Page 59 of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

Jake laughs. “We’ve only got an hour left in the drive.”

“The short version, then?”

“Right. Mum’s called Helena, she was a cellist in the Royal Opera House orchestra for thirty years. Retired now. And she’s not a Frost anymore. She’s a Winston now. My stepdad’s name was George—Canadian fellow. They were married when I was in Year 11. Couldn’t have asked for better. He passed away a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” I lay my hand on his forearm.

“Me too.” Jake glances away from the road for a second to smile. “My nan will be there—Mum’s mum. She’s called Gladys, but I think she’d be tickled if you called her Nan. My sister Genny will be the redhead you met on the phone at Somerset House, her husband’s called Ewan.”

Somerset House. God, it feels like that was a different lifetime. I was certainly a different Evie.

“Miles is my brother—brawny chap with a thoughtful look about him and a tendency to say what’s on his mind. I’ve told you about Cait and Maeve—they’ve got two baby girls, Hazel and Terra. And my little sister is Indi. She’ll be the one swearing like a docker.”

For a while, after the family-tree debriefing, the only sound is the gentle drone of the tires on the road. As we get closer to the Cotswolds, it begins to snow. I sit up straighter in my seat, practically pressing my nose to the window. “Oh my goodness. I’m in love.”

Beside me, Jake quietly says, “So am I.”

Swells of farmland are bordered by distant blue-gray forest. The English countryside reminds me of the valleys and gentle uplands at the margins of the Adirondack foothills of New York where I grew up, but softer around the edges. More intimate. I have an overwhelming sense of home, but I have a feeling it has to do with the man sitting beside me more than the landscape outside.

The lanes become more narrow and winding, and we pass stacked stone walls and ancient-looking homes covered in evergreen ivy. Once we’re through a village square, we’ve just returned to fields and farmland when Jake slows the car. He turns down a private pebbled driveway bordered by dormant linden trees. They must smell incredible when they flower in the spring. Jake parks next to a few other vehicles—a Volkswagen hatchback, two SUVs and a vintage pickup truck.

The house is built from stone the color of fresh honey, embroidered with jasmine. Its steep roof is covered in a powdery crumble of snow that glitters in the sun. The front door is sandy-brown wood, decorated with a wreath of feathery fir boughs, berries, and twigs of papery birch and curly hazel. A wisp of woodsmoke meanders from the chimney.

When I step out of the car, I don’t move out from behind the open door. Instead, I cling to it, and I feel Jake watching me over the hood. “Wow, Jake, this is—”

“It’s been drab all day,” calls a woman emerging from the house with her arms spread. “You brought the sun with you.”

To my surprise, she approaches me first, extending her hands to clasp mine. She stands back to take me in, her brown eyes bright as topaz in the sun. “I’m Helena.” Her voice is warm. “Hello, Evie. Welcome to Marleigh.”

She has one of those faces it’s impossible to assign an age to—she could be forty-five or sixty-five, or any of the numbers in between. Jake was obviously cast from her palette, the same fair skin with warm undertones, the same toffee-brown hair. Hers is shot with silver and trimmed into a chic pixie cut, but I can tell where Jake gets his thick waves.

Jake watches as she pulls me in to press her cheeks to mine. She smells like ginger and rose, and the subtle spice of a hearth fire. I have the absolutely unhinged urge to hold tight when she gently lets me go.

She rounds the car to Jake, reaching up to cup his face in her hands. “Welcome home, love.”

I follow Helena into the house, and Jake follows behind me. The floors creak and crackle underfoot. Somewhere deeper in the house, Dean Martin sings his jazzy rendition of “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm.” The air is rustic and cozy inside, like sun-warmed wood and amber florals, and a century’s worth of luscious, hearty meals made with loving hands and no shortage of tradition. A wooden bowl of orange-spiced pomanders sits on a narrow table in the hall, each wrapped in a narrow red ribbon, scented with sweet clove and cinnamon.

There’s a boot room to the right of the entry hall, with kids’ and adults’ shoes haphazardly piled on the floor. A few pairs made it into baskets and under benches, but excitement at arrival clearly won out over tidiness. Amidst the dignified beauty of the place, there’s something charming and grounding about the mess.

Down the main hall and to the left is a dining room. Exposed beams overhead, wood-plank floors worn to a satiny patina. Tall, multi-paned windows line the far wall, and a sofa sits in front of them, piled with throw pillows embroidered with holly and ivy. There’s a recessed stone fireplace, its mantel studded with pillar candles amidst a garland of cedar and bay. Above it, an antique mirror bounces buttery sunlight back into the room. Chairs at the huge table in the center of the space are all mismatched in size and shape, covered in burgundy bouclé, oatmeal linen, a plummy velvet, and wools in a spectrum of greens.

In the middle of the table, a vase of paperwhites is in full bloom. They bend towards the sun beaming through the side window. Their scent is syrupy and botanical, almost narcotic in its intensity. I wonder if I’ll still be in London when the buds on my paperwhites open. The sense of my time here ticking down feels like a knot under my lungs.

Jake says, “Where’s Nan?” as we follow Helena to the kitchen.

“Arriving with Cait and Maeve tomorrow,” Helena says. “She’s been staying with them to help with the babies since I’ve had so much to do here.”

Jake and I linger outside the kitchen for a moment. I hang behind him a bit, peeking around his arm. Genny’s ginger curls are in a messy bun, and she stands at a butcher’s-block island in the middle of the kitchen. Her wire-rimmed glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose, and I get that paradoxical mom vibe from her—serenity and presence, but if someone were to suggest she go take a nap, she’d bolt for a dark bedroom before they finished the sentence. At the other end of the worktop, a man holds a bundle against the center of his chest. It’s a sleeping baby so tiny he’s able to hold him securely with one hand, while dumping a measuring cup of what looks like dried fruit into a bowl with the other. He must be Ewan.

Between them, two young boys stand on stools. With bare hands, the little ones rub cubes of butter into flour and sugar on the worktop. The smaller one looks to be about four, and he’s locked in, concentrating so hard his little bottom lip quivers. The older boy—eight, maybe?—is more chaotic, his own kneading punctuated by impulsive swipes and the occasional chop with the side of his hand.

“Don’t let the demons win, love.” Genny pats the older boy on the head and casts a rueful smile at the man holding the baby.

“Well, this looks promising,” Jake finally says. “Haven’t ever had a mince pie made by such ace pastry chefs.”

Everyone looks up from the worktop, smiling. Jake nods, warmth settling into his expression. “Genny. Ewan.” The younger boy jumps off the stool so explosively that it tips and bangs to the floor behind him. The baby startles, and the older boy says, “Hey, Unc,” in a serious tone that suggests, Nice to see you, but I’m doing something important here.

The little one collides with Jake’s legs, and Jake lifts him with a theatrical groan. “Enzo, my best friendzo.” Enzo’s shirt rains little beaded bits of butter and sugar.