Christmas in Cornwall Page 8

  “Me?" he said.

  "You. I know the reindeer might not still be around, but you must have something left from your childhood," I said. "Macaroni and cardboard picture frames — pipe cleaner santas —"

  “Ah, those.” He smiled faintly as he thought it over for a moment, fingers drumming against the counter. “They’re in a box in the closet in the hall, it seems. There’s not much to choose from, I’m afraid. We had a shoestring budget for Christmas most of the time. But I saved a few, mostly for Michelle.” Michelle was Matt's sister, now an Army nurse.

  Matt had shown me his childhood home when I first came to Ceffylgwyn. A weathered old house in a poorer section of the village where Matt’s family struggled to get by for several years afterward. They had leaned on Matt to survive, eventually, with him looking out for his sister after their mother died.

  "I think it would make your sister happy to know you have a tree right now,” I told him, sensing his thoughts had drifted that direction as he searched the little cupboard in the parlor. "We'll take a picture and send it to her, so she knows you haven't forgotten about Christmas."

  He laughed, a sound both deep and warm. “Perfect," he said. "She’s good at getting her way, my sister. Like some other people that I know.”

  The look he gave me was unmistakable; I stuck out my tongue at him.

  “You’re extremely stubborn, Julianne Morgen.”

  “Another compliment — you're spoiling me, Matthew Rose,” I replied.

  We took the box from its hiding place in the closet in the hall, a teapot and two cups on the table behind us, the brown china ones from the cupboard. Matt was right. It didn’t contain much in the way of ornaments. Some snowflakes made out of paper and a few that were made out of lace. A few brass bells, and tin stars, and a set of Christmas balls worn and scuffed from use.

  "Ohh, you did keep him." I couldn't help melting again as I lifted a worn reindeer whose felt was mostly gone from one side, its tiny antlers now holding only the barest fibers of gold tinsel. "Look at him. He's so cute. Oh, but he only has one eye — what happened to the other one? It's been rubbed off."

  "Licked it off, I suspect," said Matt. In response to my wrinkled nose, he added, "In my defense, I was seven, remember?"

  "True," I conceded. After all, I had once spent an afternoon as a three year-old licking a pink plastic Popsicle. The things children do. "We'll just paint it back on sometime." I retied the little loop coming from the reindeer's brow, so he could hang on the tree.

  Below it, there were holiday images cut from magazines or greeting cards and pasted onto some kind of stiff backing. At the very bottom of the box was a tiny felt doll with a mop of golden yarn for hair. She wore a plain muslin robe, and had badly-quilted wings sewn from felt and batting. Around her brow was a crooked loop of gold pipe cleaner.

  “The angel for the top,” Matt explained. “Michelle made it. She was around eight, I believe, and quite proud of her craftsmanship.” He grinned as he turned it over in his hands. Remembering things connected to it, I imagined, and the sister he missed so much.

  I thought it was lovely, these pieces from his past. They might seem poor in comparison to the ornaments I'd been decorating with for days now, but they were rich with a different kind of history. Gently, I picked up a star and hung it on one of the branches. Matt looped a bauble onto the branch above it, the red and gold paint still pretty despite being rather flecked in places.

  "You have to hang the reindeer," I reminded him.

  "It's only right I suppose." He smiled. He tucked it between two glitzier ornaments of blue and silver. "There you are, Bobo. Safe and sound."

  "Bobo?"

  "A children's book," he said. "I wasn't a creative child. That was Michelle. Her penguin ornament was named 'Louis Valois the Fourth,' as I recall."

  The stuffed penguin was missing his eyes — was it an epidemic in the ornament box? I wondered, jokingly — but both his little felt wings were intact. We hung him close to a cutout of a Currier and Ives sleigh ride, and a glittery card of a bass drum-beating teddy bear leading a toy parade.

  A comfortable silence descended over us as the two of us finished decorating the tree, the contents of the box slowly vanishing as the branches on the tree grew crowded. Matt found a pathetic string of lights in the back of the closet and wound them around it despite the ornaments. Then he poured a cup of tea for me, placing a mint biscuit on the saucer beside it.

