Page 2 of Christmas All the Way

Keeley fought a sudden urge to fold her arms. ‘Innovative?’

Evidently picking up on the flatness of her tone, he held up a placatory hand. ‘Look, I’m not explaining it very well. The best thing would be for you to meet him, so he can lay out his ideas and you can see for yourself how good they are. He suggested Friday, if that suits you?’

She wanted to reply that it did not suit her; her most dependable volunteer, Hilda, had a funeral to go to, which meant Keeley was short-handed, but she suspected she would only appear churlish if she refused. ‘Fine,’ she said, swallowing a sigh.

‘Wonderful,’ Malcolm said, beaming at her. ‘Here’s his card. I’ll leave you to hammer out the details, shall I?’

His bluffness suggested he was trying to head off any more awkward questions but Keeley was determined not to let him off that easily. ‘I suppose that makes sense. But I’m still not clear how all of this is going to work. How much authority will Xander have? Who will he be reporting to?’

His brows shot up. ‘To the trustees, naturally. Our intention is most certainly not to give you more work, my dear. Quite the opposite.’ He threw her an encouraging look. ‘We see you as equals, working in tandem towards the same goal, which is to introduce more people to Eliza’s work.’

‘But what if we don’t work in tandem?’ she persisted. ‘What if there’s a difference of opinion – who has the final say?’

‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ Malcolm soothed. ‘But I want to reassure you again that Xander joining the team is in no way a reflection upon you – we simply thought a fresh perspective might help. Why don’t you meet him and hear what he has to say? You might find you’re pleasantly surprised.’

There wasn’t much Keeley could say to that – not without sounding peevish. She had spent most of the train journey back to Essex scouring the internet for more information about Xander Jones and although she couldn’t find a website, she did come across a social media account bearing his name that was full of appealing, artfully composed pictures of stately homes and museums. As far as she could tell, it was a personal account – there was nothing to suggest he was working with any of them. The profile picture was a stylised arrangement of the letters X and J, which she guessed might be a business logo, but there were no images of anyone she might reasonably assume to be Xander himself. When she’d grudgingly sent a brief email introducing herself, he had replied within an hour to suggest they met at Juniper Cottage around twelve-thirty on Friday, and signed off with a smiley face emoji. She’d looked at the cheery yellow face for several seconds, wondering about the kind of person who added emojis to professional correspondence with a new colleague, then berated herself for being the kind of snob who judged others for their emoji choices. But she awoke on Friday morning weighed down by a leaden reluctance, and not even the thought of her best friend’s arrival that evening could lift her spirits. She’d applied her make-up with more care than usual, treating it as a layer of armour to defend against whatever Xander Jones might throw at her, and smoothed her long blonde bob into glossy perfection. She had dressed up a little too, choosing a crisp white blouse and navy palazzo pants that made her feel a little like Anna Wintour, and completed the look with a splash of red lipstick.

Perhaps she was wrong to view the upcoming meeting as a battle, she considered now, pausing to breathe in the fragrance of the pink and yellow honeysuckle blooms that hung from the frame of the pergola over the path to the gardens. Perhaps Malcolm and the other trustees were right, and the newly appointed creative director would be exactly what Juniper Cottage needed. But at least she was prepared, even if no battle materialised.

The unexpected arrival of a coach full of overseas tourists was a welcome distraction and kept Keeley busy for most of the morning. Her small but dedicated team of volunteers were distributed between the lower and upper floors of the house and the gift shop, ready to handle ticket sales, answer questions and ensure enthusiastic visitors did not attempt to sit at the desk Eliza Norton herself had used when writing her novels. Another volunteer had stepped in to fill the gap left by Hilda’s absence but she was not as knowledgeable about Eliza’s life and work, meaning Keeley had decided to put her in the gift shop, while she took up position in the library.

