About the Author

KELLIE HAILES declared at the age of five that she was going to write books when she grew up. It took a while for her to get there, with a career as a radio copywriter, freelance copywriter and beauty editor filling the dream-hole, until now. Kellie lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her patient husband and delightful daughter. When the characters in her head aren’t dictating their story to her, she can be found taking short walks, eating good cheese and hanging out for her next coffee fix.

You can follow Kellie on Twitter: @KellieHailes

Also by Kellie Hailes

The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove

The Little Unicorn Gift Shop

Christmas at the Second Chance Chocolate Shop

The Big Little Festival

The Cosy Coffee Shop of Promises

The Little Bakery of Hopes and Dreams
KELLIE HAILES

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Kellie Hailes 2019

Kellie Hailes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © November 2019 ISBN: 9780008336141

Version: 2019-10-09

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Kellie Hailes

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Daisy.

My biggest teacher.

My greatest love.

Chapter 1

The shops either side of the bakery looked like someone had taken in too much festive cheer and then vomited it up. Twinkling golden fairy lights danced around Santa-red tinsel. Snowflakes were spray-painted onto their windows, floating down to sills where they gathered into thick fake drifts.

Josie shuddered. It was all so totally, utterly, over the top. Thankfully Christmas would be done and dusted in a matter of weeks, and then she’d be free of it for another eleven months.

At least the bakery was bare of Christmas decorations. One person’s stand against a season that promised so much, but always failed to deliver. At least, it had in more years than Josie cared to remember.

A tendril of hope stirred low in Josie’s stomach. Surely the lack of seasonal cheer was a sign she was going to get the position advertised in the bakery’s window. She just had to go in there and prove she would do a great job being the front-of-house face of the business.

Squaring her shoulders, she tightened the belt of her lucky tomato-red woollen coat, rubbed her finger across her teeth to make sure her hastily applied lipstick hadn’t decided to attach itself, then plastered a smile on her face and opened the door to what she prayed would be the beginning of her new life. Again.

Josie took a tentative step in and glanced around looking for signs of her potential employer. With no one in sight she took a moment to take in the bakery’s offerings.

Cupcakes topped with icing in the shape of mistletoe, miniature Santas and itty-bitty Christmas trees were lined up under the counter’s glass top, alongside little mince pies. Reindeer-shaped gingerbread lined another tray. On the counter, a cake tray offered up cellophane bags filled with what looked to be spice biscuits, tied with curled green and red ribbons.

Her heart sank. The owner wasn’t so anti-Christmas after all. Or maybe they were just pandering to the customers. Meeting demand. Making money while money could be made. That must be the case, she decided, because something wasn’t quite right with the treats laid out before her. In fact, something was positively off.

The cupcakes seemed a little … flat. Stodgy. With a look of dryness about them that no amount of tea chugged back while munching through a bite of one would fix. And she had a sneaking suspicion the icing decorations on top were store-bought, not made by hand. The mince pies’ pastry appeared … rock hard. As for the reindeer? Iced by someone with all the skill of an enthusiastic 5-year-old.

For all its apparent jolliness, Josie sensed sadness in the bakery. But why? And where was the owner? You’d have thought they’d have rushed in at the sound of a potential customer.

‘Hello?’ Josie called out, keeping her tone light, happy. Hoping the desperation that had her stomach stitched up with nerves didn’t come through. She waited for the tip-tap of footsteps. None came. ‘Hello?’ Maybe something had happened to the shop’s owner? Perhaps they’d had a fall and couldn’t move. Or hit their head and were passed-out cold.

She eyed the door that presumably led to the kitchen. She was going to have to go back there. She couldn’t leave without making sure whoever was supposed to be manning the store was okay. It might not be the politest thing to invade someone’s work area unannounced, but it was the right thing to do, given the potential circumstances.

Josie summoned up her courage, prepared to deal with the worst, and charged round the counter into the room beyond and smacked into, then rebounded off, something hard, warm and really nice-smelling.

Musky, sweet, with a hint of pine and soap.

‘I’m so sorry. Are you all right?’ The good smell came with a nice voice. Deep. Strong. But kind. ‘Although, I have to ask, what are you doing heading back here?’

Josie scrambled to gather her wits as she looked up into a face that deserved to be on the cover of a high-end men’s magazine – certainly not in a small cake shop in the little Cotswolds village of Sunnycombe. Eyes the colour of chocolate icing stared at her with a mix of concern, curiosity and a hint of suspicion. A wrinkle between his brows led to a straight and manly nose.

A nose could be manly? Who knew? But then she had no idea full lips could be masculine on a man either.

He laid his hand on her forearm and crouched a little – okay, a lot – so he was at her height. All five feet four of it. ‘Are you okay? Are you lost? Should I call someone?’

Oh great, so now he thought she was in some sort of state. This was not how the interview was meant to go.

Walk in. Appear confident. Ask about the job working front of house. Mention she had experience baking. Charm the owner into saying yes. Tick ‘job’ off the long list of things she had to do.

Pull yourself together, Josie, she growled.

‘I’m here …’ The words came out with a waver. Not good. She swallowed, breathed in, breathed out and tried again. ‘I’m here to talk to the owner about the job that’s advertised in your window. Is she in?’

For a split-second his eyes darkened to the colour of cocoa, a frown line appeared between his brows, disappearing as quickly as it had arrived. He bobbed back up and a slow smile spread across his face, lifting his cheekbones. ‘Oh, so you want to see the lady of the house?’

‘Yes, please.’ Josie nodded, taking a step backwards. Another. Then another. Until she was back in the front of the shop and away from the man who, from the golden band gleaming on his wedding finger, was clearly the husband of the lady of the house, which made him completely out of bounds.

He turned around, cupped his hand to his mouth and called, ‘Sweetpea? Can you come down here? There’s someone to see you.’

Quick steps crossed the room from the floor above, then clip-clopped down the stairs. Josie sucked in another breath, attempted to smooth the ever-present auburn halo of frizz that refused to be tamed, and returned her customer-ready smile to her face.

‘I haven’t done anything, I promise. I’ve been good. I didn’t put dolly’s head in the toilet again.’

The voice was sweet and soft, and sounded far too young to be the owner of a cake shop.

‘Mia, this lady is here to see the lady of the house. And that would be you.’

Mr Out of Bounds leaned down and swooped up the owner of the voice into his arms. She automatically hooked her legs either side of his waist, anchored herself to him and with the same chocolatey-brown almond-shaped eyes that belonged to the man holding her – her father, Josie gathered – stared at Josie with undisguised curiosity.

‘I don’t know her. Does that make her a stranger? Is she stranger danger? Shall I yell at her to go away?’ Blonde curls, a few shades lighter than her father’s, bobbed around her heart-shaped face.

‘No, she’s here for the job. So I don’t think yelling at her is going to be the best idea. Besides, we don’t yell in this house. Remember?’ He tickled Mia’s waist, his grin widening as she burst into giggles. ‘Giggles only.’

‘Giggles only.’ Mia nodded. ‘And presents. And carols. And more presents.’ Mia turned to Josie. ‘Christmas is coming and Santa is coming and Daddy’s going to get me a teddy bear and a ballerina jewellery box and a unicorn and a pony and a …’

‘One present from Santa. One present from me. You know the rules.’

One present from me. Not us, Josie noted. Was the wedding ring for show? Was the owner of the cake shop away for Christmas, and he was just filling in? But then who was doing the baking if not the person whose name was swinging from the sign outside? The man before her didn’t look the baking type in his perfectly pressed fawn-coloured chinos and olive cable-knit jumper. He looked more like … a businessman who was having a day off from the office. So maybe that meant he co–owned the shop with the business partner whose name was on the sign.

‘Who does the baking here?’ Josie blurted, tired of standing around and trying to piece together what was going on in front of her. Wondering and pondering wasn’t going to get her answers any faster. Nor help her acquire the job. ‘Is it Abigail? Is it her shop? Her name’s on the sign outside. Do I need to speak to her about the job?’

‘Mummy isn’t here anymore.’ Mia’s eyes were wide. Serious. Her tone too matter of fact to have come from such a petite person. ‘She’s gone to a better place. Daddy says it doesn’t have unicorns, but I think it does. And clouds made of marshmallows and you can eat them any time you want. Even at breakfast.’ She nodded again, sure in her beliefs.

Josie folded her arms across herself, wishing the act could soothe the pain twisting her heart. She knew something of having a mother not be there. The difference was hers had chosen to leave and never come back. Mia, the poor poppet, had had her mother taken from her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered, hating how the words sounded so empty. Useless. Unable to soothe, to comfort. To help bring Mia’s mother back.

‘Thank you. And now that you have an idea of what you’re potentially getting yourself into, I should introduce myself. I’m Callan. Callan Stewart. I do the baking. Or at least I try to. I’m an accountant by trade, but Abigail taught me a few things. I’m not a patch on her, I’m afraid. In fact, I’ve yet to meet anyone who can bake as well as she does. I mean … did.’ The crease between Callan’s brows was back, and it didn’t look to be disappearing anytime soon.

Josie’s heart twisted further. She’d seen that look before. On her father’s face, after her mother had left. Bereft. Desolate. The look of a man whose hopes and dreams had been whisked away. Or in Callan’s case, stolen.

‘And I’m Josie. Short for Josephine. But only my father calls me that. Josie Donnelly.’ She thrust her hand out, then realised Callan had his hands full with his daughter. And with life in general. She dropped her hand and offered up a smile. ‘It’s good to meet you. Now, shall we talk about the job? Is it still available?’

