Page 12 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

With the van contents safely stowed inside the house, Fred wrapped herself in a thick cable-knit cardigan, heavy coat and scarf, and set off for the town with Warren Reeves’s envelope, in the hopes that he would have hers.

She decided to walk, since it was only ten minutes downhill—and with the market arriving, parking would be a nightmare.

Fred found herself able to breathe more easily and knew that the cleaner air was only a part of it.

Despite her protestations, being home felt like a weight had been lifted—or rather, she was feeling the divine weightlessness of being held up by the loving arms of her family.

One morning here had shown her how much she’d needed to be home, even if only to perch temporarily while she caught her breath.

She stuck to the uneven paths, keeping pace with the water trickling in constant rivulets down the road from the hills above.

Fir trees grew wild on the banks to one side, leading up to woodland and sporadic houses almost hidden from view by the dense triangles of green.

Beard lichens dripped in matted tufts from the branches of ancient oaks and sweet chestnut trees whose roots pushed up through the tarmac in ripples beneath her boots.

Being able to hear the crunch of her own footfall and the call of birds in the middle of the day was a novelty; in Islington you’d be lucky to find that kind of quiet even in the deepest part of the night.

The sound of a grumbling engine broke her thoughts and she turned to see Mr. Bishop on his old green tractor bumbling along slowly beside her.

“Need a lift, young Freddie?” he called down from the cab.

“No, thanks,” she replied, smiling. “I’m reacquainting myself with the area.”

He nodded. “Right enough.” Then he winked and said, “It’s good to have you back,” before he motored slowly off down the hill.

“I’m not back!” she called after him.

He didn’t turn around, but she heard him laugh as he waved an arm in the air. “Whatever you say, Freddie Hallow-Hart!”

Soon enough, gray-brown sandstone buildings began to dot the landscape and in another few minutes she was walking down into the town proper.

Last night, the sleeping streets had rung with the shrieks and hollers from Krampus and the demon army.

Today, a different kind of energy pulsed along the main thoroughfare as the wooden huts that would soon house the market stalls were being built.

The music system had already been set up and Motown Christmas classics blasted out from the speakers, only marginally drowning out the smack of hammers and the whine of electric screwdrivers.

Many of the stall holders came back year after year and were greeted like old friends. Some booked into the local pubs and hotels, while others pitched their caravans on the green, free of charge, for the duration.

Fred found herself looking out for Liam, he’d no doubt be somewhere in the thick of things.

She’d known him and his late wife, Claire, her whole life, though it had been a few years now since she’d seen him.

She’d sent a card when Claire had passed, and received a lovely letter back from him but hadn’t had much contact with him since, which she knew was down to her.

Liam was a carpenter and sculptor. He sold beautifully turned wooden bowls and candlesticks and carved wood spirit sculptures for gardens.

Liam and Claire had been favorites with the aunts, and great friends with her mum, and used to have dinner up at the house at least twice a week when the market was in town.

So far as she knew, they continued the tradition still, even without Claire.

Liam and, for his part, Diggory, had been healthy male influences during her formative years, acting as an antidote to the frequent fly-by-nights her mum dated. Liam was steadfast and honorable, and without him she might have grown up with a dimmer view of the male species.

She felt guilty about not making the effort to come home the Christmas after Claire died.

But at the time, she’d been consumed with trying to keep the shreds of her relationship together—and given Tim’s feelings about her family, leaving him in London while she spent Christmas back home would only have added to the tension.

She scanned the bustle of busy bodies in the high street now, looking for Liam, but didn’t spot him.

It was dark inside the Crooked Elm, the bar quieter than last night, but the tables in the restaurant were already half filled as people perused the lunch menus. The barman smiled and ambled over, a checked tea towel slung over one shoulder.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“I’m looking for one of your guests, a Warren Reeves. I have something of his, or we may have something of each other’s; the courier gave me his post, and I’m hoping he got mine.”

The barman started buffing the beer pumps.

“I don’t know if he’s here at the moment. Maybe you could leave it with me, and I’ll make sure he gets it?”

Fred chewed the inside of her lip. This was sensitive information; she wouldn’t like Warren’s divorce papers to be put to one side and accidentally forgotten about.