She didn’t pay much attention to the man with the blond hair at first. Long experience had taught her there was no such thing as a typical visitor to Juniper Cottage, but on weekdays the demographic skewed towards the older generations. They came in couples or small groups, or in larger numbers as part of a coach party, trooping through the house with varying degrees of interest. Very occasionally, there were school trips, when the rooms were filled with chattering children and the peace of the cottage was vanquished. The volunteers were instructed never to shush them; Eliza had no children of her own but she’d been aunt to a legion of nieces and nephews and her correspondence showed she had adored their visits to the cottage, delighting in their exuberance and noise. But the type of visitor Keeley saw less often were square-jawed, floppy-fringed men in their late twenties, wearing rock band T-shirts and looking like they might be more at home on the beach than exploring the home of an underappreciated literary treasure. Narrowing her eyes, she watched him drift towards the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, his gaze intent on the leather-bound spines Eliza had lovingly collected throughout her life. She checked the time – just after eleven o’clock. If this was Xander Jones, he was more than an hour early. She tried not to feel nettled. She had planned to give him a guided tour as part of the visit but it seemed he’d decided to show himself around and now she had a quandary. Should she introduce herself, or pretend she hadn’t noticed him when he presented himself formally at the agreed time of their meeting? What if she was wrong, and he wasn’t Xander Jones at all?

‘Excuse me.’ An elderly woman materialised before Keeley, her sharp gaze magnified by the thick glasses she wore. ‘Could you settle an argument between me and my husband? Is this where Eliza Norton wrote Where the Wind Blows? I’m certain it was here in Freezy Tye but he insists it was Cromer.’

At her shoulder was a tall, grey-haired man peering over a pair of gold wire-framed spectacles. He was shaking his head in what appeared to be wry amusement, as though confident his wife was about to be corrected. At the bookshelves, the blond man moved nearer. Was it Keeley’s imagination or had he tilted his head to listen? She pushed the thought away and focused her attention on the couple in front of her. ‘The answer is both,’ she replied, smiling. ‘According to her diaries, Eliza first had the idea for Where the Wind Blows while visiting her sister on the Norfolk coast one winter. She was inspired by the wildness of the sea and the spell it cast over those who lived nearby. In fact, Gardner Crookshanks was based on a fisherman she met at the harbour once.’

The bespectacled man looked pleased. ‘There. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘But she only began the novel while in Cromer,’ Keeley went on. ‘Her sister was taken ill and was advised to travel to the Continent for her health, which meant Eliza returned to Juniper Cottage sooner than she planned. She wrote the remainder of the book here, and didn’t return to Cromer until after it was published.’

Now it was the woman’s turn to look triumphant. ‘She finished it here,’ she said, turning to prod her husband in the chest. ‘That means I win.’

‘Hardly,’ he sniffed, before turning a suspicious gaze upon Keeley. ‘You’re a volunteer, I suppose. An enthusiast rather than an expert.’

Instinctively, Keeley’s hand moved to the lanyard that hung around her neck, identifying her as Curator. A quick glance downwards told her it was back to front, presenting only a black and white image of the cottage. ‘Actually—’

But the woman cut her off. ‘Don’t even dignify that with an answer,’ she barked, then rounded on her husband again. ‘There’s no need to be rude to this young lady, just because she’s shown you up.’

He glowered at her. ‘The only person showing me up is you.’

Keeley decided it was time to nip the brewing disagreement in the bud, despite a certain amount of wry enjoyment in the notion that she might be considered young. ‘Why don’t we agree that you’re both right?’

They stared at her, as though she had suggested they each slice off an arm. ‘Utter nonsense,’ the woman said briskly. ‘I’m right and he’s wrong. You’d think he’d be used to it after fifty years of marriage.’

‘Fifty-one,’ he corrected and gave a hollow laugh. ‘Believe me, I’ve counted them.’

Keeley gave up her efforts at mediation. ‘There’s an original, handwritten copy of Where the Wind Blows on display in the smoking room, along with extracts from Eliza’s diary, which you might find interesting.’ She waved a hand at the door to their right. ‘Just through there.’

Continuing to bicker, the pair left the room, leaving Keeley with the distinct impression she had survived a small and very localised tornado.

‘I think you may have just facilitated a divorce,’ the blond man said, as their voices faded.

‘Possibly,’ Keeley agreed, noting a distinct Australian twang behind the words that went hand in hand with his light golden tan. ‘Although my parents are exactly the same. If Dad says the sky is blue, my mother will insist it is cerulean and an argument will follow. They’ve been married for over forty years.’

He tipped his head. ‘Love wears many disguises, I suppose.’ Stepping nearer, he extended a hand. ‘It’s good to meet you, Dr Cotterill. I’m Xander Jones.’

So her intuition had been correct. Of course it had. ‘Hello,’ she said, only moderately gratified that he had addressed her using her professional title. ‘It’s good to meet you too.’