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“That’s a secret.” He pulled her closer again. “How about you? If you had written to Santa, what would you have asked for?”

She couldn’t think properly. Her whole world was this man and this moment. Her heart felt so light she thought it might easily blow away. “I suppose I don’t believe that what I want in life can be delivered by a man with a white beard.”

His lips brushed over hers. “And what do you want in life?”

“Right now?” The tension was becoming unbearable and she knew he felt it, too. “I think you know.”

“In that case—” he eased away slowly “—we should go upstairs.”

“You don’t like it here?”

“I love it. But we’re sharing a house with people who have a real talent for appearing at the most inconvenient moment, and for the next part of our evening we definitely don’t want to be interrupted.”

They tiptoed through the dark and now-silent house like thieves, fingers locked, saying nothing until they reached the sanctuary of the turret room.

It was only later, much later as she drifted off to sleep, that she remembered he hadn’t told her what he’d asked Santa to give him for Christmas.

28

Mabel

It was the children who woke her. Poppy’s muffled shriek followed by the pounding of little feet on the stairs and Brooke’s voice hushing them, telling them to be quiet and not disturb people who were still sleeping.

Mabel smiled. It had been many years since she’d heard any human sounds at Christmas, let alone children. It was the best way to be woken, although she was sure the parents would disagree. But she didn’t have to occupy them. All she had to do was enjoy their presence.

Had it really only been a few days ago that they’d knocked on her door and she’d been thinking of not answering? She’d been horrified by the idea of her peace being disturbed, but now she was grateful it had happened.

It wasn’t having people around that made the difference—she could find people easily enough if she wanted company. When the weather allowed, she could make the trip into town and visit the library or one of the pretty local stores. She could seek out her neighbours. No, the reason she was feeling better was the connection she felt with these people. Brooke, particularly. But also the children. Little Elsie, who noticed more than most adults. Most people looked no deeper than the surface. If you were wearing a smile, they assumed that meant you were happy. They saw you alive and piling goods into your shopping basket and took that to mean you were fine. But there was a difference between surviving and living. She’d been surviving, she realised. But for the past few days, for the first time in years, she’d felt as if she was living.

Hearing Elsie’s excited chatter made her think about her granddaughter. It was something she’d tried not to do because dwelling on it brought more pain, but now her curiosity had come alive.

What was Sylvie like and what was she doing today? Was she already awake and thundering around the house with excitement because it was Christmas Eve? And what sort of person was she? Was she creative like Elsie, or was she more boisterous, like Poppy?

Mabel felt a pang as she thought about all the milestones she’d missed. Sylvie’s first steps. Her first words. Her first day at school.

Was her granddaughter a reader? Had she read any of Mabel’s books? Maybe Chrissie had banned them from the house.

Did Sylvie even know that Mabel existed?

Talking about it the evening before had been cathartic and had given her more clarity. Perhaps it was because her new friends had listened and hadn’t judged. She’d told them everything, and they hadn’t been appalled. And while their words had done nothing to change her own view of the situation—she would always have regrets and blame herself—she did see that it was more complex than perhaps she’d allowed herself to acknowledge. It had also brought things to the surface that she’d buried deep. She’d tried not to think about the loss, but now she could think of nothing else and felt the pain of it acutely.

She had a grandchild she’d never met. A daughter who was a mother herself.

There was so much she wanted to say to Chrissie. Why hadn’t she said something before now? Why had she retreated into her guilt and shame when she could have stepped forward and tried to mend things?

Brooke’s words echoed in her head. It’s never too late to say the words you wish you’d spoken.

Brooke was right. It was time to say those words she’d regretted not saying. And time to apologise for the ones she had spoken.

She was going to reach out to Chrissie. She should have done it a long time ago.

She’d been a coward; she knew that for a fact. Her pride, her shame and her fear of rejection had stopped her contacting her daughter. But what did she have to lose that she hadn’t already lost? What pain could she feel that she hadn’t already felt?

Decision made, she stood up and walked to the window. Something felt different and it was only when she opened the blinds and looked outside that she saw what it was. The storm had cleared. Thick snow coated the forest outside, dazzling white in the bright sunshine, weighing down the branches. The wind had dropped and her idyllic little corner of the world was finally silent and still.

And now she understood the reason for the children’s excitement. She could imagine Poppy tugging at the back door, desperate to get outside and build her snowman. She needed to head downstairs and see how she could help.

She smiled at the thought of it and then felt her world tilt a little. If the storm had passed then they’d be leaving soon.