‘It is.’ Callan grimaced as Mia blew a wet raspberry on his cheek. ‘Would you like to take a seat?’ Callan jerked his head towards the table setting for two in front of the window. ‘I’m not sure conducting an interview standing up is the most comfortable way to do things.’ He jiggled Mia on his hip. ‘And this one isn’t getting any lighter. I swear she eats concrete when I’m not looking.’

Josie nodded and grinned as Mia swatted Callan playfully. She settled herself onto the wooden chair, then smoothed out a wrinkle in the blue-and-white checked tablecloth.

Callan sat down, arranged Mia on his lap, and wrapped his arms around her protectively, like she was the most precious thing in the world to him. Which, of course, Mia was. How could she not be? Children should be a parent’s top priority, especially when they were as young as Mia.

Callan dropped a kiss on the top of Mia’s head, then relaxed into his chair, and met Josie’s gaze across the table. ‘So, tell me, Josie, what customer service experience do you have?’

Josie reached into her tote, pulled out her CV and passed it to Callan. ‘I’ve worked in cafés my whole life. Started out as a kitchen hand and waitress when I was a teenager, was trained as a barista, then took a baking course and later a cake decorating course, and since then I’ve worked where I was needed, when I was needed.’

‘Baking? Not chef-ing?’ Callan’s eyes narrowed, his head tipped to the side. ‘I’d have thought chef training would have opened up more doors?’

‘It would have. But I like to bake. Have done since I was a young girl. My mother taught me the basics and I liked …’ I liked the way she wrapped her arms around me as we held the wooden spoon, beating the mixture together. The way she smelled like vanilla, sugar, and love. ‘I liked the way when people ate the cakes and biscuits and whatever else I whipped up, they smiled. The way my creations made them happy. People enjoy a perfectly cooked steak, but it’s a beautifully executed dessert that makes a meal memorable.’

Callan’s shoulders rose a tad, his leg, which had seen Mia jiggle up and down on his lap, stilled. Had she said something wrong? Was she going to be marched out? Did he think she wanted to take over? To run the place?

‘But, obviously, you’ve got the cooking part of the business sorted. The job is for front of house, and I’m happy to take that role for as long as you need me.’ She gave an affirmative nod and prayed Callan’s shoulders would relax, that the jiggle would resume. No job meant nowhere to live, which meant returning to her father’s house. And the only thing worse than Christmas was not celebrating it with her father. No presents. No carols. No turkey, bread sauce or trifle. No family traditions. Just the constant reminder of the hollowness created by her mother’s departure, reinforced by her father’s furtive glances at the front door. Hoping the woman who’d left them on Christmas Eve so many years ago would return.

‘And how do you feel about life in a small village? Sunnycombe’s not exactly a thrilling place to reside. Not much happens. There’s the Thursday night pub quiz. The odd band plays on a Friday. Saturday there’s a darts competition.’

‘Daddy was bestest.’ Mia tipped her head up to look at Callan, admiration shining in her eyes. ‘He won a gold cup.’

‘A trophy.’ Callan tickled Mia’s side, sending her into another fit of giggles. ‘But that was a long time ago. These days the only thing I want to be best at is being your daddy.’

‘And you look like you’re doing a great job.’ Josie clasped her hands under the table. She didn’t need to look down to know her knuckles were white. Was he going to offer her the job or not? Was he going to give her the escape route she needed to avoid another fraught family anti-Christmas? ‘I can live in a village. I can live anywhere. I’ve lived in all sorts of places.’

‘Does that mean you move a lot? That you’re likely to up and leave without giving notice?’ Callan’s brows drew together. ‘Because I can’t have that. I don’t expect you to stay forever, but I need to have a routine in place. I need to know that you won’t just disappear without giving me fair warning. It’s important … for the business.’

For the business? Or to him? Josie suspected the latter.

‘Which leads me to wonder, Josie, what brings you here?’

‘My last job was working in a café’s kitchen in Chipping Campden. I was filling in for a person on maternity leave. They came back, and now I’m in need of a new job. And I’m not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. I’ll stay for as long as you need me.’ She caught sight of a dust ball in the far corner of the room and recalled the wonky icing on the cupcakes. He needed her. Whether he knew it or not. Callan might proclaim to know a few things about baking, but Josie could tell, for all his efforts, he was not a baker. Just a man doing his best to keep his wife’s legacy alive. Keeping his love for her alive.

‘Do you like playing with dolls? And having tea parties? And how old are you?’ Mia inquired, her little fingers steepling together in a way Josie bet she’d learned from her father.

‘I’m 26, which means I’m kind of a grown-up, but not so grown up that I don’t love tea parties. They’re my favourite. Especially if real cakes are involved. And I bet I’d be good at playing with dolls too.’ She smiled warmly at Mia, her heart lightening as the smile was repaid in kind.

‘Babysitting isn’t part of the job.’ Callan’s arms wrapped tighter around his daughter. A barrier.

It made sense. If his wife had passed away, he wouldn’t want anyone who might leave to get close to Mia. The small rejection hurt, but Josie understood where it came from. Couldn’t blame him for it. Not when she was one for putting barriers up to stop others getting too close. Friendships were kept formal. Relationships of the romantic kind kept loose and easy. Dates only. Rarely more than three before she bowed out. The moment she began to feel cloistered, controlled or claustrophobic in any way, she was gone.

A new town. A new village. A new city. New place to live. New job. New life.

‘I’m not a baby.’ Mia’s face screwed up with disdain. ‘I’m 4, remember. That’s nearly a grown-up.’

Josie nodded. ‘Four is pretty grown up, which means babysitting must be the worst word in the world to describe taking care of such a big girl as you, right?’

Mia nodded so vigorously her head hit the back of her father’s chest, causing him to rub the spot, a pained expression on her face.

‘But if you’re busy baking, I can keep an eye on Mia out here. Perhaps even play tea parties when the shop’s quiet. If that sounds good to you, Mia?’

‘Sounds great.’ Mia reached out to Josie, palm open, ready for a high-five.

They slapped skin and Josie’s nerves settled. Whether Callan knew it or not, the job was hers. That high-five was every bit as binding as a handshake.

‘Why do I feel like this is a done deal?’ Callan shook his head, bemusement lifting his lips. ‘Not even 5 and Mia’s running rings around her old dad.’

‘So that means Josie is staying? Forever?’ Mia tipped her head to the side and looked up at her father, her eyes hopeful.

Guilt flooded Josie’s stomach. Forever wasn’t an option. Forever meant getting comfortable. And getting comfortable meant getting hurt. She wasn’t going to give Mia false hope, not when she’d already lost someone she’d loved. Two someones, if you counted the distant relationship she shared with her father.

‘I’ll stay for as long as your daddy needs me here.’ Josie met Callan’s gaze. His eyes held approval. And thankfulness. He too knew forever wasn’t always an option.

‘When can you start?’ Callan shifted Mia off his lap and stood. Interview over.

Josie scooted the chair back and pushed herself up onto her feet. ‘Soon as you need me.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Callan’s tone was tinged with desperation. ‘I haven’t hung the Christmas decorations yet, and I really need to. I just can’t seem to find the time between the baking, the bakery’s book work and serving.’

‘Daddy promised we’d have the bestest Christmas ever.’ Mia’s curls bobbed as she bounced up and down with excitement. ‘We’re going all out. Whatever that means.’

Josie’s heart sank. So much for not having to deal with tinsel and wreaths and fairy lights, and the uncomfortable mix of emotions that stirred whenever she saw them. Still, it was a job, one she needed, and it wasn’t like Christmas lasted forever. Just four more weeks and it’d be done for another year.

‘I can start tomorrow, but I will have to pop out in the afternoon for thirty minutes or so. I’m staying in one of the rooms above the pub, but I’ve found a cottage a few minutes away that’s for rent. I just need to meet with the landlady so she can vet me.’

‘That’s fine. So, we’ll see you tomorrow morning. Eight sharp?’ Callan reached out to shake her hand.

Their hands met. Touched. His hand was warm, his palm hard, his hold strong. The handshake of a man who could be trusted to care for his family. To stick around through thick and thin. Who would do his best by the people he loved.

The kind of handshake she could get used to. If she were a sticking around kind of girl. Which, of course, she wasn’t. She wouldn’t let herself be. Ever.

Chapter 2

‘Daaaaddy … what shoe goes where?’

Callan looked up from working flour into the fruitcake he was making for the local sewing club’s annual Christmas morning tea to see Mia staring at him, her socked foot tapping impatiently as she held up two glittery ballet flats.

‘Swap them round.’ He went back to stirring, his heart sinking as he took in the stodgy mixture. It wasn’t how it looked in the recipe he’d found online. But then, nothing he made looked like the recipes he found online. Not for the first time since Abigail had passed away just over eleven months ago did he find himself wishing she’d kept her recipes inside a book and not in her head. The thought was quickly followed by a sharp twist of guilt in his gut. Abigail hadn’t planned on dying. Hadn’t asked for the aneurysm that had taken her away from them. He had no right to feel exasperated.

‘Daddy, can you put them on for me? I’m tiiiired.’

