Christmas in Cornwall Page 3

  “My Auntie Ruth used to hide a treasure inside the pudding at Christmas,” Pippa said, folding another strip of paper into a loop. “A coin or a button with a fancy design. ‘Course, me cousin Freddie always made sure to get at it first. Right spoiled little brat he was back then—and still is, come to think of it.”

  “We always make Christmas Cake instead of pudding at my house,” Gemma said. “Then everybody watches the Queen’s Speech as we tuck into the chocolate again. Oh, the sweet pleasures of a proper holiday chocolate. Mmmm.”

  I grinned. “Sounds a lot like my family. Too many sweets, so we’re snoozing by early afternoon.”

  It would be the same as always this December at my family’s home back in the States, only without me, of course. Not for the first time, I felt a wave of homesickness, one of many I had experienced since moving overseas. At least I would get to see them open presents via the laptop video chat we were planning. And at least all this distance was for the sake of an amazing experience — which I hoped would include a liking for goose at the holiday dinner. I had yet to admit to several people that I'd never tasted any bird besides chicken and a good ol' holiday turkey.

  “How about snow?” I asked. “Any chance for a white Christmas in Ceffylgwyn?”

  The girls looked at each other, as if debating how much hope to give me. “Not much of one,” Pippa admitted, adding another link to the gold and red chain coiled by her feet. “We’re more likely to see storms than snow.”

  “Just think,” said Gemma. “We could go storm watching on Christmas.”

  Storm watching—an activity popular with tourists in Cornwall’s wintertime—was a pastime I had yet to develop a taste for. I knew plenty of Americans loved chasing storms in the Midwest in hopes of seeing a tornado — and plenty of English tourists had done the same in Kansas, too.

  Then again, I had only tried storm watching once so far, so I wasn't being fair. Matt and I had walked down to the sand, keeping a safe distance from the waves. Waves that seemed to rise as much as twenty or thirty feet high before they crashed against the tall, majestic cliffs along the shore. Beautiful yet terrifying at the same time. I had buried my face in Matthew’s coat at one point and blocked out thoughts of giant tidal waves sweeping us away, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave as he held me in his strong, secure arms.

  Well, maybe storm watching wasn't all bad.

  Too late, I realized the others had noticed my dreamy little smile for this memory, their expressions revealing how transparent I was. Those secretive smirks — were they picturing me and Matt raging with the same tempest as the sea? They probably were. After all, they were all dying to know how serious Matt and I were.

  I blushed fire red. “Well!” I said, brightly, trying to dispel any of these thoughts by showing off my latest handicrafts attempt. “Look at this—over half way done now. And definitely better than some of the paper crafts I sent my grandmother when I was in grade school.” I held up the chain in my lap, showing its gradual improvement from my mangled paper wads.

  Pippa’s was looking much better than mine, but Gemma’s was nearly perfect by comparison to both of us. Hmmm. It would take some creative arranging, but I was sure we could disguise the varying degrees of quality when we finally wound these around the fir tree.

  Paper chains finished, it was time for decorating the mantel. Carefully, Gemma and I wove a garland from evergreen clippings, holly berries, and wintersweet, a fragrant flower with yellow-golden blossoms that Matt had sent over that very morning from the garden. Pippa located some scented candles from the pantry, their metal antique holders flanking each end of the plain white mantle. The final result was simple but elegant, and even the tree had a quaint, pleasing feel with its homemade decorations. It would feel like home, and that was exactly the point.

  Gemma and Pippa were needed back in the kitchen by the time we were done, so I retreated to my office, intending to go over some of the unfinished details for the charity ball. As I sat behind the desk, my work mobile rang. The number on the screen was unfamiliar. The voice that greeted me when I answered, however, was not.

  “Dwight,” I said, feeling my breath hitch, cautiously, with this word. “What a surprise.” It was, and I wasn't sure it was entirely pleasant. I didn't have a longing to hear from my ex-boyfriend again, really. While I was curious why he called, I was still a little annoyed, although not as much as I thought I would be.