  “It’s not The Golden Swan, but it will do, I hope," he said, handing it to me.

  “It will do perfectly,” I assured him. "I'm not spoiled by London, I promise." I studied him over the rim of my cup, but his face was giving nothing away. Had the snark in his voice been for my enthusiasm for the restaurant's biscuits, or for the way Dwight had rubbed his posh tastes in Matt's face? I had been a little embarrassed by that, having forgotten Dwight's tendency to show off.

  “How was the garden show?” I asked. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk about it the other day.”

  “Very enjoyable,” he replied. “It was a nice change from being in the hothouse all day. A few of my former students were there, even. From my job at the London university, of course,” he added.

  “Right,” I said. “Although, some of your students from Boston are probably working overseas now. It’s a very popular thing to do, isn't it?”

  It was stupid of me to hint around like this, trying to gauge his reaction to the idea. But the subject of his job offer, though largely unspoken, still hung between us like an invisible curtain. Dividing us in ways that I didn’t notice until conversations like this, when my skin tingled with a combination of nerves and curiosity. Matt merely shrugged.

  “I suppose it’s possible. I haven’t kept up with very many of them, I’m afraid. A few emails and the like. Perhaps we’ll meet again in person someday.” A half-hearted smile and shrug for this, as if it wasn't important right now.

  “If you were working there again, for instance,” I suggested. I studied his reaction again, looking for clues.

  His gaze met mine, holding it in place as he said, “If I was, yes. But it’s not a decision I’m taking lightly. And I don't know if I'll go at all.”

  I sipped my tea, outwardly calm. Inside, however, I wished desperately for an answer. Matt hadn’t made a decision about the job yet. That meant he wasn’t automatically rejecting it. Which should be a good thing, since it affected his future and the dreams he had of returning to the academic world.

  But I couldn’t shake the growing certainty that more than Matt’s career options were at stake here, since our friendship, and the ‘something more’ we had been dancing around these past few weeks were coming to a crossroads. If Matt and I were in separate places in a week or two, I might never find myself in Rosemoor cottage like this again. I might be the friend who is forgotten due to time and distance — and what if Matt decided to stay in America for good?

  No, not Matt. Not given how much he loved this place.

  Shutting this last possibility out, I finished my tea. But it was hard not to think of it again as we hung the last few decorations, and strung some of the tinsel on the tree.

  Matt handed me the angel. “Will you do me — and Michelle — the honor of topping the tree, Julianne?”

  “I would be honored,” I answered. Placing the doll carefully over the very top branch, I tucked her into a leaning-and-holding position around its top, her benevolent smile now overlooking the worn yet dignified ornaments hung below. Matt took my hand to steady me, and I felt the warm reassurance of his fingers holding tight to mine. Just like the day in the greenhouse when he talked about leaving. The little ache inside me coiled tighter in response.

  “There’s something I have to give you, as well,” said Matt, afterwards. Reaching under the table, he retrieved a clay pot with a small but healthy-looking green plant inside. “The hardy and hard to kill variety. I’ve chosen it especially with you in mind.”

  “How touching,” I
quipped, making a face. Nevertheless, I took hold of the pot, the stems inside it bearing a vaguely cactus-like appearance. “What is this variety’s official name?” I teased him, grinning at this inside joke about my bad luck with plants. "And is it stiletto-proof? That's important around me."

  “It’s a type of succulent known as a Kalanchoes,” he replied. “It’s a hybrid that blooms flowers in a vibrant shade of pink. You should see the first blossoms sometime in early spring. And so long as it's nowhere near your feet, it should be safe.”

  “It’s lovely,” I told him. “Thank you.”

  I leaned up and kissed his cheek, wishing this moment wouldn't end. Wishing that the happiness inside me on this perfect afternoon would never fade, as I cradled Matt's gift between my hands.

  ***

  “Julianne, be careful!”

