Epilogue

One year later…

T rish adjusted her camera settings, capturing Jack Jr.’s epic eye roll as Phil belted out All I Want for Christmas for the fifth time that morning. The fairy lights twinkled in the bokeh behind him, creating perfect little stars.

‘Da, make him stop,’ Jack Jr. groaned, flopping dramatically onto the couch.

‘Naw, let the wee man sing,’ Jack called from the kitchen, where something smelled suspiciously like burning toast. ‘It’s Christmas, pal.’

Beth sprawled on her stomach under the tree, arranging and rearranging presents with military precision. ‘Trish, you have to open this one first.’ She pushed a small lumpy package wrapped toward Trish’s feet. ‘We all picked it.’

‘Even me,’ Phil announced, pausing his Mariah Carey tribute.

‘Oh, I wonder what it could be.’ Trish smiled. She loved the three little mites with all her heart.

Morning light spilled through the windows, catching dust motes that danced like snow. Trish lowered her camera, settling cross-legged on the floor beside Beth.

Her phone pinged. Another text from her mother, no doubt with more subtle digs about ‘wasting her potential’. One year later and she still couldn’t let it go.

Her problem.

The previous Christmas message had been a masterpiece of passive-aggressive concern: ‘That curator position at the Tate is still open. Simon says they’d love to have you. Much more suitable than…whatever it is you’re doing up there.’

Whatever it is . Like five spring weddings already booked wasn’t real work. Like her commissions for the Highland Herald didn’t matter. Like her first exhibition opening next month in Oban was just pretending to be an artist. Small jobs, maybe. Local jobs, definitely. But they let her tell real stories about real people.

And wasn’t that what photography was meant to be?

But the messages had lost their power to wound. Hard to care about that when three little voices were leading you in a Christmas morning dance-off to holiday classics.

Trish slid her phone deeper into her pocket, focusing on Beth’s excited face as she arranged presents.

The smell of burning toast grew stronger. ‘Jack?’ Trish called. ‘Need a hand there? Should I ring the fire brigade?’

‘All under control!’ His voice carried over the sound of scraping. ‘Mostly.’

‘Trish!’ Beth tugged her sleeve. ‘You’re not looking!’

‘Sorry, my love.’

The light ignited Beth’s hair, turning it into gleaming copper.

‘Open it!’ Phil bounced on his toes, his small body nearly vibrating with excitement.

‘Okay, okay. I’m on it.’ Trish peeled back the paper. It revealed a wooden key painted in wobbly rainbow stripes and glittery stars.

‘It’s a symbol,’ Beth explained very seriously. ‘Because…’ she made a dramatic pause, ‘…we want you to move in with us! Not just stay over sometimes.’

‘Yeah,’ Junior added, trying to sound casual. ‘Your flat’s tiny, and you’re always here, anyway.’

‘And you make better pancakes than Da,’ Phil stated.

‘Oi!’ Jack appeared in the doorway, bearing slightly charred toast. ‘I heard that.’

Something tender pushed against Trish’s ribs as she traced the painted key with her finger, feeling each bump and ridge of dried acrylic. Her nail caught on a thick droplet of paint, and something caught in her chest, too.

‘You all want this?’ The words came out smaller than she’d meant them to, like they’d shrunk under the weight of what this meant. A home, a proper home, with people who chose her. Not because they had to but because they wanted to.

‘Duh.’ Junior rolled his eyes again. ‘We wouldn’t have spent three hours painting that thing if we didn’t.’

‘Even Maw thinks it’s a good idea,’ Beth said. ‘She thinks you’re good for Da because you make him do actual adult stuff sometimes.’

During the past year, Trish had watched the custody battlefield transform into neutral ground. Now, Jack and Melissa actually talked instead of trading barbed texts, and the kids bounced between homes without that awful tension. Last week, they’d all managed to sit through a school concert together and even grabbed a fish supper after.

