4. Four

4

PAST

DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO

T he American is standing by the door, with the collar of his coat turned up against the cold, and he’s so distractingly good-looking that I’m in danger of falling off my seat yet again at the sight of him.

“It’s me,” I agree, pleased to find that I’m managing to sound perfectly normal this time around. “And it’s … you.”

On second thoughts, scratch that.

“I’m really glad I bumped into you again.” He grins widely, then comes striding across the room until he’s standing right in front of me. “Because I think this is you, too. Or someone who looks very like you, anyway.”

He reaches into his coat pocket, then pulls something out, which he holds up to the light to show me.

It’s the old snow globe I picked up at the market earlier; which, now I have the chance to see it up close, is definitely supposed to be Bramblebury village square in miniature. I can even see a tiny version of the building that would one day become Hart Books in the background, snow piled on its roof like the icing on a cake.

It’s not the bookstore that the American wants me to look at, though: it’s the little couple standing kissing in front of it — her in a red winter coat that’s vaguely similar to the one I was wearing this morning; him in what seems to be an Army uniform, but with thick dark hair, and …. is that a pair of glasses he’s wearing?

The woman doesn’t really look like me at all: it’s just the color of the hair and coat that’s the same. The man, however, bears more than a passing resemblance to the one currently standing in front of me; and, judging by the way he’s smiling down at me, it looks like I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

“Here,” he says, handing the ornament to me before I can object. “I really think you should have it. It was obviously destined for you.”

“Uh-uh. We’re not doing this again,” I reply, passing it back with a smile. “It’s definitely yours. You bought it; you can’t just give it away. And I don’t believe in destiny, anyway.”

“It was only ￡5,” he says, looking amazed at his good fortune. “I felt a bit like I’d robbed the woman who sold it to me, if I’m honest. So you’d be doing me a favor if you’d just take it. It would help assuage my guilt.”

He hands it to me again, and I instantly pass it back, as if we’re playing Hot Potato.

“Seriously,” I tell him. “I don’t want it. I… I don’t even like snow globes.”

“You don’t? But who doesn’t like snow globes ?” he asks, feigning amazement.

“I’m … not much of a Christmas person,” I tell him, trotting out my old faithful excuse.

“A Christmas person?” His eyes crinkle with amusement. “I’m imagining some kind of giant human here, with, like, a Christmas tree on their head, and cookies for eyes.”

“And fairy lights wound around their legs,” I join in. “Flashing ones.”

“In that case, I don’t want to be a Christmas person either,” he says firmly. “Because that sounds terrifying. Cute store you have here, by the way. Is it yours?”

He turns and looks around at the empty store, which is more messy than it is ‘cute’, with dust lining the bookshelves, and a log fire we can’t risk lighting until we can afford to have the chimney swept. Which will be never, at this rate.

“Sort of,” I tell him, hoping he hasn’t noticed the giant cobweb near the door, which I’d have taken down by now if the thought of destroying it didn’t make me feel bad for the spider, who I’ve named Shelob. “It belongs to my dad.”

“Family business, huh? You’re lucky. I’d love to spend my days surrounded by books.”

I consider telling him I’d much rather be writing books than selling them, but everyone I’ve ever admitted this to in the past has smiled indulgently, the way you do when a little kid tells you they’re going to be an astronaut when they grow up, so I just nod as he plucks a book from one of the shelves at random and starts flicking through it.

“Any recommendations for me?” he asks. “I thought I saw you putting a book away when I walked in earlier?”

This is a very generous way to describe what I was doing under the counter, but I can’t think of a way to deny I was reading anything without effectively calling him a liar, so I pull out the book and shamefacedly show him the cover, which is one of those illustrated ones, with a bright pink background, and a cartoon couple on the front.

“It’s just a trashy romance,” I mutter, embarrassed. “It’s not the kind of thing I usually read, it was just… it was just the first thing that came to hand.”

The hundreds of books that line the walls of the store look on accusingly as the lie leaves my lips. I can almost hear them sigh in despair.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call romance ‘trashy’” says the American, surprising me. “It’s just another type of story, isn’t it? I don’t think you could claim it’s any less worthy than anything else. I doubt Jane Austen would call her work ‘trashy’, do you?”

I look down at the book in my hand, which is definitely no Pride and Prejudice . But, then again…

“I like it because I know there’s nothing in it that’s going to hurt me,” I say in a rush. “No one’s going to die, or even suffer, particularly. There’s always going to be a happy ending. I … I appreciate that.”

I don’t tell him that books with happy endings are the only kind I’ve been able to read since Mum died. That when I pick up something new, I always flick quickly to the end to make sure there are no dead mothers, abandoned children, or other unbearable plot twists waiting to ambush me. And it doesn’t have to be a trashy romcom, but it does have to be a book that won’t hurt me; which can be surprisingly difficult to find. Whoever it was who started that rhyme about how sticks and stones can break your bones, but words can never hurt you had obviously never read the scene in Black Beauty where Ginger dies, had they?

I don’t tell him any of this, but he’s watching me as if he already knows — or at least suspects — that there’s more to this than I’m telling him.

“Well, I think we can all appreciate a happy ending,” he says softly. “Don’t we…?”

“Holly,” I tell him, answering his unspoken question. “Holly Hart.”

