Page 31 of Not Just for Christmas

A sudden thump sounded from upstairs. Then fast little footsteps.

Lucy groaned softly. ‘He was asleep.’

‘Not anymore.’ Dylan grinned; he couldn’t wait to see his godson.

A small boy appeared at the top of the staircase, hair sticking up, pyjamas rumpled, face alight with excitement. Dylan’s breath hitched; Jack Oakley in miniature – the likeness was uncanny.

‘Uncle Dylan!’ Sam yelled, swinging himself onto the banister and sliding down. ‘You’re here!’

‘And you’re supposed to be fast asleep, young man,’ said his mum with a sigh. ‘Big day tomorrow.’

Dylan held his arms out and Sam launched himself into them. ‘Hey, buddy! Boy, have you grown big!’

‘That’s because I was five, then six and now I’m seven.’

Dylan could only nod, his throat too tight to speak. Too much time had gone by since he’d been here; he’d let Jack down and he knew it, and vowed to do better.

‘Are you really here for Christmas?’ Sam wrapped his arms tightly around his neck.

‘I really am,’ Dylan promised.

‘It’s going to be awesome,’ the little boy said, eyes dancing.

‘You know what?’ said Dylan, climbing the stairs to put his godson back to bed. ‘I think you might be right.’

Chapter 16

I lay in bed staring at the slim ribbon of light creeping under my bedroom door from the landing. My bed was comfy and warm, and the smell of baking had made its way up the stairs and filled the house with a homely cosiness. Yet I couldn’t sleep. Of course I couldn’t sleep, my mind was refusing to switch off. Dylan was here a day early. And Nick had asked me to go for a drink.

What must Dylan have thought, turning up to find me saying goodnight to a strange man?

And poor Nick, finding out like that that Dylan Wilde was almost one of the family. He was a nice sensible sort of man, and for a moment, before Dylan arrived, I had thought that maybe I would go for a drink with him in the New Year. Just to see what it felt like to do something normal again. But then Dylan had arrived and the air had changed in an instant, a mix of energy and nostalgia, and all thoughts of a date with Nick had evaporated.

Once Nick had gone, looking slightly starstruck, I stood there for a second, just staring at Dylan, forgetting to let him in, and thinking how weird it was that this American man, this hugely successful singer, looked so at home on my front doorstep, and for a second I had the distinct urge to cry.

Then we’d hugged. Hands down the best hug I’ve had in ages. For a few seconds, I’d allowed myself to get lost in the comforting familiarity of his embrace. A hug from Dylan came with almost two decades’ worth of memories, shared moments of joy, happy times, celebrations, parties, picnics on the beach. And all of them connecting the two of us to each other, but also to Jack. Then the desperate times too, the pair of us clinging to each other when Dylan was leaving after Jack’s funeral, knowing that life would never be the same for either of us, for our merry little trio.

I’d spent the next half hour doing my best impression of a capable, unflustered hostess, fussing around, making tea, and arranging enough flowers to start my own florist’s while Dylan fired up his laptop and contacted his PA to arrange for a new phone to be delivered tomorrow. And then we’d both gone upstairs to bed.

Thoughts tumbled and turned, like waves on the shore. Jack’s best friend. I could hear him in the bathroom, making noises like only a man can make. Taps turned on too vigorously, water splashing, the loo seat banging, the flush, his humming over the sound of his electric toothbrush. It had been almost two years since it had been Jack making those exact same noises. I missed it, I realised, the sound not just of another adult, but of a man.

It was good to see him again; I had to admit that. Somehow he’d managed to remain as down to earth and easy-going as he had been on that day I’d met him on the beach all those years ago. He didn’t seem aware of it, but he’d acquired a gloss over the years. He was proud of his humble roots, often talked in interviews about his mum having shopped for their clothes in thrift stores. But nowadays, even dressed in jeans, a shirt and boots, you could tell his clothes didn’t come from the bargain rail. His hairstyle might still be shaggy, but those dark curls fell perfectly, just revealing a flash of deep brown eyes. So different to Jack, and yet they’d hit it off immediately.

How was I going to cope, having this man so close until after Christmas? Reminding me daily, hourly of what I had lost, of who I had lost? And also, why had he accepted our invitation? Two weeks was a long gap in the schedule for a man like Dylan. I hoped he hadn’t come because he felt sorry for me, because I was fine. I chewed my lip. OK, not totally fine, I did have the future of the farm hanging over me. Should I sell, move, stay …? I shut my eyes tight and forced myself not to go into this right now or I’d never sleep. And I was going to try not to think of it at all while Dylan was here; I had a feeling he’d be sad to think that Jack’s farm might leave the family.

There was a knock on my door, startling me, followed by a soft, ‘Goodnight, Luce, sleep well.’

‘You too,’ I rasped, sounding like someone who was being strangled by their own scarf.

‘And Lucy?’ Dylan seemed to hesitate. ‘Just wanted you to know I’m so happy to be here. Thanks for inviting me.’

‘You’re welcome,’ I said. Because actually he was welcome. I might not have planned it, but he was here now and I was going to make the best of it, like Sam wanted, and like Jack would have loved.

Had I done the right thing, not being honest with Dylan, carrying on the pretence that it had been me who’d invited him to stay, rather than confessing that it had all been Sam’s doing?

I stifled a groan, turned over and pulled the duvet over my head. I was going to have my work cut out keeping all these secrets. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 17