A Yorkshire Christmas (4 page)

“Whatever you like,” he said, and turned away.

“Sorry, I’m just really tired and jet-lagged,” she said and guilt twisted inside him. He was being an ass, and it had nothing to do with Claire Lindell. “I’d be very grateful if you could drive me into town,” she added. “But could it be a little later? I want to change and shower…”

More images popped into his head, of a body slick with water and soap. Noah nodded tersely.

“No worries. I’ll swing back in a couple of hours, when I’ve checked on the animals.”

“That would be great.”

He nodded again and with no reason to stay any longer, he headed for the front door. “See you in a bit,” he said, and was gone.

*

Claire closed the
door behind Noah Bradford and let out a rush of breath. Tension knotted between her shoulders and exhaustion was crashing over her in a wave, making her sway where she stood. The endless flight, followed by an endless drive. The snow, the storm, the sheep…

And Noah Bradford.

He’d been so helpful and even friendly, in his gruff, farmer’s way, but just before he’d left she’d felt something almost like animosity coming from him. It had given her pause, but she needed food and she was too tired to untangle any kind of emotional complexity. She’d spent too much of her life already doing exactly that with a man; months and months of analyzing every easy smile he’d given her, every seemingly careless touch of her hand, wondering if she dared read anything into it, or if she even wanted to.

She couldn’t do that anymore. Briefly she rested her head against the door, too tired even to move. She’d made it through a month of school with her head held high, having no idea if she’d be called into the Headmistress’s office and given her notice for improper behavior. Having no idea if she’d been the architect of her life’s destruction or not. She’d made it through concerts and finals and an awful conversation with her mother, punctuated by long, frosty silences and disappointed sighs, and then through the flight and the drive and even putting her hands on a sheep’s backside and shoving…

A little hiccup of near-hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her.
I’m too tired
, she thought,
and too empty. I need to sleep for a hundred hours. I need a glass—or even a bottle—of wine…

But first a shower, and fresh clothes, and maybe a power nap. She’d buy food for the week, she’d thank Noah Bradford for his kindness, and then she’d call the British equivalent of AAA to get her car out of the snow bank, and she’d never see the unsettling sheep farmer again.

With all those resolutions wearily passed, Claire headed upstairs.

Two hours later a distant, steady knocking woke her up slowly from the dead sleep she’d fallen into, still wrapped in a towel, her hair damp from the shower she’d stayed in for twenty minutes until she’d finally started to feel warm.

She blinked fuzzily, gazing wildly around the unfamiliar room until her gaze settled on a photo of Ruth Carrington with Claire’s mother, both college girls at Vassar, and she remembered where she was. She let out a shaky breath and then jumped up from the bed, grabbing the thick, fleece bathrobe that hung from the bathroom door. She pushed her hands into the sleeves and tied the sash as tightly as she could before she ran downstairs and opened the front door to Noah Bradford.

He looked exactly the same, wearing a battered wax jacket and jeans, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of her.

Claire knew she must look a mess. She could feel dried drool on her cheek, and her hair had dried as she’d slept, and was now sticking out in about sixteen different directions. And she was wearing a bathrobe.

“Sorry, sorry,” she hurried to explain, fighting a flush that threatened to cover her from head to toe. “I fell asleep.”

“I gathered that,” Noah answered, his tone so dry that Claire surprised herself by smiling.

And then Noah surprised her by noticing and smiling back, his eyes crinkling as his mouth kicked up at the corner and Claire felt a jolt of awareness like a blast of heat she hadn’t expected, warming her all the way through.

Oh, no. She could not go there. Would not. Not when she was so hurting and unhappy, her heart still aching from far too many bitter and shaming memories.

“Let me just get dressed,” she mumbled and headed upstairs.

Back in Ruth’s bedroom, she yanked on a pair of fresh jeans and another cashmere sweater, pushed her feet into sneakers, and then grabbed her bag still filled with unmarked final exams. She dumped them out on the bed, wincing at the confetti of bluebooks, with the neat cursive all the girls at Stirling were required to master, that fluttered down on the unmade bed. Turning away from the mess, she hurried downstairs.

Noah had come inside the cottage’s little slate-tiled foyer and stood there, his face expressionless, his hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his jacket. His expression didn’t change as he caught sight of her, but Claire still felt something, some kind of discomfort or awkwardness. Then she caught sight of herself in the little hall mirror and let out a shaky laugh. She’d forgotten to brush her hair, and it looked like a complete bird’s nest.

Quickly she combed her fingers through it and then grabbed an elastic band from her bag and pulled her hair into a haphazard ponytail. “Sorry for the wait,” she said, and Noah just shrugged her apology aside before heading back outside.

It had stopped snowing while she’d been sleeping, and the world was pristine and white, the air crisp and cold. It was only about three o’clock in the afternoon, but already the sky was turning a pale violet at its edges, like a bruise, and long shadows lay across the snowy fields.

“It gets dark early,” Claire said, the words immediately sounding inane, and Noah just nodded. She felt keyed up and a little exposed; he’d seen her in her bathrobe, after all. Small talk, she hoped, might help, might make sense of this strange, surreal situation. “Are you from around here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

It was, Claire decided, a rather abrupt answer. As she’d suspected before, Noah Bradford was not inclined to pleasantries. Well, fine. She hadn’t come to Yorkshire to make friends.

