Page 105 of The Christmas Letter

Holly held out a mug for Emma too, then pulled it back a fraction when Emma reached up to take it. ‘Wait. Are you allowed sugar?’

Emma smiled a little. ‘Yes, my girl. Especially at Christmas.’ She winked. It was tired, but it was still there. She’d had her hair done recently, Holly noticed. It was still wispy, but it was cut neatly above her shoulders, and fell in soft grey waves, rather than its usual slightly unkempt style. It was more obvious now than in the hospital, and it brought a lump to Holly’s throat, even as it made her want to smile. Emma, making an effort for Christmas.

And Christmas at Emma’s cottage this year looked very different from last. There was a tree up in the corner – Jack’s doing, no doubt – decorated in white fairy lights and silver tinsel, with a handful of presents underneath it.

Holly clinked her mug with Emma’s, took a sip of her mulled wine. Emma patted the sofa next to her. ‘Come and sit down, my girl. Don’t you have a meeting with a certain sister that you need to fill me in on?’

Jack glanced over to Holly at that and she felt the heat of his gaze on the side of her face. She hadn’t told him she was going to see Lily – hadn’t wanted to, in case it ended badly.

‘In a minute,’ she said. ‘But first . . .’

She headed back to the kitchen, leaving Emma grumbling about unfinished sentences, and collected the two little clay models off the table – the two clay models she’d had the foresight to put in her car a few days ago, paranoid that she would forget them, the way she did with so many things, when she set off for Emma’s for Christmas.

‘Now, I know it’s not actually Christmas yet. But I want to give you your present now.’ She held out her hand as she came back into the living room, then turned it palm up, the little sculpture sitting on top. It had taken her a few days to put it together. She’d kept it small, because that way Emma could take it with her, if she did end up having to move at some point.

It was the face of a woman. Of Emma. But it was Emma as Holly saw her. Fierce, and wise. A little cranky at times, but with a vulnerability there that she tried to hide. Someone kind, even if she pretended not to be. Most of all, someone who was loved. She nearly hadn’t done it. She’d wanted to make something for Emma for her present, because she knew Emma would like that, more than anything she could buy. But she’d nearly given up on this idea and made a tiger instead. But seeing Emma’s face as she took the sculpture from Holly – wide-eyed, almost awed – Holly knew she’d made the right decision. It wasn’t always easy, to see yourself the way others saw you, especially in art – it was unforgiving, at times, even when the artist didn’t mean it to be so. She should have known that if anyone could take it, it would be Emma. That if anyone could understand what she meant, what she’d poured into this, without saying anything, it was Emma.

Emma swallowed. ‘I don’t have the words.’

Holly bit her lip. ‘As long as you like it.’

Emma looked up at Holly. ‘My girl, I don’t think I’ve ever been as touched by anything in my whole life.’ She held out her hand and Holly took it, sliding onto the sofa next to her as she did. ‘I look like the version of myself I always wished I could be.’

‘That’s the version of you I see,’ Holly said softly.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Holly looked up at the sound of Jack’s voice, felt her cheeks warm from the way he was looking at it. Because he was looking at it the way she’d caught him looking at her, once or twice. The way he’d smiled at her, on that boat in Venice.

‘I made one for you, too,’ she said, her tone a little cautious. She held out her other hand.

She hadn’t done a face this time. She’d wanted to – she still wanted to sculpt that perfect face of his – but it had felt too personal and potentially too invasive, given everything that had happened between them. But she’d thought she might see him at Christmas, and had wanted to be prepared. So for him, she’d done a tiny little vase, small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of her hand – and too small by far for any real flowers, other than perhaps a single daisy. It had started as a joke – a vase for the garden lover, too small to be useful – and something fun, so that he wouldn’t feel awkward about her giving him something. But then she’d spent hours painting the damn tiny thing, and that’s where Jack came in. She’d painted the colours of him – green, of course, because of the countryside, starting from the bottom, and curling upwards, like grass left to grow in an untouched meadow. Then purples and yellows, for the gardener in him, tiny little flowers there, if you looked closely enough. And all of it gave way to an orange glow – a sunset, she imagined. Something warm, something with heat, but also solid, unbreakable.

He took it from her, his fingers as gentle as Emma’s had been. Then he looked right at her, and the corner of his mouth pulled up, the depths of his eyes warming. ‘I think I get this one.’

She laughed, as something like relief washed through her, as he echoed their conversation at the gallery, one that felt so long ago now.

Jack put the tiny vase down carefully on the coffee table. ‘Well, if we’re doing presents early . . .’

He crossed to the Christmas tree, bent down and picked up an envelope, then held it out to Emma.

Emma raised her eyebrows, but opened it obediently.

‘It’s a plot of land,’ Jack said, almost before she’d even opened the thing. ‘It’s near where . . .’

‘I know where it is,’ Emma said quietly.

Holly, of course, didn’t know where it was they were talking about, but from their expressions, she could guess. Richard. This had something to do with Richard.

‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘it’s in your name. And it’s protected. It’s not much at the moment, but I’m going to work on it, if you agree. I’m going to make it somewhere welcoming for wildlife, somewhere positive, after what happened there. I hope you’ll come out and see it too and give me your opinion on what we should do with it. I thought . . . Well, you were the one who got me into landscaping. So I thought maybe it could be something we share. And, well, I wanted it to be something that might last.’ He didn’t say it, but Holly knew what he was thinking. He wanted this to be something that would last, because it might be the last gift he ever gave her.

Emma was silent for so long that Holly and Jack exchanged worried glances.

‘Emma?’ Jack nudged gently. ‘Are you—?’

And then, for the first time since Holly had met her, Emma let out a sob. She pressed her hand to her mouth, shook her head.

‘Emma!’ Holly said, reaching out to rub her arm.

‘I’m sorry. Stupid. I just . . .’ Another sob, and Emma wiped away the tear that escaped. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever have this again. Christmas with family.’ She took Holly’s hand, then reached up to take Jack’s too. ‘I am so grateful to you both, for giving me this, one last time.’ She took one more shuddering breath, then adopted a tone that sounded much more like her usual voice. ‘Well, given you two are making me look bad, hand me that parcel from under the tree, will you, Jack?’