The villagers spoke about the cakes they’d loved, ones bursting with brandy, or decorated with ornate piping and little silver stars. Some asked for space to be left to sit a family heirloom decoration on the top. Lola smiled at this. With her penchant for the styles of the 1940s and 50s, she loved delivering life with a huge heap of nostalgia on the side. The project excited her and filled her with warmth as she thought of the extra magic she would help bring to everyone’s Christmas.
Just as Lola was figuring out when to start the baking and what quantity of ingredients to order to fulfil the orders she had taken, the café door was pushed open, letting in a blast of chilly November air, and a uniformed courier driver entered, a wrapped-up package clutched in his hand.
‘Lola Curran?’ he asked, glancing at his notes and then at her.
‘Yes, that’s me.’ She darted out from behind the counter, wondering what on earth he was delivering. She hadn’t ordered anything.
The man dumped the package on one of the tables and passed his electronic device to Lola. ‘Sign here,’ he said as he gave the café a cursory glance.
Lola did as she was asked before passing the device back to him. ‘Can I get you anything while you’re here?’
‘Yeah, a coffee would be great, two shots please. It’s been a long day.’ He rubbed his face and followed her over to the counter, peering at the treats stacked in their glass domes. ‘Oh I shouldn’t, but I’ll take a couple of those brownies – for the wife, you know.’
‘An excellent choice,’ Lola said as she put two in a bag, passed him his coffee and waited for his payment to go through on the card machine. As soon as he’d left, Lola hurried over to the package, armed with some scissors to cut through the sticky tape holding it all together. By the looks of things the sender had used a whole roll. Whoever had sent it had not wanted anyone to get easy access. Lola wrestled with the tape, puffing as she pulled it off. The contents of the package were wrapped in bubble wrap and on the top sat a white envelope. Curious, Lola tore into it. Reading the note she gasped.
We found these hidden in the attic. After talking to the solicitor, who got hold of your mother, we were advised to send them on to you as they appear to have belonged to your grandmother and it didn’t feel right keeping them. I hope they mean something and arrive safely.
The note was signed by the new owners of Ruby’s house with contact details. Lola swallowed to think of someone else having turned the empty shell of Ruby’s house into their home.
Putting the note aside, Lola tore through the layers, like some sort of pass the parcel that contained trips down memory lane, not sweets. Her stomach clenched. Things that had been hidden rarely contained good news. The box smelled of secrets, of parts of a life that had been hidden away, dispersed around a house, never meant to be looked at again. There was the faint aroma of her grandmother’s perfume, a whiff of damp, all of it triggering fresh memories of Ruby’s house. She had been tasked with helping her mother clear it out, which had been terse, done quickly and with little time for sentimentality.
Lola had taken whatever she could find that had meaning, thinking of the recipe book, the ‘magic’ spoon Ruby had used in all her baking, her tarot cards and teacup and a set of pearls she’d probably never wear but that she remembered Ruby wearing on special occasions.
Once empty, Bridget had locked the house up for one final time and paused on the doorstep, the ‘For Sale’ sign looming over the hedge. Lola realised nothing would ever be the same again. It was like she’d packed part of her away in the boxes. Turning, she’d caught her mum regarding her, as if she was debating whether or not to say something.
‘What is it?’
Bridget was silent for a while before saying, ‘You two were always thick as thieves.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Lola asked, puzzled.
‘It’s silly but I was always a bit jealous of your bond with Ruby,’ her mum admitted, with embarrassment. ‘She was delighted that you inherited her psychic abilities. I never did, even though I tried. Mum prided herself that it’d come through the generations, but it seemed to skip me,’ she said sadly. ‘She was always disappointed by that.’
Lola digested this. ‘Mum, I had no idea. Is that why—’
‘Yes, why I didn’t want you spending so much time with her. No one should say this about their child but I felt like you’d taken my place. I also didn’t like how she’d wheel you out to read the cards for her friends. You were just a kid. The mystical stuff never felt right to me. At school I was teased for my mother being a witch. I just wanted a normal mum like everyone else had, not one who’d read palms on the bus into town.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘Of course you didn’t, you weren’t supposed to,’ she sighed, reaching into her pocket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Now, come on, it’s cold, let’s go. I need to pack for my return flight.’ Bridget had walked down the driveway, a box tucked under her arm, moving away from any questions Lola had. They had never spoken of it again. Bridget had flown back to Spain and remained there, soaking up the sun and loving the ex-pat life.
