A Season for Second Chances(89)

“A bit of carol singing or something, is it?” Annie asked.

Ely laughed until he broke into phlegmy coughs. Annie waited for him to recover.

“A bit of carol singing,” he stammered, wiping his eyes. “Well, I suppose there’s a bit of that to it. You won’t want to miss it. In fact, now that the Nook’s open for business again, you’ll be hosting it!”

And with that he offered his good-byes and set off down the beach; the sound of his wellingtons trampling the stones could be heard long after his body was swallowed by the sea mist.

“Well, bugger me!” said Annie. “I’d better spend some time with Mari’s almanac.”

Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle shook herself, her fur clumping in the damp air, and let out a whine that could have woken the spirits of the long-departed Willow Bay sailors.

“Come on, then, fusspot,” said Annie fondly. “Home.”





Chapter 69



Winters can feel quite isolating for a small village, after the holiday makers have left and the weather set in, so we never give it the chance. You can be frightened by the wild dark of winter or you can meet it head on and welcome it in, and we Willow Bayers never shy away from a challenge!

The Christmas festival is always held around the first week of Advent and is when our Christmas festivities really begin. We set fires all along the beach to light the darkness (and of course to let Father Christmas know where we are) and we toast in the season with mulled cider and wine. The ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future usually make an appearance; Pam keeps them in the cellars beneath the pub. Did you know Charles Dickens lived nearby here? There is caroling and dancing, and last year Raye and Aiden organized a folk band to play in the moonlight, which was wonderful!

Whoever you are, I implore you to throw yourself into the festivities. It’s a celebration of the long nights and the deep cold that allows the land to rest ready for spring. I suppose it’s a concoction of Christian and pagan traditions, but we have always embraced the knowledge that as a village we are a melting pot and proud, and our traditions reflect our unique identity.

Annie laid Mari’s book beside her and pulled the duvet up closer. She texted John.


You didn’t tell me about the Christmas festival.


You didn’t ask.


That’s because I didn’t know about it!


Well, how was I to know you didn’t know?


Fair point. When is it?


December 8 this year. Will you do it?


Will I have a choice?


Sure, there’s no pressure at all, just so long as you’re aware that if you don’t do it, you’ll be trashing a two-hundred-year-old tradition and everyone will judge you.


Ah, is that all?


You wanted to open a café . . .


I’ve got one more question.


Fire away.


You’re trapped on a desert island, which one book would you want with you?


Raft Building for Beginners.


Hahahahahahaha Nite nite xx


Sleep tight xx





* * *



—

On Friday afternoon another text came through from John.


Fancy joining me for dinner at the Captain’s Bounty tonight? My treat. It’s Mexican night.



“Is it a date?” Gemma was practically hopping on the spot, grinning wildly. The Boden-walking mummies on the middle table pricked up their collective ears.

“I don’t think so. I think we both know that would just complicate things.”

“What are you going to wear?”

Annie bit her lip. “Not sure yet,” she replied as nonchalantly as she could muster. Should she dress up or be casual? Maybe she’d try a casual dress-up.

“Exciting, though,” Gemma squeaked.

“I’m looking forward to dinner. Aiden’s a good cook, and I haven’t had Mexican food for ages.”

“Not the food! The company . . . the date.”

“It’s not a date.”

Gemma looked around at the walking mummies and mouthed, It is a date! and received several conspiratorial winks in return. Annie sighed loudly and started grinding coffee for the next order, but she couldn’t suppress her smile.



* * *



—

Later that evening, while being eyed suspiciously by Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, Annie got ready for her date-not-a-date with John. She had settled on a tie-waisted shirtdress in baby-wale cord: navy blue with a ditsy print of little red flowers with yellow middles over it. She teamed it with dark red knitted tights and brown knee-high boots. She noticed, as she applied makeup in the bathroom mirror, that her roots needed doing; little twists of gray stood out in relief against her conker-brown hair. She brushed her hair and it shone in the light, grays and all, and bounced and kinked at the sides. With a steady hand, Annie painted a swish of liquid eyeliner and managed to achieve a near-perfect flick thanks to a helpful tutorial on YouTube. Her hand hovered, holding the lipstick while she debated whether to go the whole hog, and then, spurred on by Tiggs’s disapproving glare, she applied a coat of bright red lip stain called Cherry Passion and smacked her lips together, pouting in the mirror. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle left the bathroom in disgust with her nose and tail in the air.