the top of her glasses. “You can write anything you like. You candoanything you like. Never forget that, okay?”
Lorraine is Mum’s sister, and while Mum was soft and nurturing, like a hug in human form, Lorraine is what would probably be best described as a ‘force of nature’; which is why she’s the perfect person to head up the village community association — the reason we’re here on this cold December night.
“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I tell her, as she hands me a large cardboard box filled with what I’m assuming are more decorations. “It’s just … a Christmas book? It’s not me, Lorraine. I’m not…”
“You’re not a Christmas person,” Lorraine finishes for me, in the tone of someone who’s heard all of this before. Which she has, to be fair. “But maybe you should be. Have you ever thought about that?”
“What, opening up my cold, hard heart to the wonder of the season?” I say, going for sarcasm as my first line of defense, as usual.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” says Lorraine, who, true enough, isn’t exactly known for her way with words. “But it was your mum’s favorite time of year, Holly. You know that. She’d hate to think she’d ruined it for you.”
“She didn’t ruin it for me,” I reply shortly. “It’s not like she died on purpose. And anyway, it’s not just Mum. It’s everything. This place, and its weird obsession with Christmas. Its obsession with—”
“Elliot?” suggests Lorraine shrewdly. “Is that what this is about? Elliot and his book? Still?”
I shrug, feeling like a sulky teenager again as I put the box of decorations on the floor at my feet. As I straighten back up, I notice I’m standing right next to a small brass plaque that’s set into the wooden floor.
“This is the exact spot where Evie kissed Luke for the first time in The Snow Globe”, it says, in swirly letters. I close my eyes in an attempt to fend off the memory the sight of the plaque always triggers, but it slams into me anyway, almost knocking me off my feet with the force of it.
This place.
Seriously.
“I thought I saw him earlier,” I confess, shaking off the memory like a dog shaking the rain out of its fur. “Elliot. At The Brew. And yesterday, too, outside the shop. I thought I was going mad for a second.”
I glance around the hall, suddenly worried I might see him again. If his ghost was planning to appear anywhere, it would be here; right on thisexact spot, in fact, to quote the writing on the floor.
But the room is reassuringly ordinary.
It’s justmewho’s haunted.
“Doyouthink I’m going mad?” I ask Lorraine, knowing I sound stupid, but feeling the need to put the possibility out there, anyway. My aunt frowns.
“I think this is just a difficult time of year for you,” she says, unconsciously echoing Maisie’s words from earlier. “And all of this probably isn’t helping, is it?”
She indicates the box at my feet.
“What, Christmas decorations? Well, no, I guess not. I’m pretty used to them by now, though. I—”
I pause, noticing that one corner of the box is torn, with something that doesn’t look much like a Christmas decoration peeking through the gap.
“Wait. Whatisthis stuff, anyway?”
I bend down and pull the lid off the box, somehow knowing already what I’m going to find.
And yup: there it is. Approximately 20 copies ofThe Snow Globe, all staring up at me smugly, as if to say “I told you so”.
“What are these doing here?” I ask, straightening up and turning back to Lorraine, who has the grace to look sheepish. “I thought I was here to help you set up for the Over 60s Christmas Dance?”
“Oh, you are,” she assures me, not quite meeting me in the eye. “But … that’s not until next week. First, it’s the book festival. Remember?”