Jack set the toast down and perched on the arm of the couch. ‘No pressure, though. If you’re not ready—’

‘Yes.’ The word burst out before he could finish. ‘Yes, I want to move in.’

Phil launched himself at her with the force of a small missile. Beth squealed. Even Jack Jr. cracked a genuine smile.

‘Thank fuck,’ Jack exhaled. ‘Because I already cleared out half my closet.’

‘Language!’ Beth and Trish said in unison, making everyone laugh.

Through her viewfinder, she captured Jack collecting wrapping paper, his Santa hat askew. The morning light framed his profile just right. God, she loved photographing him when he wasn’t paying attention. The way his whole face softened around the kids.

Beth was sorting her art supplies by colour while Junior tested his new headphones, already lost in whatever game he was playing. Jack dropped onto the floor beside her, pulling her against his chest.

His breath tickled her ear as he whispered, ‘I love you, Patricia Gabriela Velasco-Whitmore.’

Her heart stopped, then expanded to infinity. Those words, in his voice, with her full name – the name she’d spent years trying to shake off, sounded like music.

‘I love you too,’ she whispered back, meaning it with everything she had.

The truth smacked her square in the chest, hard enough to wind her. She was madly in love with this man – a love so deep it settled in her marrow, unshakeable and permanent. The kind that stitched itself into every future she could imagine. She adored his kids. This wasn’t the life she’d planned. Her mother would have an aneurysm if she could see her now, sitting on a floor strewn with toy cars and glitter, watching a postie try to untangle fairy lights while his kids offered increasingly unhelpful advice.

But it felt right. Like finally exhaling after holding her breath for years.

‘Da, that bit’s wonky,’ Beth pointed out.

‘Your face is wonky,’ Junior fired back, making Phil guffaw.

‘Hey, Shutterbug.’ Jack’s voice pulled her back. ‘Stop thinking so loud, and help me with this technological nightmare.’

‘You’re a Scottish postie, not a Victorian time traveller,’ she teased, setting her camera aside. ‘They’re just fairy lights.’

Their fingers brushed as she took the lights, sending sparks up her arm. Ridiculous, really – they’d done far more than touch hands, but he still made her feel like a teenager with her first crush.

‘See?’ She untangled the strand with practised ease.

‘Show-off.’ But his smile was so bright it put the star on top of the tree to shame.

This was it, she realised. This was what Marc could never give her, what her parents would never understand. Not just love – but freedom. Freedom to be completely herself and be loved for it.

Phil demolished his second mince pie, scattering crumbs across his Batman pyjamas. Her camera sat idle in her lap. The painted key dug into her palm, each glob of glitter telling its own story. Beth’s careful planning, Junior’s pretend-casual contribution, Phil’s enthusiasm spilling outside the lines. A family effort.

Her family now. The thought still hit her out of nowhere sometimes.

‘Da, you’ve got jam in your beard.’ Beth reached up to swipe at Jack’s face with her sleeve.

‘Leave it,’ Jack grinned. ‘I’m saving it for later.’

Trish’s chest filled with a warm, steady certainty. She gave Beth a kiss on the cheek and hugged Phil tight, breathing in his little boy smell of sleep and sugar. Her camera sat forgotten beside her, but for once, she didn’t mind missing the shot.

Some moments were better lived than captured.

– THE END –

Want to read all about how Jack took Trish home to the Highlands? Read the bonus scene here: beatricebradshaw.com/trish-jack

Love in the Scottish Christmas Village is the fifth book in the ‘Escape to Scotland’-series of standalone romances:

Book 1: Love in the Scottish Winter Highlands

Book 2: Love on the Scottish Spring Isle

Book 3: Love on the Scottish Summer Coast

Book 4: Love in the Scottish Fall Forest

Thank you so, so much for reading. If you enjoyed Trish and Jack’s story, please take a minute to leave an honest review on Amazon . It doesn’t need to be epic. Just two sentences can help the book a lot, and I’d be grateful. 3

Read on for a sample of book 1, Love in the Scottish Winter Highlands – where it all began.