Callan took a deep, calming breath. Fought the irritation that rose. How his wife had done the baking and looked after Mia without once complaining or raising her voice, he had no idea. Abigail had made it all look so easy, so effortless. Whereas he spent his days feeling like he was fighting an uphill battle. Making the daily quota of food to ensure his regulars had something to eat with their tea or coffee. Keeping the kitchen and shop clean and tidy. Then there was the actual serving of people, all of it done while listening to Mia’s constant questions, helping her whenever she asked, ensuring she’d remembered to brush her teeth, put on weather-appropriate clothing, and that the food that inevitably got caught in her curls was brushed out.

What had it been called in the article he’d read on one of the parenting sites he’d been frequenting since Abigail had passed?

Mental load.

A concept that was apparently foreign to the majority of men, but well known among the online mummy community.

All the little things that the person who runs the household has to juggle and keep track of. Things as small as remembering to buy toothpaste before it runs out. Ensuring there’s clean underwear available at all times. Buying Christmas presents. Pulling the Christmas tree out of storage. The last two things he’d not yet done, even though he knew he had to.

There was no way he was letting Mia’s first Christmas without her mum be as gloomy and depressing as he felt.

It had to be magical.

Unforgettable.

Infused with all the sparkle and joy that Abigail had brought to the season year after year.

At least now that he’d put aside the pride that had him in ‘do it all myself’ mode since Abigail’s death, and hired Josie, he’d have time to decorate, to get the Christmas tree, to buy the toy ponies or dolls or princess costumes that Mia kept talking about. Two presents? One from Santa, one from him? Who was he kidding? He was going to buy everything on her list and more. He had to if it meant seeing her little face light up. If it helped ease the pain of not having Abigail there.

‘Daddy!’

A whine of impatience combined with a soft thump of foot on wooden floor brought Callan back to his senses.

‘Mia, sorry. Daddy was in another world.’ He abandoned the wooden spoon in the glutinous mixture and squatted down to Mia’s level. ‘What can I do for you, princess?’

‘Shoes. Help me. Put them on me. And you weren’t in another world, silly Daddy, you were right here.’ Mia collapsed onto the ground and held her shoes up to Callan.

He repressed a sigh. How many times did you have to remind a child to use their manners? An infinite amount of times, it seemed. ‘What’s the magic word?’

‘Pleeeease.’ Mia gave him her most winning smile. One that melted his heart when he was sad inside. One that riddled him with guilt on the rare occasion he snapped at her.

‘That’s the word.’ He slipped the pink sparkly shoes onto her feet, then ruffled the top of her head. ‘We always use our manners, right?’

‘Right.’ Mia gave a firm nod then looked up, her serious expression morphing into one of unbridled happiness. ‘Josie!’

Callan twisted round to see Josie staring into the cake mixture. Hot embarrassment coursed through his veins, though hopefully not his cheeks. He didn’t want Josie to see that he knew he was failing. That he was trying to keep things going, but wasn’t quite getting there. He didn’t want anyone to see it.

‘What happened to this?’ Josie picked up the spoon and prodded the mixture.

‘New recipe I’m trying out. Found it online. I think they may have made a mistake with the quantities. Too much flour. Or not enough eggs, or brandy, or something. I think I’m going to have to start again, with a new recipe …’ He trailed off, painfully aware that he sounded every bit as uninformed as he felt.

‘Hmm, I see.’ Josie set the spoon down and reached for the navy-blue apron emblazoned with the shop’s logo that was hanging on a hook attached to the wall.

She might have said she understood, but Callan hadn’t missed the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of eyes, that told him she saw the problem wasn’t with the recipe, but with the person who was making it.

‘So, it’s a fruitcake you’re making?’ She efficiently wrapped the ties around her waist then fastened them at the front. ‘I know I’m not meant to be cooking, but I have a recipe that never fails. And it uses just three ingredients. I could make it or give the recipe to you if you’d prefer to do it yourself.’

‘Daddy, you promised we’d go get some new Christmas decorations.’ Mia tugged at his sweater. He looked down to see excitement shining in her eyes. ‘Remember? You said now that we had a Josie we could do it. And go see Santa too. I haven’t told him what I want.’

‘And what do you want from Santa?’ Josie picked up the bowl of sludge and scraped it out into the rubbish bin.

‘Yesterday I wanted a pony, but today I want a Cinderella dress. And glass slippers.’ Mia tapped her chin. ‘And a crown. All princesses have crowns, and Daddy says I’m a princess, so I have to have a crown.’

‘Well your daddy’s quite correct, and I bet Santa will be most happy that you’re asking for a costume. Far easier for him to transport. Can you imagine trying to fit a pony in a sleigh?’

Callan nodded a thank-you to Josie over Mia’s head. He’d forgotten all about asking what she wanted from Santa. Rookie mistake.

‘So, do you want me to whip up that cake?’ Josie flicked the kettle on, reached up to the shelf above the stainless-steel bench and fished out four teabags from the box. ‘It’d give you the time to go shopping.’

‘Would you mind?’ Callan lifted Mia into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s not part of the job, well, I said it wouldn’t be. But clearly there’s, er, something wrong with this recipe and I’ve run out of time … and if the sewing club don’t get their fruitcake …’

‘Consider it done. You two go visit Santa, buy those decorations. I’ll be fine. Just be back by three, if that’s okay. I have that meeting with my potential landlady …’ Josie shooed them away, a smile lighting up her warm hazel eyes.

More green than brown, Callan noticed. And the shooing … not dissimilar to how Abigail would hurry him out of the kitchen when she was busy. Never in anger or in frustration, but always in a way that was good-natured, and promised she’d make time for him later.

Not that Callan expected Josie to make time for him. Not that he wanted her to. She was under his employ. Their relationship was purely professional. That, and he wasn’t interested in spending time with anyone other than Mia.

An impatient tug on his earlobe brought him back to reality.

‘Mia, cut that out.’ He jerked his head back and tried to ignore the hurt that flashed through Mia’s eyes at being told off. So much for keeping calm … He’d apologise to her later. In private. ‘Right then. We’d best be off. See you … when we see you. Before three.’ He waved half-heartedly at Josie but avoided eye contact. The realisation that he’d noticed the colour of her eyes, that he’d noticed something about a woman who wasn’t Abigail, saw unease swarming in his stomach. It mixed with the guilt from snapping at Mia and settled dark and heavy. Uncomfortable.

He pressed his nose into Mia’s hair and breathed in the pear scent of her shampoo. The familiar fragrance centring him, reminding him of what was important. Of who was.

***

Josie inhaled the heady, heavenly, sweet and spicy aroma of the fruitcake wafting through the kitchen’s air. A smile played about her lips as she recalled the conversation with Callan earlier. The way he’d blamed the recipe for the stodge that was the cake mixture had been too cute. Josie had taken one look at the mixture and seen that the dried fruit hadn’t been steeped in the liquid long enough and that too much flour had been added. The mush was now safely in the bin.

It was the opposite of her mixture, where dried fruit was steeped in hot tea, before being combined with self-raising flour and baked for two hours. The result was a gloriously pungent fruitcake, which held an almost malty flavour, and was good by itself, sliced and slathered with butter or served warm with custard.

From the front room came a melodic ‘yoo-hoo’.

Josie made a mental note to ask Callan about installing a small bell on the counter along with a sign instructing customers to ring it if the front was unattended.

Smoothing her hair back, she adopted an open smile. The morning hadn’t been the busiest she’d experienced in all her years of customer service, but it had been steady.

No doubt people were coming in to see the latest face to arrive in the village. She’d seen that often enough to expect it.

The scent of the stylishly dressed woman reached Josie before she did. White Diamonds. The same perfume her mother had worn. Her heart slammed against her chest, as it always did when for an irrational split-second she believed her mother had sought her out, returned to find the daughter she’d abandoned when Josie was 12 – the age when, with her mind and hormones and body in flux, she’d needed her mother most.

‘So, you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about. Welcome, my dear, welcome.’ Josie’s hand was encased in the woman’s tissue-soft palm and pumped twice before being let go. ‘My name’s Margo. I’m Callan and Mia’s neighbour. Owner of the sewing and embroidery shop, among other things.’ Margo stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That cake’s smelling delicious. Every bit as good as Abigail’s. My little sewing club is in for a treat. I take it this is your doing?’

Josie shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was, not that Callan needed me to do it.’ She crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘I just had a bit of spare time so thought I may as well help him out.’

‘Piffle.’ Margo let out a hearty laugh. ‘If you can cook as well as his dearly departed wife then you know as well as I do that Callan needs as much help in the kitchen department as he can get. Please tell me he’s letting you loose back there?’

‘Front of house, mostly.’ Josie smiled apologetically. ‘He seems to want to do it all himself.’

‘That’s his problem, you know.’ Margo leaned in towards Josie, her demeanour turning conspiratorial. ‘Since Abigail passed, he’s not allowed any of us to help one iota. I’ve offered a thousand times, if not two thousand, to take that little angel of his off his hands for a few hours so he can have a break, even if only to go to the pub for a quiet beer, or to bake another batch of his horrifically hard cupcakes without little Mia underfoot. But he won’t have it. He’s determined to make out like he’s okay, but how could he be? He lost the love of his life.’

Josie pressed her lips together and gave a polite nod. Talking about Callan’s private life seemed wrong. A crossing of the boundaries between employer and employee, especially with him not being here to defend himself, doubly especially when the woman talking to her was a complete stranger.

‘I see I’ve put you in an awkward spot.’ Margo touched Josie’s forearm. ‘I apologise. I care deeply for Callan and Mia, and I did for Abigail, too. My family left years ago and they’re not ones for visiting, so I began to see those three as my adopted family.’

