Page 34 of I’ll Be Home for Christmas

“Yup.”

“Crikey,” he said, playfully grabbing her coat. “We’d better get you fed before you start swiping fish straight from the ocean.”

She laughed and they made their way toward the food vans. Any tension had blown away with the stiff coastal breeze. It was quiet down at the vans now, but closer to lunchtime there would be a queue as people stopped by for a hot lunch or picked up the day’s catch for their dinner that night.

“How do they manage to stay open?” Warren asked, looking around. “It’s not exactly buzzing down here.”

“They supply restaurants up and down the coast. You wait till summer, when you have to fight with the holiday makers for a scallop.”

“Spoken like a true local,” Warren teased, and she laughed.

“I know, it’s weird!” It was weird. Those first few days back in Pine Bluff, she had felt very much like a visitor but now…

“Does the Christmas market have much impact down here?”

“Surprisingly, yes. It brings a lot of foodies to the town, and foodies are drawn to local and sustainable.” Just as she said it, a food delivery courier tramped over the stones toward one of the vans and the occupant placed two large paper bags into their heatproof bag.

She gave Warren a smug grin. “I rest my case.”

Warren shook his head, smiling. “Lead on, trusty tour guide.”

They headed to Sampson’s Catch, on Fred’s recommendation, because that was where the aunts got all their fresh fish from, and she knew Benj supplied a lot of it.

When they reached the counter, they were served by a ruddy-cheeked woman with short curly hair fighting to get out from beneath her beanie hat.

She nodded an absent greeting down to Warren, then cast her glance across to Fred and uttered a startled greeting.

“Freddie Hallow-Hart! I heard you were back. Oh, your aunts are ever so pleased. ’Bout time you came down here, couldn’t get enough of my salt and pepper whitebait when you were a nipper.

Gawd, it’s been a long time. You look like your ma.

’Ere, Harold, get over here and see what the cat dragged in. ”

“Hi, Mrs. Sampson,” Fred said, feeling like she was ten years old again. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Warren was most amused. “How are you?”

“Well, I’m not so bad, the sea air keeps me healthy, and we’ve got fifteen grandchildren now, can you believe it? Fifteen?”

“Goodness!” said Fred.

Mr. Sampson, in mustard-yellow bib-and-brace overalls and a black cable-knit jumper to match his wife’s, lumbered out from behind a stack of lobster pots, wiping his hands on a checked tea towel. He let out a belly laugh when he saw her. “Uh-oh. Trouble’s back in town!”

Fred smiled through her embarrassment. Warren seemed to be enjoying the exchange immensely.

“Oh, don’t tease her, Harold,” his wife scolded. “Not in front of her fella.” She looked properly at Warren this time, with more than a little admiration. “Your name’s been all over the PBJ’s chat.”

Warren looked quizzically at Fred.

“Pine Bluff Jezebels,” she told him. “Don’t ask.”

“Tease her?” bellowed Mr. Sampson. “It’d take more than that to embarrass this one. Have you ever seen a girl running down to the sea with her dress pulled up to her ears to make a hammock for twenty crabs?” he asked Warren.

Warren shook his head. “Um. No. Not seen that.”

Fred knew what was coming and closed her eyes.

“This one!” he said, pointing a callused finger at Fred.

“This one, not more than ten years old, mind you, emptied my entire pot of crabs into her dress and took off with them. Let them all back into the sea. Little bugger, she was, you had to have eyes in the back of your head when Fred and Ryan were around.”

“Well, she’s obviously here to eat the catch today, love, not to set it free.

And this young man wrote a very favorable review of our Christmas market.

Word on the Jezebel-vine is that you’re writing a foodie piece for that paper of yours, so whatever you want today is on the house.

” This last part she addressed to Warren, who smiled beatifically at her in return and caused her ruddy cheeks to bloom two shades darker.

When their food was cooked, they took their orders—giving grateful thanks to Mrs. Sampson—and settled into a shelter with a bench overlooking the sea. Mr. Sampson’s shouted warnings of “Stay off that Naughty List!” were still ringing in their ears.

Warren had opted for tempura white fish goujons and samphire fried potatoes, while Fred had chosen the same potatoes but with griddled scallops and garlic prawns.

