Page 9 of Christmas All the Way

‘No, it doesn’t,’ Keeley agreed, checking the rear-view mirror before she reversed. ‘But I called him a grinch because he doesn’t like Christmas. I mean, I suppose it’s sort of understandable, given that Ivy lives and breathes it, but I don’t think he has much to do with Santa’s Secret.’

‘Oh,’ Grace said, glancing at the barn. ‘That’s a shame. For his mum, I mean. In her work.’

She stopped talking, aware she was babbling. Keeley shrugged. ‘He’s good at gardening – that’s what matters to me.’ She fired an inquisitive look at Grace. ‘And he’s single, if you’re interested.’

And Grace felt her spirits sink, because another lesson she’d learned from romantic fiction was that if an exquisitely good-looking man was single, there was usually a very good reason. ‘Of course I’m not,’ she said, with a little more force than she intended. ‘Like I said, I just wondered who he was.’

‘Uh huh,’ Keeley said, turning her attention back to the road and negotiating the bumps in the track. ‘I have his number if you change your mind.’

Grace chose not to dignify that with an answer. But all the same, she watched the door to Santa’s Secret in the wing mirror until it was out of sight.

CHAPTER THREE

‘You have a great deal too many opinions, sir. Good day to you.’

Where the Wind Blows, ELIZA NORTON

Xander had not exaggerated when he’d told Keeley that Delores Semple’s house was only a few minutes’ walk from Liverpool Street station. The plan was to meet him outside the station but she’d caught an earlier train, negotiating the stream of commuters heading into the City, to give herself the opportunity to form her own initial impressions of the house without Xander breathing down her neck.

Folgate Street was easily found, a row of red-bricked, four-storey terraced residential houses nestled improbably among the shadows of towering steel and glass skyscrapers. To Keeley’s sharp-eyed gaze, number 20 looked much the same as its neighbours; the wooden shutters covering the windows were perhaps a little shabbier than those of the house to the right, and the lantern protruding over the black front door somewhat old-fashioned, but that was not out of character for this part of the city. There was no sign on the wall to attract passers-by, no plaque proclaiming that here was a place of historical significance; nothing, in fact, to suggest it was anything other than an old but unremarkable house, in a street of old but unremarkable houses. Frowning, Keeley checked the address she’d found online. It was the right house. She glanced up the cobbled road, to where double-decker buses and taxis trundled along the busy main thoroughfare, and down towards the more distant Commercial Street, but there wasn’t much more to see. Slightly regretting the enthusiasm that had cost her an extra half hour in bed, she retraced her steps to a bustling coffee shop she’d passed on leaving the station and ordered a latte.

‘Dr Cotterill, hi,’ Xander said, firing her an easy smile as she neared where he stood outside Liverpool Street at nine o’clock on the dot. ‘Thanks for coming.’

He was dressed in a plain white T-shirt that emphasised his tan, and jeans with scuffed trainers. His hair was tousled and Keeley couldn’t tell if he’d styled it that way or simply neglected to brush it. She felt a little overdressed in her sedate cotton dress and linen jacket. ‘Good morning,’ she replied, trying not to let the stiffness she felt at seeing him again affect her tone. ‘Shall we go?’

Without waiting for him to answer, she turned back towards the pelican crossing that allowed pedestrians to navigate the thundering traffic. Xander fell into step beside her and they both stopped at the crossing. ‘How was your weekend?’ he asked while they waited for the lights to change. ‘You had a friend to visit, didn’t you?’

She nodded, surprised he’d remembered. ‘It was lovely. She’s an old friend – we went to university together – but we don’t see each other as often as we’d like. It was good to catch up.’

‘I’ve got a few mates like that,’ he said, over the shrill beeping of the crossing. ‘You don’t meet up for ages but when you do get together, it’s like you saw each other last week.’

That was certainly how it was with Grace, Keeley thought. ‘How long have you been over here?’ she asked, then hesitated. ‘I assume you’re from Australia originally?’

They turned into Folgate Street. ‘That’s right,’ Xander said easily. ‘I grew up in Brisbane but came to England around seven years ago. It was only meant to be a short visit but I fell in love with the place – there’s just so much history here. I’m practically a native now.’

She gave him a sideways glance, taking in the healthy glow of his skin and air of relaxed confidence that made her feel sallow and uptight by comparison. He definitely didn’t look like a typical Londoner, that was for sure.

‘And here we are,’ he went on, coming to a halt outside the house Keeley had studied less than thirty minutes earlier. ‘Delores Semple’s house.’

She looked up at the red-bricked building, noting that the shutters were now open. ‘It’s very low key. I wouldn’t have known it was here if you hadn’t told me.’

Xander nodded. ‘That’s part of Delores’ creative vision, that the everyday can hide something extraordinary.’ He eyed Keeley speculatively. ‘Did you manage to resist digging into the history of the house?’

‘Of course,’ Keeley said, although she had been sorely tempted to click on the links that had appeared when she’d sought out its location. ‘You did tell me not to.’

‘I did,’ he agreed. ‘But I’ve had a lot of experience of working with experts in their field, and I’ve learned to respect both their curiosity and their rebellious nature. It wouldn’t have been the end of the world if you’d looked – I just think you’ll enjoy it more if you form your own impressions.’

With that, he stepped forwards to lift the large brass door-knocker and gave two sharp raps. Keeley braced herself, anticipating an actor in character would open the door but instead, they were greeted by a young woman in her mid-twenties, dressed in jeans and a rainbow-striped pullover. ‘I thought it would be you,’ she said, reaching out to kiss Xander on both cheeks. ‘Good to see you. It’s been too long.’

Xander stepped back. ‘Poppy Wolstenholme, this is Dr Keeley Cotterill, curator of Juniper Cottage in Essex.’

The young woman moved forward to shake Keeley’s hand. ‘No need to explain who she is, Xander,’ she said reprovingly. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Dr Cotterill. I’m a huge Eliza Norton fangirl and have visited the cottage loads of times.’

The undisguised enthusiasm in her voice meant Keeley warmed to her immediately. ‘That’s great to hear,’ she said, smiling. ‘And please, call me Keeley.’

‘Poppy is the creative director here,’ Xander said. ‘She’s utterly brilliant and has an intuitive understanding of what Delores Semple wanted to achieve.’

‘Thanks, Dad,’ Poppy said, firing a mischievous grin his way. ‘But let’s not waste time out here. Come in, I’m dying to see what you think.’