When my feet reach the step, I kick the snow from my boots and it hits me. I glance to the road again, then back to my grandparents. “Where’s Mum and Dad’s campervan?”
Granny’s mouth hangs open, then closes slightly, as though she’s struggling to know what to say.
Grandad comes in from the parlor. “What’s all this?”
“My parents have arrived. Maeve and Tom Winter,” Callie says. “You’ve already met my sister, Luna Norland. Her husband is good friends with your grandson, Hamish.”
Grandad grunts. “Aye, we’ve met. Come in. You’re letting the heat out.”
We all file into the parlor. The sofas are worn but well taken care of, the photographs old but polished. Knickknacks line the shelves, telling a story of Granny and Grandad’s life, his military service and her shooting trophies.
“Should I put a pot of tea on?”
“I don’t think we’ll stay long enough. We’ve planned to decorate gingerbread houses this evening after dinner.”
“Would you like to join us?” Mrs. Winter asks.
“That would be nice,” Granny says. “Hamish?”
“Hm?”
“Shall we go to Gavin’s house tonight?”
“Will he feed us?”
“I will,” Tom says. “It’s our turn to make dinner tonight. We’re having shepherd’s pie.”
“With beef,” Luna says. “Not mutton.”
“Hm,” Grandad says again.
I’m stuck on the missing campervan. Is that why my parents are staying with me? Why they’re driving Grandad’s truck? If it was in the shop, they wouldn’t be acting so strangely about it, surely. Something feels wrong.
“So, Mum’s campervan?—”
“It’s better coming from your parents, Gav,” Granny says.
Grandad makes a frustrated sound. “You think he’ll hear the truth from them?” He shakes his head slowly. “I knew he wasn’t buying a better campervan. I knew it all along.”
Granny rolls her eyes. “We don’t know for certain. Gav, what are you getting your parents for Christmas?”
Not that. My stomach rolls. Bile climbs my throat. Whatever scheme they’ve cooked up this time sounds far more expensive than any they’ve done before. The Winter family doesn’t need to be part of this conversation.
Callie must have picked up enough to sense what’s going on. She points to the shelf on the opposite wall. “How many children do you have, Nessa?”
“Three,” Granny says. “My daughter married an Englishman and went off to Wiltshire, my other daughter married Don and stayed in Glenbruar, and my son lives thirty or so minutes from here.”
Grandad frowns.
“We should probably be on our way if we want to leave enough time to make caramels and fudge,” Luna says.
“Are those for the gingerbread houses?” Granny asks.
“Just Christmas traditions,” Mrs. Winter says.
Luna plays with her necklace. “We usually make enough to give to our neighbors and sing carols while we deliver them, so I hope you’re prepared to hear a few songs while we decorate houses tonight. We’ll need to sing for it to feel like Christmas.”
“You are the reason Violet must sing as she hunts for a tree,” I say.