“You have quite a reputation,” Warren noted as he blew on a crispy piece of potato.

She huffed out a laugh. “My mum would tell you I was spirited; my teachers would tell you I was a delinquent.”

“Nice to have a family who’ll defend you, no matter what.”

Fred was still feeling a little queasy after her faux pas with his family, so she changed the subject. “I wondered if I’d see you today.” Though they’d messaged back and forth, she hadn’t seen him since their lunch at Smoke and Soul.

“I kept meaning to get something booked with you, but I’ve been so busy with work,” he said. “Even though I’m supposed to be working on the food piece, they’ve kept me chasing my tail with puff pieces.”

“That’s okay, I get it. To be honest, I’ve been focused on work too.”

“You’re applying for jobs?”

“No. I mean, with the family business.”

“Oh. Good.”

“I’m doing this whole rebrand for Hallow-Hart Crackers, concentrating on Instagram because it’s such a visual medium.

I thought I’d come at it from a kind of ‘lifestyle’ perspective, you know?

Incorporate the family history and the surroundings.

I’ve been getting some shots of the workshop and the gardens this morning.

Honestly, looking at it with fresh eyes, it’s so pretty, it’s really magazine-worthy… ”

“Well, somebody found their mojo this morning,” Warren said, with a chuckle.

Fred felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. Was she being too much?

“Sorry,” she said, hating that she was apologizing even as she did so. Her excitement was slowly deflating like a tire that’s driven over a nail.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s great that you’re feeling so inspired. I’m only jealous because my own work life isn’t filling me with the joys right now. I think I need a break from all things work related.”

“Wait, didn’t you say you came down here to check out the vans for your article? We’re literally eating your research for your work.”

He grinned sheepishly. “You got me. It’s like I can’t switch off.

All I can think about is getting the column.

I’ve written, like, fifteen versions in different styles, and I still don’t know which is my voice.

You were right, that’s my hook, that’s what’s going to get me the column, and that’s what’s going to sell the papers.

I’ve tried being pithy like Giles Coren, and I’ve played around with a more comedic tone, but I’m not sure that’s it either.

It’s so hard!” he exclaimed, biting another goujon in two.

“ Still talking about work,” she teased.

“Shit.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. What a dick.”

She laughed. “You said it, not me.”

“Sorry.” Warren was looking at her; a crinkle line of worry had taken up residence between his eyebrows. “I’m being a bore.”

“You’re not. You just really want the column, and that’s okay. It’s good to feel passionate about something.”

“Why don’t you show me your pictures for Insta,” he said, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know. I want to. I think you could be good for me, Fredricka, and I’d like to be good for you too.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips and she tasted sea salt. “Now hand the phone over.” He grinned.

He had the gift of the gab, that was for sure. But even though she would hate her own previous relationships to be called in as evidence against her, she couldn’t help but wonder what had led to his divorce.

—

When the cold got the better of them, Warren went back to the pub to work on his “voice,” and Fred headed home.

“Hey,” her mum called when she closed the front door.

“Hey, yourself,” Fred said, entering the kitchen and swiping a crisp from the packet Bella was holding. “Are the aunts holding down the hut?”

“Yes. I told them I didn’t mind doing the whole day, but you know what they’re like when they’ve got bees in their bonnets.”

“Aunt Aggie’s wrists seem to be giving her less pain.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure how much of that is down to healing and how much to Cam’s cannabis cookies.”

Fred, who had been about to open the biscuit tin, placed it back on the worktop just in case.

“Fancy helping me cracker?”

“I do. I need to talk to you about the marketing campaign. I don’t want to go ahead and start posting if you’re not comfortable with the direction I’m thinking of taking us.”

“We have a campaign?” asked Bella. “I don’t think we’ve ever had our own campaign before.”

Fred laughed, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that big a deal, Mum.”

“It is to me. I really appreciate all the work you’re putting into it.”

“Well, if I’m going to be joining the business, then it’s in my interests to make sure it’s reaching the right people. I don’t put my name to any old Christmas Cracker company, you know.”

“Goodness, such a ruthless businesswoman. It’s like having our very own Samantha Jones in the family.”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” said Bella, throwing her empty crisp packet in the bin and putting her arm around Fred. “Let’s go build our empire.”