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‘Le Réveillon de Noël.’

Noémi closed her eyes as a wave of dusty memories swept in. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

It had been years since they’d celebrated on Christmas Eve, like the French tradition. Le Réveillon de Noël was a big, delicious meal. Her mum had hosted one every year in the bookshop, bringing everyone together. Not just their quirky street, but the shop owners from up in the square and residents from the village too.

It had been a squash and a squeeze, and quite the shambles. People brought their own chairs and random legs of gammon and jugs of gravy. Her mum had tried to keep it classy, with smoked salmon, turkey with chestnuts, Champagne. But it had usually descended into happy chaos, until later in the evening when Felix brought in his own tradition, which had become the perfect mix.

Noémi opened her eyes to see Shay watching her, though he quickly looked away.

‘Jólabókaflóð,’ said Felix, his gaze meeting with Élisabeth’s as he said the Icelandic word, which sounded like yola-boka-flod to Noémi’s ears, and loosely translated to ‘Christmas book flood’.

Élisabeth’s face twinkled in recognition.

Images came flooding back to Noémi too. Felix’s parents had hailed from Iceland, where there was a Christmas Eve ritual of giving books as gifts and then sitting together to read them, cosied up with a hot chocolate. It had worked perfectly in the bookshop setting.

Noémi inhaled deeply, almost sensing it again, as though it was still woven into the fabric of the dress she was holding. The dress which she now remembered her mum wearing on those Christmas Eve gatherings, even though it had been years. It must have taken a lot of work, and she guessed Élisabeth had run out of steam for it.

Though if this bookshop and their village needed the perfect celebration to bring everyone together, this was it. And this was exactly the dress for the occasion. Could holding such an event be good for future custom for her bookshop and the rest of the avenue too? Because they had to keep up people’s interest in their street if their small shops were to survive.

‘I remember those Christmas Eve get-togethers,’ said Barbara. ‘Delicious treats and a huge roast dinner. All that Yule log. And books!’ She swept her arms as though she might conjure up a vision of it. ‘Some years I got the school children to do a non-religious nativity, before Élisabeth read to them and Felix served hot chocolate. Those were magical times, weren’t they? Like the true spirit of Christmas.’

‘Did someone say nativity?’ asked Texan Jim, being dragged over by Goatrude and her teeth. Noémi swiftly moved away. ‘You need a goat to play the donkey?’

‘We did a knit-ivity in the craft emporium once. Everyone was tasked with knitting something – though one crafter got confused about knitting an ass.’

‘Nativity?’ Reverend Godbee chimed in. ‘And are you bringing back your Christmas Eve festivities? They always boosted my midnight mass numbers, even if some of the congregation was a little merry.’

‘Am I bringing back Christmas Eve Feast meets Book Flood?’ Noémi pondered.

Could she honestly resurrect this slightly wild but brilliant joint tradition that could help unite the village and put Hazel View Avenue back on the map? And if so, could she make it her own?

‘Mais oui,’ said her mother, as though this was the most obvious of course.

And to a round of applause, Noémi agreed.

Though Élisabeth wasn’t quite finished on the day’s demands. ‘La Mère Noël. Et Le Père Noël.’ She fixed Shay with a look.

Mother and Father Christmas? Now Élisabeth was surely confused.

Shay laughed in a way that seemed panicked. ‘Ahh, no. I have most costumes. Carrot, angel, elf. I could probably do you a Brussels sprout. Though nothing as grand as Santa Claus.’

‘I could pimp that Dickensian costume we first saw you in,’ said Prisha. ‘That had plenty of red velvet to work with.’

Shay had told Noémi it was from the extreme Victorian punting event he’d been running in Oxford before he’d arrived, which the locals there had not taken to.

Shay flapped a hand. ‘I might have moved on before then. Or maybe I’ll be visiting Ireland, if I can cope with all the sherry trifle and Guinness cake.’

Élisabeth gave Shay her best sad eyes and Noémi was sure she could see him wavering.

Shay crouched and gently patted Élisabeth’s hand. ‘But who knows what la magie de Noël may bring, hey? Now, talking of baked items. I might just have saved my only Christmas cookie for you, if you fancy? The crowds have been arriving in coachloads for Noémi’s bakes today.’

He glanced up at Noémi. She was thrilled her mother would get to taste her first comeback batch, even if she couldn’t help the pang of disappointment that Shay hadn’t tried his.

Though the look of sweet joy on her mother’s face as her teeth sank into the cookie was everything. As her mum’s eyelids fluttered closed, she knew she was lost in a blissful melt-in-the-mouth moment.

‘C’est parfait,’ said Élisabeth quietly.

It’s perfect.