A Yorkshire Christmas (6 page)

She stared at the photo for a long moment, transfixed by the expressions on all of their faces: the mother’s carefree smile and strangely sad eyes, the older boy looked proud and yet also defiant, and Noah, with his dark, quiet looks. She could almost feel the joy and pride radiating from his boyish self, as if he knew there was nothing better than standing next to his mother.

She heard Noah’s steps on the stairs and she jumped away from the photo as if she’d been scalded, fumbling with the vacuum before she shoved it back inside the cupboard under the stairs amidst the jumble of boots and buckets and folding chairs. Dusting her hands on the back of her jeans, she turned to him with a bright smile.

“I’ve done the vacuuming, sorry, Hoovering. I think I’ll just head back now.”

“Of course, you’ve been brilliant, thank you.” He hesitated, and then said, “I can run you back in the car but I don’t want to miss—”

“Your daughter, of course.” She hesitated too, because she wasn’t sure what was worse: offering to walk, or waiting and meeting his daughter. “I can walk,” she said, her voice coming out more firmly than she felt. She didn’t want to play pretend happy families for even one second, and she didn’t want to endure the girl’s suspicion or hostility either. But it was also very dark outside.

“It’s only ten minutes across the fields,” Noah said. “I can give you a torch and some proper boots.”

As opposed to her Prada ones. “Am I correct in assuming a torch is a flashlight and not an open flame?” she said and Noah let out a rumble of a laugh.

“Yes, you are correct. We’re not quite that behind the times out here in the sticks.”

“Actually, I think I knew a torch was a flashlight,” Claire admitted. “I always loved to hear my godmother say all the British words for things.”

He arched an eyebrow at that. “Is Ruth your godmother?”

“Yes, but we hardly ever see each other. She and my mother were roommates at Vassar.” And had grown steadily apart ever since.

“Let me get you some boots.”

Five minutes later, she was standing outside the farmhouse, a pair of overlarge, mud-spattered Wellington boots on her feet and a huge flashlight, whose beam cut a swathe of light through the darkness, in her hand. It was a clear night, and the snow-covered fields were pristine, not even a single footprint marring their smooth whiteness.

“You just head straight that way,” Noah said, pointing towards the field to the left of the house. He was standing close enough to her that she could smell him, soap and leather and a bit of sheep. “Walk to the end, down a bit of a slope, go over the stile, and you’ll end up in Holly Cottage’s garden.”

“Okay.” And hopefully she wouldn’t end up wandering in the dark for hours, cold and lost.

“You’re sure? I could run you—”

“No, it’s fine.” She pointed to the car headlights she saw at the end of the lane. “I think she’s here.” Noah turned, and before they could stumble through some awkward goodbyes, Claire set off for the field, the snow crunching under her boots.

In the distance she heard the slam of a car door, the muted sound of voices. Just a minute or two later the car drove off again, fast, as if the driver couldn’t wait to get away.

Knowing she shouldn’t, Claire turned anyway. Squinting, she could just make out Noah and a smaller, huddled figure clutching what looked like a pillow to her chest. Claire’s heart twisted.

Shouldn’t have looked
.
Shouldn’t wonder, shouldn’t care
.

She turned back to the dark field stretching in front of her, the beam of her flashlight seeming weaker and less comforting than it had before, barely piercing the darkness. Resolutely, she walked on.

‡

N
oah walked into
the house with Molly trailing behind him, clutching her pillow. In his mind’s eye he could still see Claire setting off across the darkened fields, a slight figure against the night sky. He felt a twist of guilt at having her leave like that, but what choice had he had? He couldn’t risk Dani pitching a fit about something, not when his custody arrangement was tenuous already.

Although in truth Dani hadn’t even stayed to see her daughter inside; she’d been too intent on her own plans to bother about any of Noah’s.

“So.” He closed the front door and watched as Molly gazed around the kitchen with a kind of morose suspicion. She’d never been to his house before, and even though it was a good deal cleaner than it had been an hour ago, it wasn’t anything like the townhouse Dani’s parents had bought for her and their grandchild in York. He was conscious of the kitchen’s low-ceilinged shabbiness; the smoke stains on the ceiling, the peeling paint on the woodwork, the scarred and warped oak table. Definitely not a chic townhouse in York’s best neighborhood.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, and mutely Molly shook her head. Noah searched for something else to say.
This is going well.
About as well as their Saturday afternoons had gone, at any rate; he usually kept them busy doing something, and then they only had to endure the excruciatingly awkward conversation during dinner. Now he had four days of it to look forward to, and the worst part was, this wasn’t how he wanted to be with his daughter. This wasn’t how he wanted his daughter to be with him.

“What would you like to do?” he asked, his voice sounding just a little too loud. “The TV doesn’t work but I have Netflix on my computer…” Although the Internet connection was so damn slow they’d be waiting hours for something to stream. And maybe he shouldn’t have suggested they watch something; maybe he should have started a real conversation. But how?

Molly shook her head, so her dark hair, the same color as his, flew out around her face. “I’ll just read my book,” she said.

“Let me show you your room,” Noah said.

He walked through the sitting room, as cramped and low as the kitchen, to the steep, narrow stairs that led upstairs. Molly paused on the bottom step, casting a glance around the sitting room with its faded sofas and blackened fireplace before turning to Noah in accusation.

