Christmas at Hope Cottage: A Magical Feel-Good Romance Novel(38)

Emma could well understand his mortification. She was that glad though that he thought their friendship was important enough to him that he had arranged a way for them to still keep it – even if it had to happen in secret. It was better than the alternative.

As they walked home now though, six months later, Emma thought of the weekend approaching, when, she, as usual, would be the only one in her year not going to Jack’s birthday party. She couldn’t help but wish that it was different.

Jack was moaning about how he would have given anything not to have Stella Lea come. ‘She’s always whining – it drives me mad, but no, “The Leas and Allens have always been friends”,’ he said, imitating his mother’s voice. ‘So, she’s coming, of course.’

Emma shook her head. It wasn’t fair – why did Stella Lea get to go and not her?



* * *



Emma’s attitude towards The Book began to change after she and Jack began to spend more time together. Evie noticed the change when Emma started to come home late, with no explanation of where she’d been, smelling of fresh earth and heather, her face guarded, her tone terse, monosyllabic when questioned.

Perhaps, thought Evie, it was the way Emma’s eyes averted when she saw The Book, or the way that just for a moment they would flash with resentment when she was asked to help with a recipe, where before they would have sparkled at the thought of helping someone.

Evie blamed the spate of near-miss recipes that season. It could happen sometimes, like an unseasonal rainfall. When John Pendle came for a recipe to help his farm flourish, his crop got blight. When Katie Harvey wanted to win the harvest pageant, she came down with measles. Many more would occur before that spring, and soon, Evie saw the doubt begin to creep into Emma’s eyes; noted in fear the way Emma began to tally each one up, a grim satisfaction upon her lips as if it explained something deeper.

That was the year Emma began to resist, and wouldn’t step inside the kitchen for days.

Evie watched as she fought herself, her fingers twitching, her shoulders tensed, until at last she’d light the fire in the old range, and finally allow herself to do what she loved.

Evie saw how each time it took longer and longer for Emma to get back into the kitchen. Her notebook – once so full and minutely observed – lay blank and abandoned for weeks, sometimes months, on end.

‘She’s been spending time with young Jack,’ whispered Dot, one dark, cold November afternoon. Pennywort was dozing with his head on the table as she peeled the carrots for a recipe for Mrs Morton’s bad sight. Aggie shook her head. ‘I saw them myself,’ Dot insisted. ‘It’s like Margaret all over again,’ she went on sadly.

‘Maybe not,’ said Evie. ‘I’ll have to speak to her.’

But it was like trying to stop a train by standing on the tracks.

‘So… you and Jack Allen,’ she began.

‘Yes?’ asked Emma, feeling her face flush as she took a seat across from Pennywort, who laid his head on her arm and promptly closed his eyes again.

‘I hear you’ve become quite good friends.’

Emma looked up. ‘Is that a problem?’

‘No,’ said Evie, as she began to chop an onion. ‘It’s just, well, we can’t help noticing that lately, you haven’t wanted to cook anything and I wondered if Jack—’

‘It doesn’t have anything to do with him.’

Emma looked away; she heard his words inside her head. I told my mother you thought it was rubbish – you do – don’t you?

‘Okay,’ said Evie, in the tone of someone who was looking for more. Emma looked up. ‘Maybe it’s because, well, sometimes they don’t really work anyway.’

Evie nodded. ‘That’s true enough, but then that’s the truth with all things, love. No one succeeds at everything all the time, even this,’ she said, pointing at The Book. ‘Though sometimes things do work, just not the way we think they should.’





Chapter Fourteen





Whistling Village Hall, 2005





* * *



Sixteen-year-old Emma was standing in the back of the hall, in a black and beige dress that inverted like a tulip, her long red hair shining under the amber lights. She stood next to Gretchen, who was dressed in a pantsuit, and Maggie, who was wearing a lacy pink and black dress that stopped at the knee. Jenny was sitting in the corner, absorbed in a novel, as usual, while the rest of them were all watching Jason Thorpe spike the punch from the bottles he’d filched from his parents’ liquor cabinet, which were hidden in a sports bag at his feet.

The town hall had been transformed for the annual winter dance. This year’s theme was Enchanted Forest.

Sculpted willow trees created a canopy overhead that had been covered with fairy lights and fake snow.

Emma’s eyes scanned the room and, with a little jolt in her chest, she saw Jack staring back at her from across the dance floor. He was standing next to Stella Lea, who was dressed in a pale blue dress that seemed at odds with her sour expression. He gave her a small smile, and she looked away with a flush.

A slow song came on, and a geeky boy with dark hair who lived in the next village, and was wearing a Superman T-shirt with his formal trousers, came over to ask her to dance.