Shame tugged at Josie’s heart. Margo’s family had done to her what Josie had done to her father. Not visited. Kept away.

Though why Margo’s children stayed away, Josie had no idea. From where she stood, Margo was the opposite of her emotionally distant father. She seemed kind, caring. A person who put others first, who wanted to help. Who wanted to live life, without waiting by windows, staring longingly at the front door, hoping for the past to return, while ignoring the person who was right in front of you, begging you to see them. To love them.

‘Oh, look at me feeling all sorry for myself.’ Margo waved her hand and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not like they hate me. It’s my own fault really. I raised two wonderful, successful children. My eldest, Sebastian, lives in Australia and works in IT. He flies over when he can, but he works all hours, and I’m terrified of flying so couldn’t even contemplate the flight over that kind of distance. They’d have to give me an elephant-sized amount of sedation.’ Margo rolled her eyes towards the ceiling and gave a small, mock-despairing shake of her head.

‘And your youngest?’ Josie prompted. ‘Where are they?’

‘Oh, you probably won’t believe this to look at me, but Megan’s a model. Constantly on the move. New York, Milan, Paris. Wherever her agency sends her. She gets her looks from her father. He was tall, handsome, a good man too. I don’t know what I did to deserve him.’ Margo’s smile disappeared as sadness flashed through her blue eyes for a millisecond before being covered up with a brighter smile, that didn’t quite hit her eyes.

‘I take it your husband’s no longer with us?’ It was Josie’s turn to comfort, and she did so tentatively, allowing her fingers to lie feather-light on the back of Margo’s hand.

Margo’s eyes sparkled with unshed tears. ‘No. He passed just over a decade ago. I miss him every day. I miss them all. No wonder I keep trying to insert myself in Callan’s life. He must think me a nosey old busybody.’

‘He wouldn’t. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to think badly of anyone.’ Josie straightened up and put her hands on her hips. ‘And don’t you for a second say your daughter didn’t get her looks from you. Women much younger would kill for those cheekbones and eyes of yours. I hope she calls you every single day to thank you for those wonderful attributes you passed on to her.’

Margo let out a light, fragile laugh. ‘Maybe not every day, but we aim for a good catch-up phone call or a video chat once a week. She’s a good girl is my Megan. As is Sebastian. They may be hundreds of miles away but they’re always close.’ She tapped her heart.

The shame that had begun to abate returned full force, not just twisting Josie’s heart but turning her gut to rock. Her father wasn’t that far away. Not compared to Margo’s children. Maybe she needed to make more of an effort. To call more. Try harder to connect. But how could you connect with a man who never called first, who kept conversations short, and ended phone calls after two minutes? Who always sounded vaguely surprised to hear from her, like he’d forgotten she even existed?

‘So how long are you planning to stay in Sunnycombe?’

Margo, rummaging about in the black leather handbag she had tucked under her arm, missed the flicker of guilt that Josie was sure would’ve been visible on her face.

‘Oh, you know, as long as Callan needs me. I’m not looking to go anywhere anytime soon and the village seems so sweet. The people I’ve met so far are really nice.’

‘And how many people have you met?’ Margo looked up and arched an elegant eyebrow.

‘I’ve served a fair few today, but who have I properly met? Just you. Callan. Mia. The owner of the pub where I’m staying.’ Josie held up four fingers. ‘You’re all giving the village an excellent reputation.’

‘Well, I’m sure it’ll stay that way. The people here are good people. We care for each other. Look out for each other. Even when those we’re looking out for don’t want us to.’

Josie didn’t have to ask to know Margo was referring to Callan and his resolute independence.

‘Now, enough of this chin wagging. When will the delicious-smelling cake be ready for pick-up?’

Josie smoothed down her apron, relieved the conversation had returned to work. ‘I’ll pull it out of the oven in a few minutes, then it’ll need to cool down. This afternoon would be fine – although I won’t be serving if you plan to pop in around three, I’ve an appointment …’

Margo flapped her hand dismissively. ‘Don’t worry about the appointment. The cottage is yours. Treat her with the same care you show your cooking.’

Josie felt her mouth open, then shut. Then open again. ‘You’re …?’

‘The landlady. And this chat of ours has given me all the confidence I need that you won’t up and leave me without warning. You’ve got a good way about you, Josie. And I suspect that good way isn’t surface-deep.’

Josie nodded. Not trusting herself to speak, lest her voice cracked and she showed Margo who she really was.

A satisfied smile appeared on Margo’s lips as she turned and made her way to the door. ‘I’ll drop the keys in when I pick up the cake. Oh, and Josie?’ Margo twisted round and fixed her with serious eyes. ‘You won’t know this yet. And Callan certainly will refuse to entertain the idea. But he does need you, more than he knows. You’ll be good for him.’ Margo’s gaze roamed around the walls of the bakery. ‘You’ll be good for this place.’

The door swung shut with a soft thunk.

Callan needed her? Josie hoped not. She could cook. She could teach Callan the art of baking, if he let her. But she didn’t want anyone to need her. Nothing good could come of that. She’d seen the proof in that pudding for herself.

Chapter 3

A rustle of bags and the skittering of excited feet greeted Josie as she beat butter, eggs and sugar together, watching the bright orange of the egg yolks morph with the butter into a rich, creamy colour that would lighten until it was the perfect shade of pale pastel yellow and ready for the dry ingredients to be sifted into, then folded through.

‘Josie! Josie!’ Mia half-ran, half-danced into the kitchen, spinning and skipping, sending the little red bags she was holding flying in all directions. ‘Oopsie,’ she giggled as she crashed into Josie’s legs. ‘Sorry, Josie. You should see what we got. We got everything. We got the whole shop. And we’re going to decorate the whole shop and upstairs and Daddy bought another tree so we’d have two trees and it’s going to be the best.’

Josie grinned at Mia’s enthusiasm. Sure, Josie was about to descend into what sounded like her idea of hell, but she wasn’t going to let her dislike of the season show when the glitter and shine of Christmas was about to bring a little girl who’d lost her mum so much happiness.

She might be a Grinch, but she wasn’t a killjoy.

Besides, if she threw herself into her job and convinced Callan to let her help out more in the baking department, then there was the chance she’d get through the season without noticing anything festive at all.

Head down. Bum up. That was the way to handle the oncoming tsunami of tinsel.

‘Mia, what did I say about waiting for me?’ Callan’s disapproving tone didn’t match the Santa hat perched jauntily on his head. Or the long ribbon of red and white tinsel that was draped around his neck scarf-style. ‘Mia? Are you listening to me at all?’ He unwrapped the tinsel scarf and the green and navy-blue tartan scarf hidden beneath it, then shrugged off his long black woollen coat and hung it up on the wooden coat stand that was positioned beside the back door.

Josie tried not to laugh as she took in the jumper he was wearing. Gone was the simple grey knitted jersey he’d left in, replaced by a multi-coloured sweater in red, green and white, featuring a reindeer with bells on its antlers. Underneath it the words ‘jingle all the bells’ were emblazoned in jaunty script.

‘Nice top.’ She kept her tone even as she measured the dry ingredients into the sifter, then began jiggling it back and forth, letting the flour and baking powder fall through in a snow-like flurry.

‘When 4-year-olds attack.’

She could see Callan rolling his eyes out of the corner of her eye.

‘Once Mia saw it, I wasn’t getting out of the store alive until I forked out the money.’

Picking up a spatula, Josie began to fold the ingredients in with a figure-of-eight motion. ‘I think you made the right decision. A Christmas jumper’s not worth dying over.’ She bit her lip as heat raced over her face and down her neck. Good one, Josie, way to stick your foot right in your mouth. ‘God, I’m sorry. So sorry. Ignore that last bit. I didn’t … I wasn’t … Clearly I need to engage my brain before speaking.’

Callan shrugged her apology off. ‘Don’t worry about it. I started it with the talk of getting out alive, and I can’t have you second-guessing everything you’re about to say in case you hurt my feelings. To be honest, there’s nothing you can say or do that could. I think my pain quota is filled.’

Josie racked her brain to find something appropriately soothing to say. What did you say to a man who’d lost the love of his life? Nothing had soothed her father’s pain, even though the circumstances were entirely different. A devoted mother and loving wife passing away was a million miles away from a wife upping and leaving to go ‘find herself’ overseas, only to never return.

‘So, you managed to get everything you needed?’ Josie spooned the smooth batter into a greased and lined cake tin. ‘Did Mia leave anything for anyone else to buy?’

Callan stepped forward and inspected Josie’s handiwork. ‘I don’t recall asking you to make another cake. Just the fruitcake.’

There was no reproach in the tone, but Josie had the distinct feeling he was put out. That she was treading on his territory.

‘Oh, I had a bit of time on my hands. And I do love making lemon drizzle cake. It doesn’t have to be for the shop. I could pay you for the ingredients I used, and you and Mia could take it upstairs and have it for afternoon tea, if you’d like. Consider it a “thanks for hiring me” gift.’ She opened the oven and placed the cake on the rack, then shut the door and turned to face Callan. The tenseness had left his eyes but they were still guarded, like a man who was wondering if he were about to fall into a trap, or if by saying ‘yes’ he’d be agreeing to something else.

Which was ridiculous. She was offering him a cake. To eat. No strings attached.

‘If you don’t like lemon drizzle cake, I’m sure it would do well in the shop. It was always popular at the cafés and bakeries I’ve worked in previously.’ Josie took the empty mixing bowl to the sink and began filling it with water before the batter stuck to the sides and became an elbow-aching mission to get off.

