Page 6 of Christmas at the Little Cornish Bakery

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.

‘I guess that’s two votes for the pink sofa now,’ Freya said as she gave Angelo a kiss. ‘You’re out-voted, my love. You can’t have everything in black.’

‘I never said I wanted everything in black, I just don’t . . .’ Angelo trailed off and had another look at the photo Freya was brandishing. ‘OK .?.?. you can be in charge of the soft furnishings. I’m not sure cushions are my forte and you do, erm, prefer a more varied colour palette than I do.’

Freya gave him another kiss and flashed Lola a triumphant thumbs up.

Angelo was more of a sculptor than a painter, liking clean lines or working with metal and wood, elements he could get his hands on, manipulate.

Freya much preferred opening her paints and creating bright seascapes and sunset scenes.

‘What’s in there?’ Freya asked, nodding at the package.

‘Oh this?’ Lola glanced down at it, smoothing the rucks in the re-attached sticky tape. ‘Just something I ordered,’ she found herself saying, suddenly possessive of its secrets whilst she sorted out what it contained.

Freya nodded and asked no further questions. After all, it was the season of deliveries. ‘Do you want some wine? Angelo’s got an aubergine parmigiana baking in the oven. It should be done in about fifteen minutes.’

Lola shook her head at the bottle Freya was waving. ‘Maybe with dinner, which smells divine!’ She stood up. ‘I’ll just take this upstairs and change out of my dress.’

Freya nodded and turned her attention back to whatever Angelo was looking at on his tablet.

Leaving them to their future building, Lola carried the box upstairs and plonked it on the middle of her bed, staring it out.

Not quite ready to open it yet, she headed into the bathroom to remove her once expertly applied, but now rather smudged, makeup.

She prided herself on always looking flawless and as a devotee of vintage styling she loved being dressed to the nines, even in the kitchen.

Her bright red hair was curled into victory rolls which she knew would last another day if she slept with a hairnet on.

Smoothing in her night cream, Lola pushed away the thought that in a few weeks’ time she’d be turning forty.

It seemed such a huge milestone, as if life was about to flip over into a different era.

She wondered where the last twenty years had gone.

Had she spent them well? Made the right choices?

Giving her cheeks one final satisfied pat, she decided there was no point dwelling on the ‘what ifs’.

She tried not to do regrets but as she got older, that was becoming harder to live by.

As she changed into some silky pyjamas, the package sat in the middle of the bed, almost demanding her attention. Lola opened it up and started to remove the inner packaging she’d stuffed back only to have her investigations stalled by Freya calling up that the food was ready.

Over dinner they discussed the storm that had thankfully left Polcarrow unscathed, Bayview House and Christmas.

‘You OK?’ Freya asked, tipping the last of the wine into her glass as Angelo cleared the table to wash up.

‘Yes, why wouldn’t I be?’

Freya shrugged. ‘You seem a bit distracted.’

Lola opened her mouth and almost spilled out about the contents of the package but instead quickly changed track.

‘Just busy thinking about all those Christmas cakes I’m going to be making, that’s all, plus I need to find time to fit in knitting a Christmas jumper for Alf and a matching one for Scruff. ’

‘Oh my gosh, that’s the cutest!’ Freya gasped. ‘I can’t wait to see them. Hey, reckon we could get Angelo in a Christmas jumper?’

‘That’s a battle you can have. Maybe find one with a penguin on it, given the all-black thing he’s got going on.’

‘I could go even further and get him a penguin onesie.’

Lola laughed, picturing Angelo with his whole mad, bad and dangerous to know persona dressed as a six foot penguin. Freya was obviously having the same thoughts as she was, giggling into her wine.

‘What’s this?’ Angelo asked as he came in. ‘Did I hear “penguin onesie”?’

Freya composed herself. ‘No, of course not, would I be so mean?’ She reached out for him and quickly changed the subject. ‘Are you staying tonight or going over to Bayview?’

Angelo looked at Lola and then back at Freya. ‘Here would be nice if no one minds?’ Freya and Angelo exchanged a heated look.

‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Lola said and gave a pretend shiver. ‘I’ve told Freya you’re welcome to stay here as much as you like. I don’t like thinking of you freezing up in that old, draughty house.’

‘Don’t worry, the first thing I did was have the boiler replaced. It’s just everything else that’s taking time or money.’ He sighed and joined Freya on the sofa, where she began to reassuringly stroke his long hair. ‘I need to raise a bit of extra funds.’

Silence settled over them. All three of them knew there was an easy way for Angelo to make some extra cash but he was still stubbornly refusing to resurrect his art career.

Freya, on the other hand, had grasped the opportunities Cornwall had presented her with to develop her paintings and following a gallery night in the café back in the autumn, had started to finally make some money from her art.

Lola was proud to see that Freya was determined not to let anything stop her.