Thankfully she kept busy with a rush of pre-Christmas walkers, and then planning the Lifeboat Carol Service, a village tradition that started with Father Christmas coming down in Cumbria’s version of a sleigh—a trailer pulled by a Land Rover—and handing out sweets to all the children outside the pub. Then onto the beach, and an appearance at the Lifeboat Station, where the brass band from Whitehaven led everyone in carols and volunteers from the Women’s Institute dressed as elves and handed out mulled wine and mince pies.
It was an event that warmed your heart even as you froze your tail off at the service held in an unheated shed where the village’s two lifeboats were usually stored, and this year Juliet had volunteered to be in charge of the organization. When Rob Telford pulled out of being Father Christmas at the last minute because his father was ill, she flew into a panic she hid by being cross.
“A fine time to tell me this,” she snapped. “The day before—”
“Why not get Peter Lanford to do it?” Rob suggested. “He’s always willing to pitch in when needed.”
Peter.She hadn’t seen much of him in the days since Lucy had left; he’d waved to her once from his Land Rover, when he’d been moving sheep, and she’d considered walking the mile up to Bega Farm and—what? Say hello? Ask to come in for a cup of tea or a tot of whiskey? She wasn’t sure where their friendship stood, and in any case they were both busy.
But now she had a reason to see him, and so after her call with Rob, Juliet headed up the track to the Lanford farm. She’d gotten only halfway there when she saw Peter out in one of the sheep fields, tossing hay into an enclosure. He stopped when he saw her, then threw his pitchfork into the back of the trailer half-full of hay, and strode towards her.
“Juliet. How are you?”
“All right. Or should I say, areet.”
His face creased into a smile. “Good to hear.” Juliet thought of the way she’d broken down in front of him after Fiona had called, and she knew then that was the real reason she hadn’t headed up to Bega Farm before now. She hated that Peter had seen her at her most vulnerable.
“Rob Telford’s backed out of the Lifeboat Service,” she said. “And we need another Father Christmas.”
“Ah.”
“Are you willing? You know we have the suit and beard and the rest of it.”
Peter scratched his jaw. “I suppose I could do it. I don’t normally go out in an evening, though. Because of Dad.”
Juliet knew Peter had arranged for a caregiver to come in during the day to be with William, but evenings were harder. “Can he come along?” she asked.
“I think the crowds might be a bit much. And it’s cold out, for him.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry, I should have realized. I’ll ask someone else—”
“No, I’ll do it,” Peter said. “Can’t be letting the village down.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I’ll find someone to sit with Dad. Liz Benson might be willing.”
Juliet nodded again; she was starting to feel like a marionette. She wanted to say something more, but she wasn’t sure what it was, or even if she could. She stared at him instead, noticing a faint peppering of gray in his brown hair, and how reddened his cheeks were from the cold. “Thank you, Peter,” she finally managed. She took a step back, and then another, and with a little wave she started back down the track to Tarn House.
The evening of the carol service she stood in her kitchen, tapping one foot in ill-concealed impatience while Peter suited up for the service in the bathroom. He emerged with a self-conscious grin, the slightly moth-eaten beard of cotton wool obscuring half his face, his fingers plucking at the red felt cap in his hand.
Juliet studied him critically, her hands on her hips. “You haven’t got enough belly.”
He patted his small pouchy stomach. “I put one of the throw pillows in there.”
“You need another one. You’ve got to be a convincing Father Christmas, not one on a diet.” She went to the sitting roomand grabbed a pillow off the sofa. “Here,” she said, and reached for the front of his red suit. She’d already pulled it up before she considered what she was doing; she’d glimpsed Peter’s toned stomach before she dropped her hand and stepped back, thrusting the pillow at him. “You do it.”
Avoiding her gaze, Peter arranged the other pillow. He looked ridiculous, Juliet thought with sudden affection, in the worn red felt trousers and top, both adorned with fake fur and silver buckles. Completely ridiculous. He put the cap on his head, pulling it down to hide his brown hair. “Think I’ll do?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” she said with more conviction than she actually felt.
“I don’t actually like being out in front of people,” he confessed. “But since I’m behind all this rig, I suppose it won’t matter.”
“You’ll be fine,” Juliet said bracingly. “Right, we ought to get up to the turning circle at the top of the village. Andrew Lofton is driving you.”
Icy rain had been falling for the last three days, and although it had stopped, now the pavement was still slick, and ice-covered black puddles glimmered in the moonlight. Juliet drew in a breath, the air so cold it hurt her lungs. She wondered how many children would even make it out on such a cold, icy night and hoped that at least a few would, for Peter’s sake.
They walked in silence up the length of the village; once, Juliet slipped on the ice and Peter reached out and steadied her by the elbow. She nearly leaned into him then, almost put her head on his shoulder in a move that would have been utterly unlike her, and yet she craved his physical touch.
She jerked away from him instead, wishing he didn’t affect her this way, every inconsequential interaction making her wonderwhat if. . .
What if she hadn’t been so stupid as to bollocks up their friendship with that sperm request? What if she was brave enough now to tell him she wished things were different, that she wanted to be more than his friend?
