Page 26 of Not Just for Christmas

‘Dylan,’ he introduced himself. ‘And totally serious. I loved taking care of my niece when she was this age, it would be a pleasure.’

‘You will make a wonderful father one day if that’s something you want from life.’

‘It is,’ said Dylan, taking the baby from her. ‘If the universe smiles on me.’

Five minutes later, Emi had settled Keiko into Dylan’s suite with a blanket and her soother and had headed back to her own seat.

Dylan felt the weight of the baby against his chest and touched his cheek to her soft dark head.

If anything confirmed that he’d been right to break up with Amelia, Keiko was it. He was a family man at heart and given half a chance would love kids of his own. He’d just have to hope he hadn’t left it too late to fall in love with a woman who shared the same dream.

Chapter 13

Dylan was on his way. No backing out now for either of us. He’d be somewhere over the Atlantic – maybe even landed by now – and my stomach hadn’t unclenched once since his last text message before his flight had taken off.

Tell Sam I can’t wait to see him, or you x

You’d think after twenty years of knowing him I’d be less jittery, but then again, I’d only ever been alone with him a few times, and the last one was the funeral. Every other memory I had of him had Jack in it somewhere. That was the way it had always been. And tomorrow … it would just be the two of us. Thank goodness for Sam, whose exuberance would serve as a buffer between us.

Upstairs, Sam was in bed and supposed to be asleep, but the enthusiastic bellowing of ‘Jingle Bells’ suggested he was still going strong. The upside of Dylan accepting Sam’s invitation to join us for Christmas was that my son had not come down off cloud nine since, and although my heart might be clattering like the cows’ hooves on the cobbled yard, it was lovely to see Sam so happy.

I finished piling firewood into the log basket, brushed sawdust off my hands and looked around the living room. I hadn’t had time to make the holly and ivy wreath that I used to do to decorate the fireplace, but Sam had already hung his stocking on one end of it. The Christmas tree was up in the corner, fairy lights finally untangled and draped somewhat haphazardly around it. There was a heavy concentration of baubles at Sam’s eye level, but I didn’t care. It had kept him busy this afternoon while I was racing around trying to get the house in some sort of order, finding fresh towels to put on Dylan’s bed and even finding time to bake the—

‘Shit!’ I gasped and raced into the kitchen, remembering the tray of twenty-four sausage rolls I’d slid into the Aga earlier. I picked up the oven gloves and flung open the oven door in a panic. The heat hit me like a wall, as did the aroma of slightly burned pastry. Gus skittered in, his feathery tail wagging with shameless optimism.

‘Forget it,’ I told him.

Gus sat down obediently, his hairy eyebrows twitching, as if to say, forget sausage rolls, are you kidding?

I set down the hot baking tray and examined the damage. Crustier than I’d have liked but Sam would still love them and if the worst came to the worst, there was always Gus to hoover them up.

The last ten days had flown by in a whirl. Four of the herd had come into season, which had meant a visit from our local artificial insemination technician. There were a great many things I’d learned to do on the farm since Jack died, but I drew the line at that particular job. We’d sent some of our male calves off to auction, we’d repaired fences, unblocked feedlines, jet-washed the yard, sprayed slurry on the fields currently not in use for grazing. And on top of that I’d tried to get ready for Dylan’s arrival.

I began to lever the sausage rolls off the baking tray and onto the cooling rack, aware of the sudden tremor in my hands. I’d delayed sorting out the spare room until I could put it off no more and had spent this afternoon in there. I’d lingered over every box of Jack’s things and had been ambushed by memories and I’d lost several hours reminiscing about happier times. Photo albums full of pictures of past summers on the beach, Dylan’s visits, our wedding, all the trips to see Dylan in concert before we’d taken over the running of the farm. The smart suit Jack had worn to Sam’s christening in which he’d looked so handsome, an envelope stuffed with his old school reports, which had made me laugh (Jack has trouble sitting still, Jack is bright, but never manages to hand homework in on time …), and his thermal layers, which had still carried the scent of him and were now damp from my tears. Two years on, and those memories could still knock the breath out of me. By the time I’d moved the stuff to another room, the clock was cruelly close to school pick-up time. I hadn’t managed to add the finishing touches like fresh flowers and a scented candle, but the sheets were clean, and Jack’s things had been moved.

I sighed, shaking myself back into the warm kitchen.

‘One day at a time,’ I muttered, repeating back the advice that my mum had given me in the days after Jack’s accident when I’d been practically comatose with grief.

The problem with that advice was that taking each day as it came meant that I was never planning for the future. Maybe it was time to start looking ahead, start thinking about the sort of life I wanted to lead, rather than the one I’d had thrust upon me.

I thought about the number Caroline had given me for Nick the property guy. Just get advice, she’d said, pressing his business card into my hand, weigh up your options. I’d have to tread carefully. I wouldn’t want Heather to find out that I was even contemplating doing something with the farm, not until I had a firm plan and could talk her through it, help her understand. If I ever did come up with a plan, that was.

Come on, Lucy, get a grip, you can do this …

I pulled open the kitchen drawer, found Nick’s details and turned it over in my hands. Nick Mortimer, Property Consultant, North Devon.

Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and called him.

‘Nick Mortimer speaking,’ said a smooth low voice with just a hint of local twang.

‘Hello. This is Lucy Oakley.’ My heart thumped. Was I really doing this, contemplating selling up, moving on?

‘Lucy! Hi!’ Nick sounded both pleased and surprised to hear from me.

‘I’m calling because … because …’ At that moment I stupidly picked up the red-hot oven tray and burned my hand. ‘Ow.’

‘Are you all right?’