She turned and stared out the window; they had driven down the narrow road from Holly Cottage and were now coming into the village proper, which looked to be no more than a narrow street of terraced houses and barn conversions, a tiny post office shop in the middle, with a bow window and blackened beams. Noah drove out the other side of the village and then in silence for several miles until they arrived at civilization: a sign announcing the Historic Market Town of Ripon, the spire of a cathedral in the distance, and on the outskirts, a few big-box stores including a large supermarket called Sainsbury’s.

Once more murmuring her thanks, Claire slipped out of the Land Rover as soon as Noah had parked the car. There was something unsettling and weirdly intimate about food shopping with a man, almost as if they were a couple, which of course they were not.

She pushed the cart through the aisles with Noah trailing after her, hands shoved in his pockets, as she took in the unfamiliar food items—Cornish pasties, sausage rolls—mixed with the familiar boxes of cereal and loaves of bread.

She felt acutely self-conscious as she selected a single box of muesli, a tub of plain yogurt, a pint of skimmed milk. She bought a couple of ready meals-for-one, as she’d never been much of a cook, and even though part of her longed to be able to roll pastry and dust flour, to feel motherly and wifely and the rest of it, she stayed away from the baking aisle, from the roast chickens and joints of beef, the trappings of family life. That kind of instinct had led her nowhere good.

She paused at the wine aisle, longing to take a bottle, but feeling like she’d look pathetic, buying wine to drink on her own at Holly Cottage. Never go food shopping with a stranger, she decided, and she was just about to push past the alcohol when Noah’s cellphone trilled and she heard him say tersely,

“Dani?”

She stilled, because there had been a kind of guarded familiarity in his voice, a tone that had made her feel guiltily curious. Who was Dani—or Danny? Boy or girl?

She couldn’t tell because Dani, whoever he or she was, was speaking, and Noah was silent, although Claire didn’t think she was being fanciful in thinking that his silence was tense, even ominous.

“What do you mean, you can’t have her?” he asked finally, his voice low and furious. “She’s not a
cat
, for—” He bit off whatever oath he’d been going to make, turning his back on Claire, his phone clenched to his ear.

Claire picked up a box of cereal bars from a tottering pile at the end of an aisle and made a big show of intently studying the ingredients. Noah had taken a few steps away, to stand by the deli counter, his shoulders hunched, his chin tucked in, and yet she could still hear his voice.

“It’s Christmas, Dani. It’s an important holiday for a—no, I don’t have plans.” Out of the corner of her eye Claire saw Noah rake a hand through his hair, his fingers clenching on the disheveled strands, before he dropped it to hang wearily by his side. “What I mean is,” he continued after a moment, his voice careful, “that Molly will want to be with you, will be expecting a proper—” Another silence, taut with suppressed tension. Although his back was to her, Claire thought she could imagine the look on Noah’s face. The tension she’d see bunching his jaw, narrowing his eyes.

He straightened, his shoulders rigid. “Of course she can stay with me.” Anther silence. “Tonight?” The one word rose incredulously, loudly enough for customers nearby to glance at him in both curiosity and disapproval. “Fine,” he bit out. “Fine. I’ll be home in an hour.”

He disconnected the call and thrust the phone into the pocket of his jacket, standing still for a moment, his body practically thrumming with anger. Then he turned sharply on his heel and walked back to Claire.

She put down the box of cereal bars, trying to keep her face pleasantly neutral, as if she hadn’t heard a word of his phone conversation.

Noah stared at her for a moment, clearly struggling to contain his anger, and then finally he forced out, “Looks like I need to do a bit of food shopping as well. I’ll just go get a trolley.” And without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away.

‡

N
oah flexed his
hands, trying to suppress the urge to hit something. Typical Dani, to wait until the last minute to arrange childcare for their daughter. Typical of her to think only of herself, and not what Molly needed or wanted. Not what an eight-year-old would feel, knowing she was being shunted off for Christmas because her flake of a mother had decided she wanted to go to the Caribbean with her boyfriend of the month, instead of spending the holiday at home with her daughter.

Noah knew his thoughts were uncharitable, if not precisely unfair, and he’d always tried to keep himself from thinking or speaking negatively of Dani, because he knew it didn’t help anyone: not Dani, who was helpless and flighty and not Molly, who naturally loved her mother, and not him, who knew the old anger still burned in his chest, nine years after it had all happened.

He took a steadying breath as he reached for a trolley. He needed to think about Molly now. Briefly, he thought of Claire, of that clear, wide-eyed gaze she’d given him as he’d stood there, trying not to let out a stream of swear words. She must think he was mad, Noah thought ruefully, and decided that was no bad thing. He still felt a flicker of attraction for her, and even that was too much. Even now he could picture her in her bathrobe, her cheeks flushed, her hair a mess, the shadowy valley between her breasts just visible when she’d opened the door in just a dressing gown.

Resolutely, he banished the image and began to push the trolley through the supermarket, grabbing things at random. Bananas, oranges, apples. What did an eight-year-old girl like to eat? He didn’t know, because his visits with Molly had always been Saturday afternoons spent in York, going to the cinema or the Railway Museum, shopping in the Shambles, and then finishing with dinner at McDonalds. The classic divorced dad line-up, although he and Dani had never actually got around to getting married.