She was about to ask whether the envelope could be delivered directly to his room when the pub door opened behind her, the chill wind lifting her hair, and a smooth, deep voice called out, “Hey, Sam, any messages for me?”

The barman smiled over Fred’s shoulder and replied, “As a matter of fact, this lady here would like a word with you.”

Fred turned to see a tall man with short blond hair and a smile that could melt chocolate. He was smartly dressed in black jeans, a black overcoat and a green sweater, and when their eyes met, Fred thought she heard the fruit machine in the corner play the jackpot tune of its own accord.

“Warren Reeves?” she asked, hesitantly. Maybe getting the wrong mail wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

“That’s me,” he replied, still smiling. “You wouldn’t happen to be Fredricka Hallow-Hart, would you?”

Bingo!

She pulled the brown envelope out of her bag in response and held it up. “I think we got each other’s letters.”

“I think you’re right,” he said as he moved toward her with his hand outstretched for her to shake. “Good to meet you, Fredricka.” His accent was East London, but the cut of his clothes was Chelsea all the way, and the combination was having rather a strange effect on her.

“Fred,” she said. “Everyone calls me Fred.”

He screwed his face up, accentuating the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

“I’ve got an Uncle Fred,” he said. “He’s a tricky character and he’s not nearly as nice-looking as you, so if it’s all the same to you, I’ll call you Fredricka.

” Then he cracked a smile that would have had Fred agreeing to almost anything.

“Of course,” she said, wondering if her cheeks were glowing as red as they felt.

Warren nodded as though they’d just struck a deal. “I’ll nip up to my room and grab your letter. Then maybe if you’re not busy you’ll allow me to buy you a coffee?”

She handed over his letter, nodding, and muttered, “Sure,” like she went out for coffee with random sexy strangers every damn day of the week.

He ducked through a doorway—the doorway was small, and he was at least six feet tall—and left her standing by the bar.

She had expected to simply swap letters and go about her day; the exchange hardly seemed to warrant a coffee.

Then again, it wasn’t like she was in a hurry. At that, the door swung open again.

Warren handed over her own brown envelope and, with an apologetic expression, said, “Sorry about the redundancy. I couldn’t help but see the contents.”

She smiled ruefully as she took it from him. “Thanks. Sorry about your divorce.”

He shrugged. “It is what it is.” And then, seeming to sweep away gloomy thoughts, he motioned to the door and asked, “Shall we?”

Fred was thinking that she really ought to check over her documents, to be sure that everything was as it should be with the offer.

“I can wait, if that’s something you need to attend to?” he offered.

“It’s…it’s fine,” she said, pushing the envelope into her bag. “There’s no rush.” She’d only been waiting six months—meanwhile living off her now nonexistent savings—for her ex-employer to agree to her severance settlement.

“Good. You’ll have to guide me to the place that serves the best coffee. I’m new in town.”

“No pressure, then!” She grinned. “I only just arrived last night, I’m staying with family for a while, I used to live here a long time ago…I’m gabbling, what I’m trying to say is that my café knowledge might be a bit out of date.”

“Flying back to the nest, huh?”

“Something like that. It’s only temporary.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” he said, pulling open the heavy pub door and shouting back, “See ya later, Sam, yeah!”

Sam responded with a cheery wave and went back to his customers.

Back out on the street, three of the huts nearest the pub were now assembled and four more were going up fast. In terms of festive feel-good events, the Pine Bluff Christmas Market rivaled even those in Germany and Belgium.

“So, are you here for the market?” Fred asked.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m writing an article about it as part of a larger travel piece.”

“You’re a journalist?”

“Yeah, but I try and keep it on the down-low as much as possible.” He pulled his collar up around his ears, as though trying to hide his face, and Fred had to bite her lip to hide her smile. “It’s harder to get the scoop if people have their guard up.”

“Do they need to?”

He laughed. “Not for a piece like this. This will be your standard ‘places to visit this Christmas’ job. We’ve got people on the ground at various markets in the UK. It’s a puff piece really, but people like to read about Christmassy shit to get them in the mood, don’t they?”