Now, Lola picked up one of the bundles, underneath the bubble wrap it was encased in brown paper. Tears sprang to Lola’s eyes as she thought of whoever had put the box together, taking great care of the contents, knowing they would mean something to the recipient. Lola glanced around the café, at the evening drawing in early over the bay. It would soon be time for the post-school rush, not the ideal time to unwrap delicate mementoes. Lola gently replaced the bundle she’d extricated, refolded the bubble wrap and closed the lid. She’d take this home and go through it when she had the space and time to deal with whatever her sixth sense was telling her was lurking inside.
Chapter Three
As soon as the post-school rush ended, Lola quickly cleaned down the café, locked up and headed home, the package tucked safely under her arm. The storm that had been threatening the memorial service had blown through Polcarrow, bringing with it dark moody skies and sideways rain. Lola was looking forward to cold crisp days and would’ve been lying if she didn’t admit she was crossing her fingers, hoping for snow. Who didn’t love the romance of a white Christmas? Although with Cornwall’s more temperate climate, snow was wishful thinking.
Sighing at the thought of snowball fights on the beach and warming up with luscious hot chocolates laden with cream and marshmallows, Lola reminded herself that a white Christmas in reality was usually a bit soggy. Romance would be nice though, she thought, having someone to curl up with in front of the fire, all safe and snuggled up warm. Her mind inserted Tristan into the image, the pair of them tucked up under blankets, throwing another log into the burner. Lola smiled at the thought and wondered how she could find the courage to turn the fantasy into a reality. Since March, when Lola opened the café, they had bonded over morning tea and toast. This had stretched well beyond the allotted breakfast time as parishioners realised they had more chance of catching their vicar in the café than the church.
Their friendship had grown from these morning chats, especially in the early days when they were both trying to figure out the motivations of various locals. They’d huddled together over the final slices of cake, swapping notes and exchanging past life stories. Lola had quickly found herself looking forward to the early starts because it gave her time with Tristan before anyone else got to him. Their bond had grown and she’d spent more time than she liked to admit wondering what it would be like to act on the impulses that sparked in her heart every time he stepped through the café door. They’d seen each other at pub quiz nights and other village events but their obvious attraction to each other hadn’t made it out of these boundaries.His friendship is much more valuable, she repeated like a mantra, as she headed along the harbour front to her own little blue-painted fisherman’s cottage.
Balancing the package on her hip, Lola fished the house keys out of her pocket. As she unlocked the front door the delicious aroma of something tomato-based slowly cooking greeted her. Lola paused. The smell of cooking and the lights on low meant that Freya must be in. The faint sound of voices from the living room confirmed this as Lola placed the box on the floor to remove her coat and rainbow-coloured scarf and hang them on the pegs by the door. After picking the box back up, she gave a gentle knock on the living room door before pushing it open. Freya and Angelo were sprawled on the sofa, halfway through a bottle of wine, a paint sample chart unfurled like a banner across their knees.
‘Productive afternoon?’ Lola asked, nodding towards the paperwork strewn across the coffee table. As part of his testament of love towards Freya, Angelo had purchased Bayview House, a very dilapidated old building situated right at the top of Polcarrow with views to die for across the bay. Lola adored the house with all its original 1930s features. The huge windows that flooded light into the rooms made it an ideal residence for two artists. It was such a shame the previous owners had left it to wrack and ruin.
‘Ummhmm.’ Freya shifted up on the sofa and signalled to the colours in the book. ‘We’re going to paint it white. Blank canvas, keep it bright and airy. I’m thinking of contrasting that with bright curtains and furniture. I mean, look at this sofa!’ Freya leaned across Angelo to show Lola a photo of a stunning fuchsia sofa.
‘That is gorgeous! You know I love anything with a bit of colour.’ Lola glanced around her own living room, decorated in an eclectic style that combined the traditional cottage features with bright modern tones. Various trinkets she’d picked up on her travels were displayed, ranging from a shamanic drum to a sampler she’d found in a junk shop that had been completed by Edith in 1887.
