Page 110 of Not Just for Christmas

‘All three of us,’ Dylan confirmed. ‘You, me and Mummy. If that’s OK?’

‘Yes,’ I managed to squeak. ‘More than OK. Thank you.’

I leaned my head on his shoulder, overcome with gratitude.

‘I should have had my second knee operation by then and be back on my feet,’ said Dad.

Mum and Dad began talking over each other, with Sam joining in, discussing all the places we could visit, the things we could see, but I only had eyes for Dylan.

‘Today is perfect,’ I said, wrapping my fingers around his. ‘Thank you.’

We signed off, promising to be back in touch soon, and Dylan handed me a tissue to wipe my eyes.

‘How can we have done so much already and it’s only nine a.m.?’ he chuckled.

It was true, I’d already seen to the cows while Dylan and Sam got the breakfast things ready, and now we’d opened almost all of our presents. Almost.

‘Welcome to Christmas with a seven-year-old,’ I laughed and handed him a parcel. ‘Merry Christmas from me.’

Wordlessly, Dylan peeled off the wrapping paper to reveal a large leatherbound scrapbook. He flipped it open and took in a sharp breath. And for a full minute he sat in silence, turning the pages of the scrapbook I’d made for him.

I’d filled it with memories from our twenty years of friendship; photos of us all, him and Jack surfing, our wedding day, Dylan holding Sam for the first time, every visit, every shared moment, going right back to Dylan’s first visit to Craggy Bay, to that night he joined Jack and me at The Otter to see the live music. But as well as the photos, there were gig tickets, press cuttings of Dylan’s interviews and music reviews.

When Dylan looked up, his eyes were shiny with tears. ‘I can’t believe you kept all this stuff.’

‘It felt like a good way to remember our story, all of us together,’ I said, handing him the now-damp tissue to share. ‘And I’ve been collecting the cuttings and memorabilia right from your first press interview. I found it all when I was clearing the spare bedroom, getting it ready for your visit. I kept everything. I’m so proud of you and of everything you achieved.’

He smiled, that heart-stopping, gentle smile of his. ‘It’s the best gift I’ve ever had.’

I was about to say something daft just to stop myself from crying when Sam piped up again.

‘Look, Mummy!’ he shouted, already half into his brand-new wetsuit, the zip caught halfway up his back. ‘It fits. Does that mean we can go to the Christmas Dip? Like Daddy did when he was little?’

My heart gave a small, painful twist. For a moment, I could almost see Jack standing there, grinning at us, sea-salt hair and face alive with the adrenaline rush he got from being on the beach. I’d been back to the surf shop and bought the one Sam had wanted, not the body board – I wasn’t brave enough to buy him that yet. I’d known then that he’d ask to go to the beach today. What I hadn’t known was how I was going to reply. I still didn’t.

The sea still terrified me, even now.

Dylan must have seen the worry on my face. He set the scrapbook aside and took my hand, his thumb tracing little circles over my palm. ‘I’ll be there too,’ he said softly. ‘With you both. You can trust me, Luce.’

For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Then something bloomed inside me; a quiet bravery that I knew I needed to hang on to and harness. Jack would have wanted Sam to love the sea, not fear it. And maybe today was the day I stopped fearing it too.

‘All right.’ I took a shaky breath and smiled. ‘Let’s do this, let’s go and make a splash for your dad.’

Sam whooped so loudly that Gus started barking and spinning in circles. Dylan laughed, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

‘You’re amazing,’ he murmured, giving me a quick kiss. ‘Let me go and get my wetsuit ready.’

‘Whoah,’ I said, catching hold of his hand as he walked away. ‘Nobody wears wetsuits on Christmas Day, it’s tradition. Not unless you’re a kid.’

Dylan’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘Nope.’ I gave a snort and jammed a Santa hat on his head. ‘Drop your trousers and you’re Christmas Dip ready.’

‘Mum!’ Sam called, bouncing by the door. ‘Best Christmas ever!’

Dylan’s face was a picture of horror.

‘You wouldn’t want to let him down now, would you,’ I said with a sly whisper.