  “Is it bad timing?” he asked. “I can phone back—”

  “No, no. It’s fine.” What could this be about? Surely he didn’t mean what he said about having tea together, at least not this soon. It must be something for the charity ball, I thought.

  “I had a favor to ask of you,” Dwight continued. “Well, more like a favor for some friends of mine, actually. They’re planning a Christmas wedding, but their planner has just dropped them last minute due to scheduling conflicts. Some big London agency, I think. They’re devastated, of course.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said. “They need help finding another agency, I presume? I can recommend some places—”

  “They’ve tried that, Julianne. It’s too close of a deadline and the best planners are already booked through spring anyway. I thought…well — hoped — you could help them somehow. You know, give them some advice, help them to fill in the missing pieces, that sort of thing.”

  “Um, well…”

  My hands were basically full with the details for the Christmas Eve ball, and I couldn’t let anything interfere with my duties at Cliffs House. If I were to somehow disappoint Lord William and Lady Amanda at the biggest event of the season…well, I just couldn’t think of it even.

  "You were the best at Design a Dream," he continued. "They should've promoted you if they had any sense. Anyway, I thought someone with your talent, and with your heart, was exactly the person who could help a friend with a problem like this."

  “I’m sorry, Dwight, but I’m fairly swamped here," I began. "The charity gala is coming up, as you know, and that’s something I have full responsibility for. I wish I could help, I just don’t think I have the time to commit to a wedding on top of my current duties.”

  Harsh and formal and cold. That’s how I sounded, no doubt, even though that wasn't how I meant it. I was being overly-careful to keep Dwight at arm's length, that's all. But I was being honest about having more on my schedule than I could handle.

  Dwight sighed faintly over the phone. “Of course,” he said. “What was I thinking? Except that it’s Christmas and I could appeal to your sense of charity. I know that you wouldn't give an answer like that if it wasn't true.” His joke was a halfhearted one at best, with this flat and sober ending tacked on. I felt a pang of conscience.

  “I really am sorry Dwight. If I only had the time— maybe I could help with a few little —”

  “It wouldn’t be a huge time commitment." Dwight had leaped on my words, eagerly. “Most of the details were taken care of already, so you would just be double checking those. You know, making some phone calls to the appropriate business contacts, finishing up a few little perfect touches. You probably have an address book filled with the best of the best in London's bridal industry by now,” he added, with a chuckle.

  I did, actually. My role as chief event planner at Cliffs House might be relatively new, but I had covered a lot of ground since my first assignment. I was now a familiar face to several of the reputable bakeries, florists, and caterers from Cornwall and Devon to the heart of London and could probably arrange something for Dwight’s unfortunate friends, even with a big event monopolizing my time. With a sigh, I gave in.

  “I could probably manage a couple of trips to London before the holiday," I answered. "I'll see what I can do. That’s all I can promise for now, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re an angel,” Dwight replied. "Thanks a million, Juli. They'll really appreciate having you rescue them, I promise."

  An angel, hmm? That didn’t explain why I felt vaguel
y like a traitor as I penciled a meeting time with Dwight and his friends into the diary on my work desk. Was it my work schedule at Cliffs House I was afraid of betraying, or my relationship with Matt? The little seed of conflict over which one was the bigger problem was sprouting more quickly than I wanted to admit.

  ***

  A hearty fire was blazing in the hearth of the Fisherman’s Rest as Matt and I walked through the door on Tuesday night, its rosy glow illuminating the pub’s small interior. Stone hearth, high wooden beams, and a bar of rich cherry wood. It was the quintessential English pub, the way I had always pictured one would look. Strands of clear Christmas lights trailing from the beams only added to its cozy charm tonight, as Matt and I shrugged out of our coats and scarves inside the doorway.