“You don’t even have a Christmas tree.”

“That’s true,” Noah acknowledged as he struggled to find some way to explain his complete lack of Christmas spirit. He had nothing Christmassy in the house at all; December twenty-fifth was just another workday as far as he was concerned, and had been ever since his mother had died when he was little more than Molly’s age. But it couldn’t be a workday this year.

“We could cut one down,” he suggested. Molly pursed her lips, unconvinced. “There’s a grove of pine trees on the other side of the fields. They’d be about the right size.” He cast a glance at the ceiling. “Eight feet tall, I’d say, at least. We don’t want some puny tree.” He saw the tiniest flicker of interest light her eyes, the same brown as his, and he felt a wild surge of hope, of need to show his daughter they could do this. They could have a good time together. “Have you ever cut down your own Christmas tree before?”

“No,” she said, and frowned.

“It’ll be fun,” Noah said, but he sounded desperate even to his own ears. “It’ll be loads of fun.”

Molly didn’t answer, just walked up the stairs, shouldering past him. “Where’s my room?” she asked when she was at the top, staring down at him, her pillow still clutched to her chest.

Any fledgling hope he’d been trying his damnedest to nurture sank like a stone. “Right down here,” he said, and headed down the hall.

*

Claire walked through
the fields, the frozen snow crunching under her boots, the flashlight cutting a pale swathe of light through the darkness. The farther away she walked from Noah’s house the lonelier she felt; with nothing but the empty expanse of endless fields around her, she felt as if she were the last person on earth, or at least in England.

Finally, after what felt like hours, but was in reality only about fifteen minutes, she saw Holly Cottage, the kitchen light she’d left on beckoning her with its comforting glow. She hurried towards it, climbing awkwardly over the stile that bridged the drystone wall that separated Noah’s property from Ruth Carrington’s, and then into the welcome warmth of the cottage.

She kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her coat, trying not to feel how empty and silent the cottage was, with only her in it. This was what she wanted, she told herself firmly. What she needed. She microwaved one of the ready meals she’d bought and made a fire in the woodstove in the living room. She opened a bottle of wine and retrieved the final exams she needed to mark, brought everything in on a tray and curled up by the fire.

Yes. This was perfect. This was exactly what she’d envisioned, what she’d longed for, when she’d left New York. Cozy solitude.

With a soft sigh, Claire leaned her head back against the sofa, closed her eyes, and thought of Noah. She’d kept him out of her thoughts by sheer force of will during the walk back to Holly Cottage, but she couldn’t resist now, didn’t even want to.

What were he and his daughter doing? Watching TV? Playing cards? She envisioned some happy family scene and her heart ached, although why or for what she refused to examine.

Don’t go there, Claire. Don’t buy into that broken dream.

She pulled the first essay towards her and took a slug of wine.

Identify two events that affected the United States’ territorial expansion in the nineteenth century, and explain why and how they did.

Ugh. She was so not in the mood.

Pushing the essay, as well as her untouched chicken tikka masala-for-one aside, Claire tucked her knees up to her chest and took another sip of wine. She gazed into the fire, her emotions like a kaleidoscope within her. Turn it one way and she felt happy, even excited. Turn it another way, and she felt lonely and lost, a million miles from any place she’d called home.

She’d enjoyed being with Noah, even though it made a pang of something close to terror ripple through her. She was curious about him, about the solitary life he seemed to lead, and she’d liked brightening it just a little bit, even if it was just by wiping down his kitchen counters.

And that’s how it starts, Claire. Haven’t you learned anything?

With Mark it had been, of all mundane things, an umbrella. He’d left the teacher-parent meeting in the pouring rain, and she’d lent him her umbrella. She still remembered the little lurch of feeling the sight of him walking away under her red and blue striped umbrella had given her, a sense of belonging that was ridiculous and didn’t even make sense.

And yet she’d felt it, and one little kindness had turned into, inch by inch, an almost-relationship. An almost disastrous relationship.

But you didn’t get that far.

And she wouldn’t get that far with Noah. She’d come to England to relax and recover, not fall for a man yet again.

And with that resolution firm in her mind, Claire drained her wineglass and headed for bed.

She woke the next morning to hazy blue skies and morning sunlight making the fields, still covered in snow, glitter as if they’d been strewn with diamonds.

She stood at the kitchen sink, a mug of coffee cradled in her hands, and let the beauty of the fresh, new day fill her with promise. She could make a picnic, take a long walk, or explore the village. And most importantly, get her car. Now that it had stopped snowing she should be able to dig it out herself.

She finished her coffee and bundled up before stepping outside, the cold stinging her cheeks, the crystalline air so clean and clear it felt like taking a drink of water.

Digging her gloved hands into the pockets of her coat, she was about to head down the lane that led towards the main road when she caught a blur of movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned and saw a slight figure huddled on top of the drystone wall, knees drawn up to skinny chest, shoulders slumped.

Even though she hadn’t had a good look at her last night, Claire knew instinctively this was Noah’s daughter. She hesitated, torn between a desire to help the girl, who looked clearly miserable, and the voice screaming in her head to stay uninvolved.