Callan blinked, hard and fast, then shook his head. ‘I’m sure Mia would love a little cake later on for afternoon tea. And there’s no need to pay for the ingredients. As a matter of fact, once it’s cooked and cooled down, would you join us?’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t.’ Josie grabbed a fluffy pink hand towel, dried her hands and rehung it neatly over its hook. ‘I mean I’ll still be on duty, so you should be putting me to good use, not letting me sit around eating cake and drinking tea.’

The corner of Callan’s lips lifted a tad. ‘Josie, has it been busy today?’

Josie matched his smile. The villagers had got their goggle on that morning, meaning the only person to come in since had been Margo to check on the cake, and check her out. ‘No, it’s been quiet. Your neighbour, Margo, was the last person I’ve seen. Hence the cake baking. I’m not good at sitting still. Or standing still. Being still.’

‘Or talking still. You’re as fast as Mia. No wonder she likes you.’ The corners of Callan’s lips lifted some more, revealing a sprinkling of wrinkles on either side of his eyes that would have been sexy on any other man. But not on Callan. A father. A widower. A man in mourning. On him they were just … a touch charming.

Disquiet squirmed low in Josie’s gut. She’d been in the job all of one day and already she was in danger of having people get too close. Worse. It was a 4-year-old who liked her. One who would be happy if Josie hung out with her and ate some cake. It was easy, mostly, to leave towns and cities and the acquaintances she forged there, but to leave a child? To potentially cause a child emotional pain? She’d just have to keep her distance. And that meant no cake.

‘Well, I’m not taking no for an answer. You saved my bacon by taking this job, Josie – well, technically, my cake – so I’d like it if you’d enjoy some afternoon tea with us. I’ll serve anyone who comes in. When will it be ready?’

So much for no cake. So much for keeping her distance.

Josie grabbed a tea towel and began drying off the bowl. ‘It’ll be about two hours away by the time it cooks, is drizzled with lemon syrup and cools.’

‘Perfect, that’ll give me time to do the bakery’s book work while Mia watches a bit of telly. Chill-out time. I read on the internet that kids need that.’ Callan rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and shook his head. ‘Chill-out time? What a wonderful thing. I think it should be mandatory for everyone.’

Josie clicked the bowl back into its place on the mixer. ‘Oh, to be young again.’

‘Indeed. Right. I’ll bring Mia down in two hours. Call me if you need a second pair of hands.’ Callan stood and made his way up the stairs without waiting for a reply.

Josie slumped forward onto the bench, held her head in her hands and let out a long, slow breath. It was just tea and cake. If she kept conversation light, if she didn’t engage too much or too warmly with Mia, she’d be fine. The ties would be easy to untangle. And no hearts would be broken.

***

‘It’s boring here at Christmas time. All my friends go away and don’t come back for ages. I have five friends. All girls, ’cause boys are yuck.’ Mia stuck out her tongue, then took another bite of her cake, its crumbs catching at either side of her mouth. ‘Do you have friends, Josie? Do you have five like me?’

‘Not five like you. You must be pretty special to have that many.’

Josie took a sip of tea then set it down on the saucer, with a slight rattle, Callan noticed.

Why would Mia’s grilling be making Josie touchy? Or maybe Josie hadn’t had lunch so had a case of the lack-of-food shakes. Which would make far more sense. Especially as it looked like she hadn’t taken a break since the moment she’d walked in that morning. The floors were swept. The counter gleamed. The dishes were done and packed away. She’d sold a fair bit of his average – below average, if he were honest with himself – baking, and had time to make two cakes.

He’d teased her about not being able to sit still, but from the jiggle of her leg under the table, he may have been on to something.

‘Why not five friends?’ Mia’s interrogation continued. ‘It’s not like you smell. You don’t. You’re not stinky.’

Josie’s leg stilled as a laugh escaped. The sound filled the space with a light-heartedness he’d not heard in a long time.

‘I’m glad I’m not stinky. I appreciate you saying that. I like to shower twice a day to keep myself stink-free.’ Josie speared a piece of cake, dipped it in the Greek yoghurt she’d served it with, and popped it in her mouth, her eyes closing for a second as she enjoyed the zesty, sweet flavour, enhanced by the tartness of the yoghurt.

Callan envied her enjoyment. The cake was obviously delicious. Abigail had fed him enough cake for him to know what was good, but since she’d gone, all food – no matter savoury or sweet – tasted like cardboard. Something to be chewed until he could get it down his gullet and into his stomach. Food kept him going, but it didn’t give him life.

‘Daddy? Can Josie make a cake every day? Hers is better than yours.’

Callan shoved his maudlin moment away. He didn’t need food to give him life, he had his life sitting next to him, her little foot nudging his as her leg swung back and forth.

‘I think your daddy likes making cake, Mia. And I bet it’s just as good as this.’ Josie half-smiled at Callan.

‘Nope. It’s not.’ Mia took another mouthful of cake, putting a momentary stop to any further insults.

‘She’s not lying.’ Callan pushed a chunk of the cake, its crumb light but rich with moisture, around the plate. ‘This is better than mine.’

‘Told ya.’ A spray of crumbs flew from Mia’s mouth.

‘Don’t eat with your mouth full.’ Callan tapped Mia’s hand, then turned his attention to Josie. ‘Perhaps I was wrong to keep you out of the kitchen. An old business mentor of mine once said the key to success is to allow people to do what they’re good at and not get in their way. And you’re good at baking.’ He paused. Good? She was great. But so had Abigail been, and putting Josie on par with Abigail felt wrong. Like putting another baker on the same pedestal as Abigail was a betrayal of her memory. ‘Really good. Better than I am, hands down.’

‘Well, I didn’t pay good money to learn how to bake, then spend years bettering myself, for nothing.’ Josie shrugged.

‘And it would be wrong of me to waste such a talent.’ Callan pushed his plate away. ‘So if you’d like to take on some of the cooking, then that’s fine with me. It would mean an early start but also an early finish.’

‘Really?’ A smile lit up Josie’s eyes. ‘Because I’d love to.’

‘Really.’ Callan confirmed his decision with a nod.

‘Yay!’ Mia’s chubby fists pumped up and down above her head. ‘And can we have afternoon tea every day as well?’

Callan shook his head. ‘You’ve got your mum’s sweet tooth.’

‘And Josie’s.’ Mia pointed to Josie’s empty plate.

A pretty pink flush lit up Josie’s cheeks. Pretty? Callan gave himself a mental shake. It was just a flush, there was nothing pretty about it.

Just as there was nothing sweet about the way Mia had evacuated her chair and was now sliding onto Josie’s lap. Josie held her hands aloft, her eyes wide, looking for Callan’s advice, or permission, to let Mia snuggle in.

He went to reprimand Mia, to pull her away from Josie, but stopped himself. Her small body had cushioned into Josie’s, her cheek was settled upon Josie’s chest. Her thumb had found its way into her mouth.

All at once his heart restricted in pain, while filling with love. How many times had he seen Mia snuggle into Abigail in the same way? Seeking comfort from not just the warmth of her body, but the warmth of her nature. Her goodness. Her ability to heal a bad day with a few well-thought-out words. To ease a bad day with a hug. To fix an ouchie with a kiss.

He caught the questioning look in Josie’s eyes, and gave a nod. Permission to wrap her arms around his daughter. To bring her close. To hold her tight. To treasure her.

‘Daddy, can Josie please come upstairs and help us decorate the new tree?’ Mia’s head tipped up to Josie’s. ‘Please, Josie? Can you?’

Callan’s breath caught in his throat. Regret rolled through him as protectiveness reared its head. Was it right to let Mia become close to Josie? To risk Mia’s heart being splintered further should Josie leave.

Sure, Josie said she had no plans to up and go anytime soon, but neither had Abigail. One moment his wife had been smiling and laughing her way through life, lighting up all those she touched with her humour and sweetness, the next he’d found her on the floor. Eyes open. Unseeing. And no amount of saying her name, of pleading or crying, brought her back. Even Mia’s tears, dripping on her mother’s face, couldn’t work their fairy-tale magic and awaken Abigail from her slumberous domain.

Josie looked to Callan for an answer, the shadows in her eyes darkening the longer he took to answer.

The polite thing, and what would make Mia happy, would be to say yes. But being a parent meant setting boundaries and sticking to them. In this case he needed to provide a boundary between Mia and Josie. For Mia’s heart’s own good.

‘I think not, Mia. Sorry, sweetie, but I’m sure Josie’s busy doing other things.’

‘But I want her to.’ Mia’s bottom lip pushed out as she tipped her head to look up at Josie. ‘Make him say yes, Josie, pleeease?’

‘Sorry, lovely, no can do.’ Josie took Mia’s hand and ran her thumb over the soft, still-dimpled, skin. ‘You have to do what your daddy says. He knows best.’

Callan didn’t miss the flatness to her tone, but neither did he miss the lightening of her eyes, the forward slump of shoulder that, if he didn’t know better, he’d swear was relief.

That made two of them.

Gone was the Callan who’d let Abigail soften the stiff upper lip that his emotionless family had instilled in him. Who’d allowed himself to embrace a new community, to become part of it.

Allowing others in, letting them close, no longer seemed like a good idea. It no longer felt safe.

It was better to keep people at arm’s length. To keep things professional, detached. Because the moment you cared was the second you opened yourself up to the possibility of pain.

