As I pictured Gran’s stern expression, my mind drifted back to my youth. Back then, Gran was forever telling me that when the time came, I needed to find a man like my grandfather. In her view, not only was he the best partner a woman could have, he was a great dad. I might never have got the chance to meet him, but thanks to Gran’s memory sharing, I felt like I knew him.
He’d been the love of her life. Funny, smart and ever so handsome, and according to Gran, also quite the romantic. He regularly came home with flowers for no reason other than he thought she’d like them. He’d pen little poems for her and wasn’t afraid of public displays of affection. ‘It’s the little things that count,’ Gran would say.
She kept two photos next to her bed. One of my mum and one of him. I often heard her talk to the picture of my grandfather. She’d chat to him about her day, update him on my latest news, and she didn’t only tell him how much she missed him, she’d scold him for leaving her without a moment’s notice, as if his heart attack had been a choice.
At the time, I thought it strange how she never gave my mum’s photograph the same attention. Even in conversations with me, Mum seemed to be a no-go subject. Heck, it didn’t matter how many questions I asked, there was always some excuse as to why we couldn’t talk about her. Gran was too busy. Gran was too tired. Gran couldn’t remember. It was only when I came home early one Wednesday afternoon that I understood why.
I recalled hearing Gran’s harrowing cries as I’d headed up to my room. Pausing on the landing, I’d crept towards her doorway, instinctively knowing I had to keep out of sight. I peered through the gap, to see her rocking back and forth, releasing wail after wail of face-contorting, gut-wrenching pain. Seeing the photo of Mum clutched tightly to her chest, that’s when I knew that the loss of her daughter was too painful for Gran to contemplate. I never tried to discuss Mum again.
Still feeling the absolute devastation of Gran’s grief, tears ran down my cheeks and shaking myself free, I wiped my eyes, returning my thoughts to her happier memories. These always involved my grandfather and were the reason she never sought a second chance at romantic happiness. Like Gran often said, no man could ever compare and, just like she insisted I should never settle, neither would she.
What would she think of my relationship with Gideon? Ours wasn’t filled with a Hollywood-style passion, but in reality, I didn’t think many were. At least not where I lived. In my little town couples tended to rub along, not set each other’s hearts on fire.
But did they start out that way?Gran asked.There’s a difference between settling into a deep and loving companionship and accepting second best.
I sighed. Gran had a point.
Which camp do you and Gideon fall into?
It was a question I didn’t know how to answer.
Chatter outside the shop window caught my attention and craning my neck I looked out to see Aggie Johnson and Tori Smith revelling in an excitable exchange. Frowning, they waved their hands as they talked, and repeatedly pointed to the bookshop next door. In their forties, the two weren’t just avid readers; they were literary snobs, and probably my neighbour Janice’s best customers. I assumed they were complaining about the bookshop not being open for the last couple of weeks because, heaven forbid, they didn’t get their hands on the latest must-read Christmas titles.
I sighed.Christmas.I’d been so focused on my relationship with Gideon, I’d hardly given the festive season a thought. With less than three weeks until the big day, I still had gifts to buy, a grocery shopping list to organise, and my Yuletide TV viewing to decide on. I chuckled, recalling my annual discussion with Gran as to whetherDie Hardwas a Christmas film.
Of course it is.
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s not.’
I returned my attention to my phone. A week ago, the mere thought of spending the big day with Gideon made me buzz with excitement. Now I couldn’t be sure we’d even be a couple come December25th. I sighed, realising if we were to have any chance at a merry Christmas, let alone a future, I needed to take Alex’s advice and properly spell things out. Even if that meant issuing an ultimatum; either Gideon gave me the attention I deserved, or we were through.
I simply had to one hundred per cent mean it.
That was the thing about final warnings. They were all or nothing. Once said, not seeing it through would be like giving Gideon the go-ahead to treat me how he wanted, because despite any assertion, I wouldn’t really do anything about his behaviour. Wondering if I was prepared to risk being on my own, a knot formed in my stomach and my finger hovered over the screen.
Pulling myself together, I asked myself what I was waiting for and hit the call button. Listening to the tone, I swapped my phone from one ear to the other, half expecting Gideon to let it ring out.
‘Hattie,’ he said, at last, picking up. ‘Is everything all right? It’s just that I’m in the middle of something.’
Quelle surprise.I rolled my eyes. ‘We need to talk.’
‘What, right now? Can’t it wait?’
‘It’s not life and death if that’s what you mean,’ I replied. ‘But it is important. I think we need to clear the air on a couple of things.’ My words were met with silence and as I waited for him to respond, I glanced out of the window to see Gary Russel from the butchers opposite join Aggie and Tori.
‘Okay,’ Gideon finally said. ‘I could call round to yours one evening.’
The trio’s conversation outside my window grew louder and curious, I got up from my seat at the till. Keeping my phone to my ear, I headed for the door and opening it, stepped outside. My eyes widened. The last thing I expected to see was a someone up a ladder, securing a ‘For Rent’ sign to the bookshop. Janice hadn’t said a word about shutting down.
‘Hattie, are you still there?’
Turning away from the streetside fanfare, I gave Gideon my full attention. ‘Yes, and what I have to say can’t wait. I just need you to listen.’
CHAPTER12
With Ruby Wentworth’s baby blanket finished and beautifully wrapped, I made my way down the high street ready to hand deliver it. A festive spirit was in the air and, clocking the number of tourists around, I wondered if it might have been better to open the shop instead. I just as quickly dismissed the idea. After all the recent drama, giving myself a Sunday morning lie-in and enjoying a stroll through town was much preferable. As was sampling the wares on offer at The Beanery.
The Beanery was one of the best cafés around, and I expected to find it busy. A family affair, owned by Ruby’s parents Simeon and Natalie, it was the face of their award-winning coffee roasting company. The fact that Ruby was a baker extraordinaire only added to The Beanery’s reputation and people came from far and wide just to taste her divine red velvet cake with its decadent chocolate flavouring and dreamiest of cream cheese frosting.
