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She’d asked him why he hadn’t stayed for that Christmas night, but she’d known the true answer before he’d spoken. He’d said he had to work, of course, but she knew what that really meant, now.
He hadn’t considered her part of his family. Just like her own parents hadn’t, in their way. Just like her stepdad hadn’t. She hadn’t been important to him either—certainly not as important as his work, or her stepbrothers. She hadn’t mattered at all.
But she mattered to Ivy. She mattered now. And he could never take that away from her.
How could she have thought that he’d changed? That he might be worthy of knowing his incredible daughter?
Jacob Foster would never know the true value of love, of family, of relationships—of her. Not if he was willing to use her just to prove a point to his father.
Ivy didn’t need that kind of person in her life. She didn’t need a father who would swoop in and show her off when it benefitted him and ignore her the rest of the time. She needed someone who would show her that she mattered every day of her life.
And so, Clara realised as she finally saw the taxi’s headlights approaching, did she.
* * *
Alone in the castle that evening, Jacob stared up at the monstrously large Christmas tree in the hallway, obscuring the suit of armour, and wondered if this whole thing had been a massive mistake.
Not Christmas in general, or even bringing his family together for this last perfect Christmas. But asking Clara to organise it.
He couldn’t have done it all himself, he knew. He had many skills and talents but organising the details of an event like this weren’t among them. Clara, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on such minutiae. He’d caught a glimpse of her clipboard while she was debating the exact position of the tree, and discovered that she had everything planned down to the minute. She knew exactly what needed to happen every hour of every day until Christmas was over. She’d probably leave them a timetable for festive fun when she headed back to the hotel tomorrow.
She’d even named the Christmas tree. Who called a tree Bruce, anyway?
No, he couldn’t have done it without her, but still he wondered if he should have asked someone else. Or if she should have said no. If seeing her again was only going to make things far worse in the long run.
Maybe he should just have given her a divorce five years ago, when she first asked, and skipped this current misery.
Had she really meant everything she said? That he’d not just neglected her but used her? And he’d been thinking she owed him for walking out. Perhaps he owed her more than he thought.
Sighing, Jacob sank down to sit at the bottom of the stairs. He’d known all along that the chances of him being a good husband—a good man—were slim, no matter how hard he tried. He’d proved that before he’d even turned eighteen. That disastrous night... Burned into his mind was the memory of his mother’s face, wide-eyed with horror and disbelief, and the stern, set jaw of his father that night, all mingled with the sound of the ambulance tyres screeching up the driveway on a winter night...
But worse, far worse, was the image of Heather’s tiny body, laid out on a stretcher, and the sobbing wrenched from his own body.
He forced it out of his mind again.
He should never have got married in the first place. He should have known better. He’d let himself get swept away in the instant connection he’d felt with Clara and had told himself what he needed to hear to let the relationship carry on far past the point he should have ended it. It should have been two weeks of intimacy, a wonderful Christmas holiday memory to look back on years later.
Because he didn’t deserve anything more, anything deeper than that.
He’d reassured himself that Clara was an adult, that she could take care of herself. But it seemed a heart was even easier to break than a body.
Jacob buried his head in his hands, his fingers tightening in his hair. His father had known, he realised. James had known that marriage was beyond him—he’d practically said it when Jacob had brought Clara home to meet the family! All his talk about responsibility... What he’d meant was: Do you really think you can do this?
And Jacob had proven he couldn’t.
He’d been all Clara had, it dawned on him now, too late. He’d been given the gift of her love and all he’d had to do in return was take care of it. She was wrong about one thing, at least—he had loved her. She’d never been a convenience, an accessory, even if apparently that was how he’d treated her.
He’d broken her. Let her down. He’d pulled away because he’d been scared—scared of how deeply he felt for her, and scared of screwing it up. That he wasn’t up to the responsibility of being a husband.
Maybe he still wasn’t. But he liked to think he was a better man at thirty-one than he’d been at twenty-five, and a world better than he’d been at sixteen. He was improving, growing. He might never be a good man, but he could be a better one.
And a better man would apologise to the woman he’d hurt.
Jumping to his feet, Jacob grabbed his car keys and his coat and headed out to find Clara’s hotel.
It wasn’t hard to find; the twisting road down from the castle didn’t have much in the way of buildings along it and the Golden Thistle Hotel was the first he came to.
Swinging the door open wide, he stepped inside and...promptly realised he had no idea what he was going to say. Clara hadn’t answered him when he’d asked who she was staying with. What if she really was there with another man? The last thing she’d want was her ex-husband storming in, even if he was there to apologise.
‘Can I help you?’ the teenage girl behind the reception desk asked.
‘Um...’ Jacob considered. He was there now, after all. ‘Are you still serving food?’ At least that way he’d have an excuse for being there if Clara stumbled across him before he decided on his next move.
The receptionist cheerfully showed him through to the bar, where he acquired a snack menu and a pint and settled down to study his surroundings.
It wasn’t entirely what he’d expected. Not that he’d given it a huge amount of thought. But he’d imagined Clara to be staying in a wildly romantic boutique hotel, with no kids and plenty of champagne and roses. The Golden Thistle Hotel, while lovely, seemed a rather more laid-back affair. The roaring fires were cosy and the prints on the stone walls were friendly rather than designer. The low, beamed ceilings and sprigs of holly on the tables made it feel welcoming, somehow, and somewhere in the next room someone was belting out carols at a piano.
But there was no sign of Clara, or Merry. And the longer he sat there, the less inclined Jacob was to look for them. How would he find them, anyway? Explain to the nice receptionist that he was looking for his estranged wife? That was likely to get him thrown out on his ear if the woman had any sense.
He shouldn’t be here. She had been right. It wasn’t any of his business who Clara chose to spend Christmas with. Not any more. And maybe she’d been telling the truth; maybe it really was just her and Merry. Perhaps she just wanted to get away from him. And, given his current actions, who could blame her?
She’d left him once. He really shouldn’t be surprised if she kept trying to repeat the action.
Jacob drained the last of his pint and got to his feet. Never mind the bar snacks, or his wife. He’d head back to the castle, eat whatever had been left in the fridge for him and go to bed. And tomorrow he’d be professional, adult and considerably less of a stalker.
He’d apologise when she arrived for work. They’d get through Christmas and they’d be divorced in the New Year. He’d give Clara her life back, at least, to do whatever she wanted with it.
Without him.
Glancing into the next room on his way past, he saw a small girl standing on the table, singing ‘We Wish You A Merry Christmas’