And he had no plans to go through the kind of agony Abigail’s death had brought – even a tenth of it – ever again.

Chapter 4

Bye, bed with the back-poking spring.

Bye, curtains that don’t quite close.

Josie shut the door to the room she’d rented at the pub and began wheeling her suitcase down the hall, its wheels hitting the old wooden flooring’s grooves in a rhythmic thump-thump.

Bye, shower that I have to share with Mr Leaves His Hair in the Bathroom Plughole.

She lifted the case and started down the stairs that led to the bar, her stomach squirming with anticipation. The cottage, with its cushion-covered overstuffed sofa and large fireplace, had looked cute and cosy in the photos she’d seen online. She just hoped there was a stock of firewood, as she could feel the cold seeping in from outside, chilling her bones.

‘Josie! Get that little bum of yours over here!’ The publican’s voice boomed, causing those nursing beers and sipping on warming red wine to turn their heads in her direction.

So much for making a quiet, unassuming exit.

‘Brendon, hi.’ She found a smile and rolled her case in his direction. ‘Good to see you’ve shunned society’s illusion of politeness.’

Brendon lightly snorted as he shook his head. ‘No time for that palaver. Besides, I was stating the truth, and it wasn’t like I was passing judgement on your body. I saw you scuttling out of here and I was worried you were going to leave us without saying a proper goodbye.’ Grey eyebrows lifted high on a corrugated forehead. ‘Would you like a wine before you go?’

Josie waved her hand, declining the wine glass Brendon held up. ‘I’m only moving up the road, and it’s not like I won’t be back again. Besides, I’ve seen your pours. I’ll end up staggering home. Or having someone push me along, with my passed-out form on top of the suitcase.’

Brendon set the bottle down. ‘Well, you won’t be a stranger, will you?’

Josie shook her head. ‘Of course not. I promise.’

‘That’s what I like to hear. When you do come by, bring that boss of yours with you, and your landlady, too. I’ve not seen either of them in here for far too long. Tell Margo she’s missed and tell Callan that Old Smithy is getting a bit big for his boots. Thinks he’s the champion of the darts world. Needs taking down a peg or two, he does.’ Brendon clucked his tongue, then took a sip of his ever-present pint. A smattering of froth decorated his moustache, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

‘I heard Callan was good at darts, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to get him down. Besides, it’d be weird if I asked, wouldn’t it? Being his employee and all.’

Brendon’s thick lips curved up in a smile. ‘Not weird. Not even a bit. When you live in a village as small as this you end up being more to people than you ever intend. Friends. Enemies. Lovers …’ Brendon lifted his brows suggestively.

Heat hit Josie’s cheeks. The idea of her and Callan being anything more than colleagues was … ‘Brendon, that is so wrong. He’s just lost his wife not that long ago. And more importantly, I’m not interested.’ She tightened her grip on the suitcase’s handle and glanced towards the window. The sun was dropping towards the horizon, the shadows growing longer, the clouds thicker, heavier.

‘Whatever you say, my dear. Time will tell. Speaking of time. Rain’s on the way. My gammy hip’s telling me so. Best you go before it buckets down. Here …’ Brendon passed an unopened bottle of merlot to Josie. ‘A village-warming gift. Welcome to Sunnycombe.’

‘Oh, no, you don’t have to …’ Josie went to wave the kindness away.

The bottle was pressed into her open hand. ‘I do have to. It’s tradition. How I welcome all new residents.’

Josie accepted the bottle with a nod, tucked it into the crook of her arm and tried to ignore the guilt that sat heavy in her heart. Everyone believed she was here for the long term, trusted her to be there for them. Callan’s shop needed her. Margo no doubt relied on the rental money. Even Brendon believed she had a place here, one that would see their old darts champion return.

Two days she’d been there, and somehow Sunnycombe had pulled her in, embraced her, made her one of their own.

And part of her – the abandoned child who had hoped for her mother’s return, who dreamed of a day when the closeness she’d once shared with her father would resume – wanted to embrace them back.

She shook the ridiculous thought off. She didn’t want to embrace anyone or to be part of anything greater than herself. She was just tired and in need of a good non-poking-spring-in-back night’s sleep. ‘Right, well, thank you for having me. I’ll probably see you later in the week.’

‘Don’t forget to bring Callan. Or Margo. Both would be good.’ Brendon gave her an encouraging nod. ‘And don’t take no for an answer.’

Josie nodded and managed to lift her lips in the smallest of smiles. It was the least she could do considering how kind Brendon had been since the moment she’d set foot in The Squeaky Wheel.

The light in the pub dimmed as the clouds lowered. Grey, menacing, and threatening to see her a sopping mess if she didn’t get home quick.

Home.

She stepped outside and shivered. Not so much because she was leaving the roaring fire and warm atmosphere behind, but because the idea of ‘home’ left her cold. Frozen to the bone.

Residence. There was a word she could get on board with. A place where she would reside until it was time to move on.

An icy gust of wind whistled past her. She stepped up her pace, tucked her chin down and buried the lower part of her face into her sunshine-yellow scarf. Why hadn’t she put her pompom hat on before leaving? Why had she tucked it in the bottom of her suitcase? At this rate her ears would fall off before she arrived at the cottage. Although the bonus of that would be not hearing Brendon’s nutty insinuations that she and Callan ought to become an item.

Nutty? More like completely insane.

Her eyes darted to the left and right as she walked. The fronts of the honey-coloured buildings that flanked either side of the street were in darkness, though the flats above glowed as lamps and lights were switched on. Beyond the buildings, she could make out the hillsides that stood sentry on either side of the village, their tops shrouded in cloud.

She followed the road around, leaving the shops behind, and breathed a sigh of relief as she spied Margo’s cottage with its thatched roof and twin chimneys poking out almost jauntily from either end, up ahead.

A quiver of anticipation stirred within as she pushed open the front gate, went to the front door and fished about in her pocket for the keys Margo had dropped in when picking up the fruitcake. The lock turned with ease and she crossed the threshold.

Josie set her suitcase to the side of the door and sent a silent ‘thank you’ to Margo as she spotted the fire cracking softly in the hearth. Judging by the ashes it had been going for some time, which meant Margo had made an effort to keep the fire burning.

A tendril of sadness curled around Josie’s heart as she moved to the fire, dropped into a squat and reached her hands towards the fire. Her fingers tingled as warmth melted away the numbness.

What must it feel like to have been brought up by someone who was so caring? So thoughtful? Who put others’ needs ahead of their own? Who didn’t ignore you, forget you were there or leave you altogether?

She shoved the pity away. It was pointless to dwell on such things.

She couldn’t change her parentage. Couldn’t go back in time and change her mother’s mind or her father’s reaction. His grief had turned, briefly, to anger. Harsh and sharp. His anger quickly morphing into never-ending mourning, sprinkled with a melancholic hope that his wife would return. Meanwhile, Josie’s hope, along with any dreams of happily ever after, had skulked off as the days, then weeks, months, then years had passed without so much as a call, email or postcard.

Josie stood as three knocks filled the air. She made her way to the door, stopping when it opened and a bright red beret-style woollen hat poked its head through, followed by a soft ‘yoo-hoo’.

‘Margo. Come in. It’s horrid out there.’ She ushered her in and shut the door against the frigid air. ‘It was so kind of you to start the fire. It was nice to come ho—’ Josie stopped herself, remembering the vow she’d made to never think of anywhere as home. To never let herself settle. ‘It was nice to arrive to find the place not freezing. It was such a lovely welcome.’

Margo threaded her arm through Josie’s without asking permission and walked her towards the door that led to the kitchen. ‘Wasn’t me, my dear. It was Callan’s idea.’

‘Callan’s?’ Josie forced herself not to lean into Margo. To let her nurturing nature infuse her soul. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘Because he’s got a good heart on him. A bit battered these days, but it’s still in there.’ Margo released her and turned her attention to the kitchen bench. ‘Tea?’

‘Please. Or there’s wine if you’d like?’ Josie took a seat at the kitchen table and straightened her tired legs into a deep stretch.

‘From Brendon?’ Margo’s cheeks pinked up as she pulled two mugs down from the cupboard to the right of the sink, then placed tea bags that were kept in a duck-egg-blue tin jar next to the kettle along with identical jars labelled ‘coffee’ and ‘sugar’. ‘He’s a good man. It’s a nice tradition.’

Good man? Josie suspected Margo thought Brendon was a little more than good, if the heightened colour in her cheeks and the way her gaze was focused on the mugs and refusing to meet Josie’s, was anything to go by.

‘He is nice. Asked me to bring you along to the pub next time I go.’

‘Did he now? I suppose it’s been a while since I popped in.’ Margo’s gaze didn’t waver as she poured steaming water into the mugs. ‘And save the wine for a special occasion. Like inviting Callan over as a thank-you for lighting the fire.’

Josie bit back a grin. She knew a diversion tactic when she saw one.

‘Good idea, Margo. I’ll keep it in mind. Maybe I should invite you and Brendon around at the same time?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’s too busy.’ Margo placed the mug in front of her. ‘Sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’ Josie decided to drop the subject. It wasn’t her place to get involved. She pushed out the chair opposite and Margo sank into it with a contented sigh.

‘I do love this place. I’d forgotten how warm and cosy it gets on a wintry night. My husband and I spent hours snuggled up on that sofa talking about our hopes and dreams. It got a bit cramped once the kids joined us, but I wouldn’t trade in those moments for all the cricks in the neck in the world.’ She wrapped her fingers around the mug and lifted it to her lips.