  We had agreed that skipping quiz night twice in a row would be an unkindness to our teammates, since we were two of only seven members in our regular group. And, since tonight’s trivia theme was American cinema, a variation on last week’s television trivia, I stood a fair chance of helping us win for a change. Though I couldn’t help wishing we were back at Rosemoor cottage instead, sharing that romantic dinner I had planned to make for Matt as soon as Dinah’s cooking lessons assured me it was time for such a gutsy move. Something involving pheasant, maybe, but definitely not the ox heart from Dinah's The Best of English Cooking Through the Centuries.

  The pub was packed inside, anywhere from eighty to a hundred locals showing up for pub nights on average. Matt kept his hand on my back as we searched the crowd, a warm and protective touch that I was loathe to lose as our friends spotted us from across the room.

  “Julianne, Ross, over here!” Gemma waved to us from a table in the corner near the hearth. Her boyfriend Andy was beside her, his athletic, yet lanky build unmistakable. Across from them was the rest of our team: Rosie, the administrator for the local cat shelter; Susan, a hair stylist from Falmouth; and Susan’s husband, Clive, who used to work as an undergardener at Cliffs House before retiring to his own garden work at a cottage by the sea.

  “How’s it going, mate?” Andy greeted Matt with a handshake, as the two of us took our places at the table. My seat was directly across from Matt’s, next to Susan, who turned to greet me with a smile.

  “Don’t you look smart tonight?” she observed, glancing over the tartan skirt and boots that I had paired with a blouse and fleece jacket. “That hairstyle isn’t bad either,” she added, with a glance at my reddish brown layers that I had pinned back with a clip, rather than do battle to tame it with my straightening brush and curling iron at the last minute. “Suits you better than your usual look, I think. Not that I'm saying it couldn't do with just a bit more of something...off the sides, maybe.”

  I hid my grin for this compliment, since Susan was forever nagging me to get my hair cut at her salon in Falmouth. She was obsessed with persuading me to change my look, claiming my features were crying out for something short and daring, a touch of Emma Watson’s pixie cut from the celebrity magazines on her salon’s waiting room table. Given her dedication to adding me to her pool of customers, it was quite a concession for her to admit any look I sported ‘wasn’t bad.'

  “Thank you, Susan,” I said, with a smile of victory. “I rather like it myself.”

  It hadn't taken long before I had begun to feel a part of these weekly gatherings at the Fisherman’s Rest. I never had my own hangout back in Seattle, so to speak, but I much preferred the idea of a pub to a bar anyway. And Ceffylgwyn had a way of pulling people into its fold, if they were really interested in being part of it — just like the small towns and villages from television and novels.

  Of course, they teased me endlessly about my accent. And my wretched attempts at using Cornish and English slang. Try as I might, I couldn’t remember the right time for saying I was ‘chuffed’ about something or that something was ‘daft’. Or saying I would do something ‘dreckly’—a Cornish phrase similar to ‘directly’ but meaning the speaker might accomplish their task anytime between now and next year, from what I had gathered. Their good-natured ribbing reminded of a Washington college classmate I had teased occasionally over his Alabama accent. If this was comeuppance for that particular episode, I was getting off easy in punishment.

  Matt was chatting with Clive about gardening, while Andy and Gemma shared some private confidence that involved her giggling quite a bit. From the seat on my left, Rosie ‘the cat keeper’ as she was known in the village, studied me with an arched brow before leaning closer. “No sea food cravings for the two of you tonight, I take it?” she asked.

  So news of our little dinner date had made the rounds in the village gossip. I merely smiled and shrugged, determined not to give in. Everyone who asked was simply fishing around to determine how serious the two of us were — and they probably thought my polite or vague answers were merely being coy.

  I wish they wouldn't ask — at least until we're both on the same page for sure, I thought. I felt a twinge of longing as I pictured myself finally being open about my feelings for Matt. With him, at least. That would be a start.

  Tell him, a voice seemed to urge. What’s the worst that could happen? But I knew what, feeling a shiver at the thought of driving him away with a sudden declaration of love. Well, not that sudden, but everyone has different timing. What if Matt felt I was rushing him after a handful of dates and kisses? What if I panicked as soon as I told him and wished I had waited? I didn’t want to blow this, with everything going so well between us.

