He shrugs again, and I wonder if he’s thought aboutmein the last ten years, or if it’s just his return to Bramblebury that’s brought me back to the front of his mind, too.
Quite the trip for him, if so.
“Well, I know how much you hate loose ends,” I tell him, wondering if I’m one, too, but somehow managing not to ask.
“You could come with me?” Elliot says, proving there’s apparently no end to the way he can surprise me. “To the auction? It’s not far from here, actually. It’s in this big old country house. It looks pretty cool, from the website. I think you’d like it.”
I really want to point out that he has no idea what I’d like any more; and no right to be acting like he still knows me. I want to tell him that he has no business asking me to do anything anymore — not helping him write his books, and definitely not tracking down long-lost mystery women, who may or may not have had a role in one of his ancestor's lives.
I want to tell him all of this, but right at that moment, something cold and wet falls out of the sky and flutters past my nose. It’s followed by another, then another, and when I tilt my head back to look up at the sky, I realize two things in quick succession.
The first is that it’s snowing in Bramblebury, for the first time in almost a decade.
And the second is that, even though I know it’s quite possibly the worst idea ever, I want to know how Evie’s story ends, too.
18
DECEMBER, 10 YEARS AGO
The shock that follows my declaration that I want to spend Christmas with Elliot in the States is so intense that even Elsie Poole is rendered momentarily speechless by it, which is something I can’t remember ever happening before.
Martin mumbles an awkward goodbye, and heads for the door, pausing to hold it open for Elsie, who goes hurrying after him, uncharacteristically keen to leave the scene of a crime. Elliot closes his book and replaces it on the shelf, his eyes still trained on me.
Only Dad continues arranging his mince pies on the plate, as if nothing has happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that no one — not even someone as slow and deliberate in his actions as Dad’s always been — can possibly takethatlong to set out half a dozen pies, I’d be starting to think nothinghadhappened, and that I’d just imagined my little moment of bravery. Or stupidity. Or whatever it turns out to have been, once Dad finally speaks; which he only does once he’s found the absolutely perfect positioning for the mince pies, at which point he straightens up and turns to face me, his cheeks slightly redder than usual.
“Of course, you must do whatever you want, Holly,” he says calmly. “For Christmas and for everything else. You’re a grown woman, after all. Time for you to start living your own life, I think. You mustn’t worry about me. I’m more than capable of looking after myself, you know.”
Then he picks up the plate of pies and empties them all abruptly into the rubbish bin next to the counter.
“Well, time we closed up for the day,” I think, he announces to no one in particular. “I’m sure there’s a tin of tomato soup upstairs that I was planning to have for supper. Yes.”
He turns the sign on the shop door to ‘closed’, then shuffles off towards the stairs that lead to our apartment above the shop, and there’s nothing left for me do but stand there and watch him, feeling like I’ve just done something unforgivable, that no amount of warmed-up tomato soup will help fix.
“You okay?”
Elliot touches me gently on the shoulder, having somehow crossed the room without me even noticing. I nod wordlessly.
“He took it pretty well,” he says uncertainly. “He said all the right things.”
“Yeah. He did. So why do I feel so bad about it?”
I hand him the box of decorations which I suddenly realize I’ve been holding this whole time, and sit down in my usual seat behind the counter — the one with the cushion that’s so well-worn it’s practically molded to my butt, but which I can’t bring myself to replace because Mum bought it, just a few months before she died.
Mum.
The thought of her brings a lump to my throat, and I have to duck behind the counter for a moment, pretending to be looking for something, so I have time to compose myself.
When I straighten up again, though, Elliot is still standing there watching me, one of those evil-looking Elf on the Shelf toys peeking its head over the box of decorations he’s holding, as ifit’swatching me right along with him.
Mum bought that, too. Dad and I said it was creepy and would probably murder us in our sleep, but she said it would be fun. And then, once she was gone, we stuffed it into a box, and forgot all about it.
“Elliot, I don’t think I can do this,” I say in a wobbly voice. “I just can’t.”
“Holly, it’s okay,” he says softly, putting his arms around me. I wind my arms around his waist and tuck my head into his shoulder, breathing in the strong, clean scent of him.
“Um, just so we’re clear,” he mumbles into my hair. “What is it you can’t do exactly? Is it the tree decorations or the coming-to-America?”
“Both,” I reply in a small voice. “Neither. I can’t do any of it. But most of all, I can’t leave Dad. You saw him, Elliot. You saw the way he looked when I told him I wanted to go. I know he said he was fine with it, but … he isn’t fine. He obviously isn’t fine.”