  Gemma squealed nervously as the ladder wobbled beneath me. I shifted my weight, feeling slightly nervous myself. I had never climbed this high before, a twelve-foot ladder needed for changing the drapes in the manor house ballroom. Lady Amanda and I had agreed that red and gold, while very fetching, was not the best choice for the upcoming charity ball. A classic ivory would be a much better backdrop for the bright red of the poinsettias and amaryllis I planned for the display.

  A few more tugs, some minor readjustments, and the new curtains were finally in place. A Christmas tree as tall as my ladder would be placed in front of the large glass windows later this week and decorated with clear white lights, and ornaments in the shape of stars and snowflakes. Simple, elegant, but eye-catching—that was my vision for the upcoming gala.

  “I’ll take these off to the laundry room then,” said Gemma, piling the red and gold fabric onto a nearby trolley. “Need help getting down?” she asked, teasing me as I clung to the top of the ladder. I don’t have a fear of heights per se, but this had been a little much for me even. The sooner I got back on the ground, the better.

  “Thanks Gemma, but I think I’ll be okay,” I said, grinning down at her. “If I take it slowly, there shouldn’t be any spills. Or broken bones or sprains.”

  “Let’s hope not, with the ball right around the corner,” she answered, laughing. She watched me safely descend a few of the steps before pushing her trolley towards the door. I reached the bottom step without so much as a wobble. Grinning, I tucked my feet back inside the pair of three-inch heels I had slipped off for this exercise. No way was I teetering on those twelve foot up. They were impractical enough already, given the amount of dashing around my job often called for.

  Pippa stuck her head through the doorway. "Julianne, there’s a bloke here to see you. A Mr. Bradshaw, he said. I’ve left him to wait for you in the parlor.” She tossed me a curious look as she imparted this information. No doubt wondering why a cute American guy was waiting to speak to me.

  I was curious, too, since Dwight and I hadn't spoken since I finished Daphne and Benjamin's catering menu. Surely nothing had gone wrong with the wedding plans. I had delivered the final payment to the caterers, and the reception's seating charts and harpist's song list were finished, although it had cost me all my free time to bring it all together so last-minute. If something was wrong, wouldn’t he have just phoned my work mobile, rather than make the long trip to Cornwall?

  Puzzled, I pushed open the door to the parlor, where Dwight was standing by the mantel, a bouquet of red roses in his arms.

  “For you,” he said, holding them out with a smile. “One last thank-you gift for stepping in and saving the day. My friends couldn’t be happier with the wedding arrangements, and that makes me very happy.”

  “They’re lovely,” I said, feeling puzzled, still. “But Dwight, you’ve already thanked me enough. It’s not necessary, really. Gifts especially.”

  “You deserve it,” he insisted. I tried not to wince as I felt a stray thorn from one of the bouquet's flowers. Obviously the florist wasn't meticulous, whoever they were.

  “This is nice,” he said, looking around. “In an over-the-top, old-fashioned way, that is. You know me—a minimalist at heart. All this stuff is kind of ... I don't know ... stuffy.” Dwight’s apartment in Seattle had been all-white walls and chrome fixtures, although, to be fair, he lived in a neutral-tones building that forbid tenants from painting. “Is the rest of the house this swanky?”

  “Definitely,” I answered. Hesitating before I added, “I hope you didn't come all the way to London to give me these. A phone call to say 'thanks' would have been just as good. And I'm sure you're as busy as I am." I was eager to wrap this meeting up, especially before anyone stumbled upon the two of us chatting alone in here.

  “Actually, I was hoping maybe you could give me a tour,” he said. “I showed my boss the website for this place, and he thinks it could be a great site for our spring conference. Of course, he needs a little more information to be sure. He has several options to consider. And I need to be sure I can make it worth his while before he'll consider this one.”

  “I can’t, Dwight,” I said. “Today I've got a lot to do. There are public tours this afternoon — they're given by appointment only, but I'm sure they'll let you come —”

  “Come on. I’m sure your employers wouldn’t mind if you showed a friend and prospective client around. Not if they’re as understanding as you say.”