  Such anxious thoughts were forced aside for the usual small talk. Rosie was telling someone who stopped by our table about the basket of tuxedo kittens someone had left on the shelter doorstep that week, and Susan was pondering whether a kitten was an appropriate gift for her niece. Matt was chatting with Clive about how to winterize Cornish Palms, and Andy and Gemma were arguing over which of them would get more answers correct for tonight’s quiz.

  "It won't be all Marvel movies," said Gemma. "There's bound to be a few chick flicks in the lot."

  "When's the last big box office smash been a chick film?" retorted Andy. But I was only half-listening to them, because I was busy watching Matt, and trying to untangle the quandary that surrounded us as a couple.

  Around seven o’clock, the quizmaster took the floor, and Matt gave me a subtle wink across the table, which I just as subtly returned. It was down to business, with a series of musical-themed questions that put us safely in the lead, thanks to my Saturday afternoons with Aimee. I always knew that watching Singin’ in the Rain over a hundred times would come in handy someday. But it was Andy's fondness for time travel movies that proved a lifesaver in the second round.

  The end of round two found us hanging onto that first place, just barely, and round three found us beaten by a group of senior-age women, who raised their mugs in a triumphant toast for the final score tally. The prize, appropriately enough, was a set of cinema discount coupons.

  “You almost got us those, Julianne,” said Andy, with a mournful shake of the head.

  “I guess my knowledge of John Hughes’ comedies wasn’t as strong as I thought,” I quipped, since the last few questions on the director had left us stumped. “Still,” I said, “Rosie knew almost as many answers as me. Maybe a few more really,” I said, glancing at the animal lover, whose smile was one of quiet satisfaction.

  “Yeah, Rosie,” said Andy, tipping his bottle in her direction, “how’d you get to be such an expert on American cinema then?”

  Rosie merely shrugged. “Dated an American bloke once, I suppose.”

  This set off a chorus of ‘ooohs’ from the other women at the table, so apparently this was not common knowledge in Ceffylgwyn. “What?” Rosie asked, glancing round at us. “Don’t be acting so surprised now. I wasn’t a crazy cat lady me whole life, you know. I had quite the adventurous side back in my university days.”

  “I think it’s lovely,” said Gemma, a dreamy look in her eye. “The stranger from foreign shores that sweeps in to s
teal your heart.” Beside her, Andy looked decidedly less charmed by this idea.

  “I don’t know about that,” said Rosie, laughing. “He was a looker, though. Tall and athletic with a pair of cheek bones you could cut your steak with. And he was me last great chance at romance, before I moved to this hole-in-the-wall village,” she said, with a grin that was only half-joking. So maybe being a middle-age cat lady was a second choice for Rosie.

  “You’ve a point there." Susan shook her head. “I had to go all the way to Falmouth to find my own happiness. It’s not a home to many eligible bachelors, our Ceffylgwyn. Especially when Julianne here has already hooked the most desirable catch in the pond.”

  “A nice bit of angling that was, Julianne,” agreed Rosie, with a wink in my direction.

  Matt was talking to someone at the next table, having taken a moment to stretch his legs, and hadn’t heard this comment. I was sure discomfort was etched on my face in the form of a fiery blush. Fishing metaphors were not a good choice for my relationship with Matt and seemed particularly ill-timed, given the thoughts I'd been having this evening. The image of me trapping him like a fish with a hook…not good. And it made me tread carefully when answering.

  My weak laugh didn't fix things. “That’s hardly true is it?' I said. "I mean, Matt and I — we’re just spending some time together. We're really still friends, mostly. We're seeing where things go."

  But friends didn’t exchange the kind of kisses Matt and I had recently, did they? Deep inside, I knew this was true.

  “Friends,” Rosie scoffed. “That’s a lot of rubbish now, isn’t it? Don’t think you have to keep it a secret from us, or that we’ll hold it against you, sweeping in and stealing that handsome bloke from us.” She glanced at Gemma. “Tell her it’s no use to argue the truth.”