Fingers that still wore her wedding rings, Josie noted.

‘You still miss him?’

‘I do. Every day. I don’t know that I ever won’t. He was a great, towering, bear of a man with the sweetest, softest heart. Even after the cancer that saw him leave us took hold, his spark never left him, his humour, his smile. It was all there to the end.’

Margo’s eyes had misted over. Putting aside her promise to keep her distance from others, Josie slid off her chair, made her way round to Margo and wrapped her in a hug. Their hearts pressed together in a moment of solidarity.

Two people who had experienced loss, who knew no words could change the past or the way it had transformed them.

Margo released her with a shuddering laugh. ‘Look at me welling up after all these years. You must think me a silly old duck.’

Josie slipped back into her chair. ‘Not silly. Not old either. Most certainly not a duck. It’s not easy being left behind.’ She sank her teeth into her cheek and silently reprimanded herself for saying too much. ‘At least I imagine it’s not easy being left behind.’ She managed a half-smile and hoped Margo wouldn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t push.

She glanced up from her tea to see a speculative look in Margo’s eyes. Not suspicious. Not enquiring. Almost worried. Definitely kind.

‘It wasn’t easy at the start.’ Margo pushed the chair back, stood, then picked up her mug and walked to the bench. ‘The furthest thing from easy, to be honest. Me and the kids, alone, without the humour John brought. The easygoingness that was so needed on the days when the kids were driving me up the wall with their teenage monosyllabic grunts and almost daily dramas.’ She tipped the remaining tea down the sink, then turned around and leaned against the bench, her arms folded over her chest. ‘But we muddled along. Found a new rhythm. Developed more patience, more understanding for and of each other. The sadness never left. But it abated. Now it feels more like a sense of peace in here.’ She tapped her heart. ‘I was lucky to be part of his life while I was. I think he felt he same way about me.’

And yet Margo wouldn’t allow herself to entertain her affection for another. Did peace not bring closure? Was Margo happy alone? Or was she not willing to risk that kind of pain a second time round with someone else? If it were the latter, Josie understood all too well.

Relationships, connections, were dangerous things. Why stand in the storm and risk being struck by lightning, when you could take cover and be out of harm’s way?

‘I’m sure John felt the same about you, Margo. Anyone would. I’ve known you all of five minutes and I already know I like you.’

So much for not getting close to anyone – but even Josie couldn’t deny that Margo made her feel cared for. Something she’d not felt in a long time, and it was hard to resist.

Hard? More like impossible.

‘Thank you, my dear.’ Margo blew her a kiss then walked into the lounge and looked around. ‘You know what this place needs?’

Josie came to stand beside her and tried to see what Margo was seeing. ‘No idea. It’s perfect as far as I’m concerned.’

‘It needs a Christmas tree. One with all the trimmings. Decorations. Lights. Presents underneath.’

Josie was glad Margo was standing beside her so she couldn’t see her cringe.

‘What? You hate the idea?’

A wave of embarrassment dashed over Josie’s face. Hot, tight and uncomfortable. ‘You could tell?’

‘I’ve two kids, remember? I don’t need to hear your feelings, I can sense them.’ Margo smiled kindly. ‘So what’s so wrong with a Christmas tree?’

Josie shrugged in an attempt to look casual. ‘I’m just not a Christmas person. I prefer every other day of the year, if I’m honest.’

Margo’s speculative look was back. ‘Fair enough. Although, I hate to tell you this, but you’ve moved to the Cotswolds’ most Christmassy village. Possibly England’s most Christmassy village.’

‘Fairy lights? Decorations? I’ve seen similar.’ Josie moved to the fireplace and threw another log on, not wanting the fire Callan had so carefully set and tended to burn out. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

She turned to face Margo as tinkling laughter filled the room, as bright as the fire was hot. ‘Oh, sweets, this is just the beginning. There’s an event on every week leading up to the big day. We do Christmas a little differently from other places, you’ll see.’

Margo didn’t elaborate as she laughed her way to the front door.

‘Sleep well, Josie. And welcome. I think Sunnycombe is going to enjoy having you here.’

With a wave Margo was gone, the room gloomier without her presence. Like it missed her.

Josie shook her head. She was being silly. A house could no more miss a person than a mother could miss the daughter she abandoned.

She went to her suitcase, unzipped it, and pulled out the one part of her childhood she couldn’t bear to part with, despite knowing better.

A flaxen-haired angel doll. Its arms stretched out in a welcoming manner, and once-glittery wings spread wide. The last Christmas gift she’d ever received from her mother.

She’d tossed the card it came with in a flash of anger years ago, but she’d never forgotten the words that accompanied the gift: To watch over you.

And so the angel had, while snuggled in her arms through tears, through rages, through emotional paralysis. The last remnant of a happy, contented childhood.

Josie stroked the angel’s now matted hair, sat it on the table next to the front door then made her way to the sofa. She slipped down its arm and let the buttery tan leather envelop her as she pulled down the pink faux-fur throw folded over the sofa’s back and tucked it over her legs.

So Sunnycombe was Christmas crazy?

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Only she could find herself living in a place that stood for everything she disliked, everything she didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to remember.

It was like the universe was plotting, forcing her to face that which she ran from.

If that were the case, the universe was about to be disappointed. She was only staying in Sunnycombe for as long as she had to. In her experience she had six months, tops. Nothing – and no one – could change that.

No matter how hard they tried.

Chapter 5

‘Josie, can you give me a hand over here?’ Callan twisted round from trying to string fairy lights around the shop’s window to see Josie rubbing her temples, her elbows anchored to the counter, her head low and shoulders scrunched up round her ears.

She’d been like that all day. Hunched up. Distant. Like she wasn’t one hundred per cent there, and he was starting to wonder if he ought to send her home for the rest of the day.

Josie glanced up and caught his eyes. ‘Sorry, Callan. Bit of a sore head.’

Before he could stop her, she came to stand beside him, dragged a chair to the opposite side of the window, climbed on top of it and indicated for him to pass her the string of lights dangling from his hand.

Callan hesitated. ‘Are you sure you should be up there? With a headache and all? I don’t want you passing out and hurting yourself. Should you be at home? In bed getting some rest?’

‘No, I’m fine, honest.’ Josie waved her hand like it was nothing.

The pain in her eyes said otherwise.

Reluctantly he passed the lights to her and she hung them over the hook that a heavily pregnant Abigail had screwed in for the shop’s first Christmas. He’d begged her to let him do it, worried that she’d fall over and hurt herself and their baby, but she’d laughingly shushed him, then flapped him away.

He shut his eyes as a wave of grief surged through him. How was he going to get through Christmas without her? How was he going to get through life?

‘Callan? It’s my turn to ask … are you all right?’

Josie’s concern brought him back to the here and now. He took a silent breath in and slowly blew it out, opening his eyes and fixing a smile on his face as he did so. He focused on the carollers who were practising out in the street, their voices jaunty as they sang ‘Deck the Halls’.

‘’Tis the season to be jolly.’

Except jolly was the last thing he was feeling. ‘Jaded’ he could get on board with.

‘I’m fine.’

Josie eyed him. Her expression remained unconvinced. He waited for her to further interrogate him, but no questions came. For that he was grateful. He didn’t know how to explain the grief. The intensity. The pain. The way it surged and settled but was always there. He didn’t know how to talk about it, and didn’t want to. Not to a therapist. Or Josie. Or Margo. Not to anyone. Ever.

Falalalalaaaaa … lala … la … laaaaaa.

‘How long are they going to go on for?’ Josie sounded as flat as Callan felt.

‘Not helping the pain in your head?’ Callan stepped down from his chair then offered his hand to Josie.

She hesitated, her eyes narrowing, like she didn’t trust him to get her down safely. Just as he were about to drop it, embarrassed for overstepping a mark he didn’t know existed, she placed her hand in his.

He was surprised at how soft it was, considering she worked with her hands. Warm, too. And it fit so perfectly. Like it belonged there.

Josie stepped down, tugged her hand out of his and folded her arms. ‘To be honest I’m not a huge fan of carols. They’re so … so …’ Her nose screwed up in thought.

‘Joyful?’ Callan shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and tried to ignore the heat imprinted on the hand that had held Josie’s a few seconds ago, like a part of her had been left with him.

He pushed the thought away. Nothing had been imprinted. And hands weren’t like jigsaw puzzles, they didn’t just ‘fit’ together. He was being silly. The stress of the season had clearly gotten to him.

The choir launched into a solemn rendition of ‘Silent Night’, and Callan had to bite his tongue to stop laughter from spilling out as Josie visibly shuddered.

‘So joyful. Even songs like that one. It’s a peaceful song but it’s joyful as well. Uplifting.’ Josie’s nose wrinkled further. ‘The worst bit is you can’t escape them. They’re everywhere. On the telly, radio, in shops. I clicked onto my favourite baking website this morning and was greeted with a pop-up ad that had packets of baking ingredients singing and dancing to “Jingle Bells”. I now have to avoid that site for nearly a whole month. It’s a tragedy.’

Callan’s lips quirked to the left, disobeying his direct order not to show their amusement. He’d never met a person who disliked carols so much they could rant about it. Never met anyone who had a distinct aversion to Christmas. He’d thought he was the only one. His family Christmases had been staid affairs. Formal. Boring. Midnight mass on Christmas Eve, followed by gifts in the morning, a family lunch at dinner where the conversation was so polite it bordered on painful. After lunch they’d settle round the television to watch the Queen’s Christmas Message, then leftovers were had for dinner and they’d retire to bed not long after that.