  “Even if they didn’t mind, I have too much work do," I protested. "But I know for sure there's a tour booked for Monday at two. Why don’t I just put you in the diary for that?"

  "Are those roses satisfactory?" he asked suddenly, changing the subject as he frowned at the bouquet I was holding. "I was thinking maybe I should get you violets. Weren't violets your favorite? This is meant to be a thank you, after all. I mean, you've done so much already, and I'm truly grateful."

  "Um, actually, it was —"

  "You know, all I need to know is, if you could possibly —" He touched my shoulder with these words, but that was as far as he got before another voice spoke up.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. Lady Amanda wondered if I could restock the wood box for her. Apparently, she's hosting a tourism board meeting in here shortly."

  Matt was standing there, a bundle of firewood in his arms. At the sight of him, I automatically put space between myself and Dwight, and dropped the roses low in one hand, the petals brushing against my skirt.

  “You’re not interrupting,” I said, hastily. “Dwight was just asking about a possible tour. His company is interested in booking Cliffs House for a conference this spring.”

  “If they can get a better deal on it than a castle in Scotland,” Dwight joked. "You know how corporate budgets are — and how tight English prices are."

  Matt nodded, his expression hard to read. I suspected he didn't like that joke about Cliffs House's rates all that much. I could see he’d been working in the garden that morning, his trousers and canvas jacket spattered with mud in contrast with Dwight’s business suit and immaculate shoes. I detected a slight sneer in Dwight's gaze for Matt's untidy appearance.

  “You know, I’ve always assumed that houses like this just paid people to do all the menial tasks," said Dwight. "I thought you were a botanist — but you're bringing in the firewood?"

  “That's how it works around here,” I said. Bristling a little on Matt's behalf. “Even a great scientist isn't above helping out with the chores. And Lord William actually cuts the firewood himself. He works on the grounds almost as much as the gardeners and the estate manager. Right, Matt?”

  “He does, yes.” Matt was keeping his answers short apparently. He pulled another log from the bundle, his glance falling once on the bouquet I was holding.

  My face had turned a similar shade of crimson. "A thank you present," I said. “For my work on the wedding. Totally unnecessary, of course, but thoughtful — and something I should probably find a vase for and put in the front hall for guests to admire. Be back in just a moment,” I told them.

  It took me longer than I planned to locate a proper vase. There
were more flower arrangements in the house than usual due to the holiday season, and I finally had to resort to using a crystal pitcher from the kitchen pantry, one whose handle had parted ways from it years ago. By the time I had the roses on display and made it back to the parlor, a good ten minutes had passed. Dwight was ensconced in the armchair near the fire, busy texting someone. He didn't look up as I entered.

  “Where did Matt go?” I asked. Glancing round as if he might be tucked away in a corner somewhere. Dwight gave a shrug.

  “He said something about a project in the greenhouse. Guess he had to hurry back to his plants." He gave me a quick smile.

  “I have you in the book for a tour on Monday,” I told him, having made a note in the house's diary. “Two o’clock. If you think your boss is interested, feel free to come and take some photos to show him.”

  “Right,” he told me. “I’ll see you then, I guess.”

  With Dwight gone, I made my way towards the greenhouse. Matt was inside, but I couldn’t see any evidence of the project he mentioned to Dwight. He seemed to be lost in thought, crouched in front of the rose that hadn’t bloomed for thirty years or more. I stopped a few feet away, knowing the gravel crunching beneath my shoes had given away my arrival. “Will it bloom in time for Christmas?” I asked him.

  “It may.” He didn’t turn around, I noticed, but was busy concentrating. Not on the plant, but on the phone in his hand, the screen of his mobile.

  "Is something wrong?" I hinted.

  "No," he said. "Nothing's wrong." He looked up at me at last and gave me a quick smile — but the distraction in his voice was something he'd done a poor job of hiding.

  Was it a text from someone? Or was it because of Dwight? I didn't want to ask if he was jealous. After my assumption about him and Trixie the friendly bridesmaid last summer, I thought we might both be a little more careful about romantic misinterpretations, if that was the case.