“Holly?” His eyes do the twinkly thing again. It’s very distracting. “That’s quite a name for someone who is definitely not a scary Christmas Person.”

“My Mum loved Christmas,” I find myself telling him. “It was her favorite time of year. So she named me Holly, even though I was born in July.”

“Was? She’s not around anymore?” The smiley eyes crinkle with concern, but for some reason his sympathy doesn’t make my barriers instantly go up, the way it does with other people. Somehow, I feel like I can talk to him about Mum without wanting to cry.

“She died,” I say quietly. “When I was 19. She had cancer.”

He absorbs this fact silently, giving it time to sink in.

“And that’s why you want to read books with happy endings,” he says matter-of-factly. “Makes sense.”

I nod silently, because it does, and he’s the first person who’s understood that without trying to make me feel stupid or uneducated because I refuse to read The Boy in the Striped Pajamas , and will never forgive Louisa May Alcott for killing off Beth March.

“Well, Holly, I’m very pleased to meet you,” the American says now, holding out his hand for me to shake. It’s warm and soft, and it wraps around mine for just a little longer than is strictly necessary, making me momentarily forget everything else.

“I’m Elliot, by the way,” he adds, letting go at last. “Elliot Sinclair. My mom likes Christmas, too, but not enough to give me a festive name, unfortunately. I kind of wish she had, actually. I could really see myself as a Gabriel, say. Or maybe a Rudolph.”

Our eyes meet, and we both burst out laughing. I can still feel the touch of his hand on mine, even though his are tucked safely back in his pockets by now.

“So, do you live near here?” he asks, suddenly shy. “I guess you must do if your family owns this place?”

“Very near,” I tell him, my heart doing a little dance of excitement. “Right above the shop, actually. With my Dad.”

“Right. So I guess that means I might see you around?” he says casually. “I’m staying at The Rose Tavern. Do you know it? What am I saying? Of course you know it. You live here!”

“It is the only hotel in the village,” I confirm, charmed by how adorably flustered he is. “Although I only know it as a pub. I don’t know anyone who’s actually stayed there.”

“Oh, you’re missing out,” he grins, recovering himself. There’s at least three rooms for hire upstairs. Only one bathroom, though. That was … unexpected.”

He smiles good-naturedly, not remotely troubled by the spartan accommodation at The Rose, which is the kind of place where you wipe your feet on the way out , rather than on the way in. My disappointment at the confirmation that he definitely isn’t from around here is tempered slightly by the knowledge that he’s almost definitely trying to ask if he can see me again.

Or I think he is, anyway.

Is he?

“So, do you ever go to that pub?” Elliot asks hopefully.

“Not really,” I admit. “I do go to the café next door most days, though, on my lunch break. They do a really nice ploughman’s lunch. Or sometimes I’ll have a jacket potato, or a toastie. Those are nice, too.”

I stop, realizing I’m rambling. I don’t think Elliot’s interested in the toasties at The Brew, somehow — which, to be honest, aren’t even that good.

“Right!” Elliot’s face brightens. “Funnily enough, I was just thinking it’d been a while since I had a decent ploughman’s lunch.” He pauses. “What exactly is a ploughman’s lunch, again?”

I chuckle.

“You’ll have to order one to find out,” I say teasingly.

“Maybe I will,” he replies, smiling back at me. “And maybe I’ll bump into you when I’m doing it? I feel like we owe it to these guys to at least get to know each other.”

He indicates the little couple in the snow globe, who are still locked in their eternal embrace. I can’t help but laugh at the earnest look on his face.

“Oh, come on,” he says, undaunted. “You can’t deny that they look just like us. And the fact that we both tried to pick them up at the same time …”

I hold my breath, convinced he’s about to tell me everything happens for a reason; in which case I’ll already have identified his fatal flaw.

“It’s a sign,” he finishes. “Don’t you think?”

“I don’t believe in signs,” I reply firmly, wishing for the first time in my life that I did. “It’s a coincidence, that’s all. Coincidences happen much more often than people realize. That’s why so many people believe in things like fate. They…”

I stop, realizing I’m about to ruin this near-perfect moment with my unfortunate habit of regurgitating information I once read in a book. And I really don’t want to ruin this moment; or spoil my chances of seeing Elliot Sinclair again.

“I have lunch around one,” I say instead, my voice strangely squeaky.

“Well, great. I guess I’ll see you there, then.”

Elliot smiles with relief. Even though he looks like someone who smiles often, the effect is no less devastating every time he does it, and it’s virtually impossible not to smile back at him; which isn’t something I’m particularly used to doing these days, it has to be said.

He pauses, as if he’s about to say something else, but then the shop door bursts open and a young couple come in, chattering loudly, and breaking the spell.

I have never resented anyone more in my life.

“I’d better get going,” says Elliot apologetically, as the man approaches the counter, ready to ask for help with something.” It’s been nice meeting you, Holly Hart.”

“You too.”

I smile in a way that I hope makes it clear I’m not just being polite, and that I really, genuinely mean it, but he’s already gone, the shop door slamming behind him as a gust of wind catches it.

I go to help the customers at the counter, and it’s only later, when I’m tidying up at the end of the day, that I notice the snow globe still sitting on the counter, next to the cash register.

He left me the snow globe.

And tomorrow, I’m going to see him again.