There was no dancing while cooking. No silly hats or crazy jumpers. No surprise gifts brought out throughout the day. No magic. No fun.

Abigail had transformed his attitude to Christmas with her own traditions. Ones she’d created after a childhood where money was scarce and Christmas was even more depressing than his. She’d embraced the season that could have – should have – made her sad, and she’d made her life richer for it.

With Abigail gone, so had his reason for the season.

Irritation jolted him back to reality. This wasn’t about him. He was not alone in his grief. He had Mia to think about. Which meant Christmas couldn’t be a miserable affair. He wouldn’t allow it. Wouldn’t let Mia down. Wouldn’t allow her to feel as humdrum about the festive season as he once had. As he threatened to feel now that Abigail wasn’t there to inject joy into it.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t admit his lack of love for the season to a fellow Grinch.

‘My least favourite carol is “The First Noel”. We’d sing it at church growing up and I sounded like a strangled duck warbling out the words. All the other kids would have a great laugh at my expense.’ Callan finished stringing the lights and plugged them in. A warm glow bathed the window, and Josie’s face – highlighting her cheekbones and revealing strands of copper in her hair that he’d not noticed.

Not that he should notice them. Or had any reason to.

Annoyed and embarrassed with himself, he set to unravelling another set of fairy lights.

‘Do you still go to church?’ Josie poked around in a box of Christmas decorations that he’d dragged down from the loft.

She hadn’t noticed him noticing her? Good. Callan breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want her getting the wrong idea. It was bad enough that for a fleeting moment he’d found her attractive.

Not that he hadn’t noticed that she was pleasant on the eye. He had in a general manner. As you do when someone good-looking passes by. Just now was different though, because he’d noticed details. The kind of details you only see in someone special, or someone you hope will become special.

He didn’t want anyone to become that person. The only person who was special to him was the little girl who was sitting at the table out back watching grown-ups in bright outfits dance to silly songs on the tablet.

‘No, we don’t go to church. I was never all that much of a church-goer.’ He reached up and hung the lights on the hook. ‘Only went because my parents did.’

‘Do you spend much time with them now? Have they helped out much since …?’

‘Since Abigail passed away?’ Callan jumped in before Josie had the chance to feel awkward. ‘No. My parents didn’t approve of Abigail. She wasn’t from the same social class as the one I was born into. My falling in love with her, giving up a promising career in an accounting firm and moving to the middle of nowhere to do the accounts of people who earn in a year what my father made in a week … Well, if there’s a black sheep in every family, then I’m it.’

‘Wow.’ Josie twisted a gold bauble round in her fingers.

Callan waited for her to elaborate, but nothing more came.

‘Really? “Wow?” That’s all you’ve got?’ He grinned to show her he wasn’t offended.

‘Well, yeah.’ Josie hung the bauble off her finger and spun it round. ‘Where should this go?’

‘There’s a series of hooks under the counter.’

‘Great, thanks.’ Josie hoisted the box up, walked to the counter, sank down onto the ground cross-legged and began hanging the baubles in their place. ‘It’s just – and please don’t take this the wrong way – you seem so … straight. Black sheep of fancy families are meant to … I don’t know, have tattoos everywhere and piercings in places the majority of us don’t get to see. You wear clothing that could be on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. You use your manners. You run a business. And you’re a great father. Not what I’d call black-sheep material.’

Callan shrugged. Same way he’d spent years shrugging off the lack of phone calls and visits. The stiff upper lip his family had cultivated came in handy in the face of his parents’ reticence to connect with their granddaughter, let alone their son. ‘That’s my family for you. I don’t regret what I did though. Marrying Abigail. Moving here. The seven years we were together brought me more happiness than all the years I spent at home.’

Josie took hold of the counter with both hands and heaved herself up with a quiet ‘oof’. ‘I can understand that. What’s next?’

The simultaneous sounds of something being dragged across a wooden floor and puffing exertion interrupted their conversation.

‘Tree next, Daddy. And I know Josie can help decorate this one because it’s downstairs, not upstairs.’ Mia dragged the rectangular cardboard box that contained the fake Christmas tree into the shop, around the counter, and released it with a dramatic swipe of her brow. ‘It’s heavy. I need a treat to get my energy back.’

‘Lucky your dad owns a cake shop.’ Josie plucked a miniature chocolate cupcake, replete with chocolate ganache and red, white and green Christmas tree-shaped sprinkles, out of the cabinet and passed it to Mia who quickly stuffed it in her mouth.

‘Thankshoo, Joshie.’ The words came out as mushed as her smile was wide.

Callan stopped himself from reprimanding Josie for giving Mia treats without checking with him first. She didn’t mean any harm, and it had made Mia happy. He’d have a chat about it later, when Mia was out of earshot and there was no danger of destroying the cheerful ambience.

‘Probably should have asked you if that was okay, right?’ Contrition was written all over Josie’s face.

‘Probably. There’s always next time. Especially, like you said, when your father owns a cake shop. It’s hard to resist temptation when it’s right in front of you all day long.’ Callan squatted down and began pulling out the pieces of fake tree, hoping Josie wouldn’t notice the hot spots burning high on his cheeks. His talk of temptation had sounded way too much like flirtation for his own liking. Not that it was, or that he’d meant it that way. Yet, if he really hadn’t meant it to sound like that, would he have thought it sounded like that?

He inserted the trunk of the tree into the base, then righted it, faking concentration as he gave himself a stern talking-to.

He was being silly. Overthinking an innocent statement. He wasn’t being flirtatious. Just nice. Allowing Josie to feel okay about jumping the gun with the cupcake rather than have the easy atmosphere between them disappear.

‘What’s with the fake tree?’

Callan gripped the tree’s plastic trunk as the closeness of the words took him by surprise, nearly causing him to lose his balance. He glanced over to see Josie hunkered down next to him, her inquisitive eyes just a few inches away. He caught her scent – a sweet, comforting mix of sugar, butter and vanilla. He shuffled away from the inviting aroma, grabbed the final part of the tree, stood and slotted it into the lower half, then began fluffing out the spiky, green fronds.

‘We made the mistake of getting a real tree for the shop for the first Christmas. Thought it would add to the festiveness. We may have also been bemused by the rest of the shops’ use of fake trees and wanted to one up them.’ The memory tugged at his lips and erased his previous unease. ‘We found a tree in the woods about ten minutes out of the village, and chopped her down in the middle of the night.’

‘Daddy, that’s stealing.’

Callan sucked his lips into his mouth at Mia’s outrage and forced himself not to laugh. ‘You’re right, Mia. It was. And I just need to talk to Josie about something grown up, so I’m going to mute your ears for a second, okay?’ Mia nodded her agreement, and he placed his hands over her ears. ‘Mia’s right, of course. It was stealing, but we were just starting out and figured what was one less tree in a populated forest if it meant spreading cheer to the rest of the village. Except what we spread were ants. All through the food.’

‘I thought ants nested underground and hibernated in winter?’

Callan shrugged. ‘So did we. Turns out Sunnycombe has many quirks, one being that these ants nest and hibernate in trees, and the warmth of the bakery woke them up. We were in catch-and-release mode for weeks, since Abigail refused to harm a hair on their heads. Not that ants have hair on their heads. Although, maybe they do in these parts. Who knows? It wouldn’t surprise me.’

Josie’s hands went over her mouth to hide her grin, but her amusement was evident in the silent shaking of her shoulders. Her chest rose and fell in a deep breath as she composed herself, then she dropped her hands to her hips, a serious look on her face.

Callan removed his hands from Mia’s ears.

‘That was very naughty of you, Callan. Did you get a gift from Santa that year?’

‘No. Absolutely not. But I was sure to be most well behaved and buy a fake tree the next year so that it would never happen again.’ He ruffled Mia’s hair. ‘So how about we decorate this?’

Mia jumped up and down and clapped her hands with excitement. ‘Yay! Can I put the angel at the top, pretty please?’

‘Of course you can. It’s only right that you, my wee angel, should place the angel on top.’ Callan took the bag of decorations that were stored in the tree’s box and placed them on the table.

Josie peered in and scanned the contents. ‘Pink and purple colour scheme? I love it.’

Before he could say anything, an ornament was in each hand and she was placing them on the tree alongside Mia, who was chatting happily about everything and nothing, as she was wont to do.

Callan picked up his own ornament. A pink and purple tiered cake that he’d bought Abigail that first Christmas. ‘You know you don’t have to help us. I’m sure you’ve other things you could do, if you want.’ Callan placed the cake on the tree, tweaking it so it was safe, secure.

‘I know, but I …’ A slow smile spread across Josie’s face. ‘I’m actually enjoying myself. And it’s too late in the day to whip anything up for tomorrow and have it done before it’s time for me to sign off.’

Outside the carollers rolled from ‘We Three Kings of Orient Are’ to ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’.

‘Want me to tell them to pipe down?’ Callan jerked his head in their direction.

Josie shook her head. ‘No. They’re actually not as bad as I thought.’

She ducked down and placed a glittering pink star at the base of the tree.

Her lips were kicked up, fine lines radiated from her eyes, and for the first time in months Callan felt the ache in his heart lift. He was surprised, and relieved, to discover that the lightening didn’t leave him riddled with guilt.

‘I agree.’ He hung the ornament on the tree. ‘They’re not as bad as I thought either. In fact, I might actually be beginning to like them.’

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