There’s no earthly use in staying here cuddling you. So you play the martyr, I’ll go to bed.”
“To sleep?”
“Are you kidding? But Vicki’s instructed us to pretend, so pretend I will. I’ll set the alarm for five and come and take over again. Separate shifts, Mr. Ramsey, it’s the only way to go.”
And, before he could say a word, before he could reach out and touch her and undo all her resolutions, she whisked herself out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
Even if it nearly killed her to do so.
*
She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought of all the reasons why she could not fall in love with Max Ramsey. They were all excellent reasons, good, sensible, solid arguments, which lined up to form one impenetrable barrier.
Except he was still in the bathroom, defrosting her disaster.
Disaster . . .
“That’s what falling in love with Max would be,” she told herself. “So don’t.”
But then a little voice whispered . . .
“Maybe I already have.”
There was a whimper beside the bed. Gerome was stirring. Bing stirred as well and did some licking, but Gerome was caught up in his own little nightmare and refused to be comforted.
Sarah leaned down and caught him up, tucking him into her bed. Then, as Bing whimpered, she tossed the covers back.
“Come in, too,” she told Max’s dog. “The more the merrier. I’ll be on my own again soon enough, and besides, you’re the closest thing to Max I can find.”
*
He didn’t do relationships. He didn’t want the whole complicated mess that came with them.
He and Sarah? No and no and no.
He rolled the turkey. This was what family was all about, he told himself. It was being stranded with a disaster on Christmas day.
Only this time he didn’t quite believe his own narrative. Sarah hadn’t stranded him with this turkey. His own pig-headedness had done that.
He’d wanted to be stranded—with Sarah.
“And now it’s just you and me,” he told Bigfoot. “That’s life. She’ll go back to Manhattan, you’ll get eaten and there’ll just be me again. Which is the way I want it.”
Except, she was right here in this house. And she was . . . Sarah. And the way he was feeling . . .
“I should get right in there with you,” he told Bigfoot. “You and I . . . we both need cold water in large quantities.”
Chapter Eight
‡
C hristmas morning for the last few glorious years had been peaceful. He’d given himself the day off work, he’d slept late and he’d spent the rest of the day in magnificent, wonderful silence. He hadn’t felt responsible for anyone. He hadn’t felt guilty for anything.
Today, though, was not about silence. Sarah had relieved him on turkey duty at five (nicely defrosting, he’d reported at handover) and he’d barely hit the pillow when Katie’s brood was up and whooping.
He checked Harold and found him awake, pushing himself up on his pillows, looking flushed and almost as excited as the kids.
“A house-full. We have kids for Christmas. Max, can you help me to the living room? I want to see the kids with stockings. And I have something for you, and for Sarah. Two parcels in the bottom of my bag—yours is labeled, the other I was going to post, but didn’t get a chance. Wasn’t that lucky that I can give it to her in person?”
Lucky . . . that Sarah was here? Two days ago, he’d have laughed at the thought. Now he looked at the old man’s transparent happiness and he almost agreed with him.
Lucky . . .
He helped Harold dress, helped him to the big front room with Sarah’s enormous Christmas tree, swung the door wide and stared in amazement.
Santa had been here. Every stocking was laden. Under the tree was an enormous pile of gifts. There was a plate of shortbread on the hearth with bites taken out and an empty beer glass with bits of white whisker stuck on the lip.
Santa had been with bells on.
Katie was lying on the settee looking like a beached whale,
“To sleep?”
“Are you kidding? But Vicki’s instructed us to pretend, so pretend I will. I’ll set the alarm for five and come and take over again. Separate shifts, Mr. Ramsey, it’s the only way to go.”
And, before he could say a word, before he could reach out and touch her and undo all her resolutions, she whisked herself out of the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
Even if it nearly killed her to do so.
*
She lay in bed and stared at the ceiling and thought of all the reasons why she could not fall in love with Max Ramsey. They were all excellent reasons, good, sensible, solid arguments, which lined up to form one impenetrable barrier.
Except he was still in the bathroom, defrosting her disaster.
Disaster . . .
“That’s what falling in love with Max would be,” she told herself. “So don’t.”
But then a little voice whispered . . .
“Maybe I already have.”
There was a whimper beside the bed. Gerome was stirring. Bing stirred as well and did some licking, but Gerome was caught up in his own little nightmare and refused to be comforted.
Sarah leaned down and caught him up, tucking him into her bed. Then, as Bing whimpered, she tossed the covers back.
“Come in, too,” she told Max’s dog. “The more the merrier. I’ll be on my own again soon enough, and besides, you’re the closest thing to Max I can find.”
*
He didn’t do relationships. He didn’t want the whole complicated mess that came with them.
He and Sarah? No and no and no.
He rolled the turkey. This was what family was all about, he told himself. It was being stranded with a disaster on Christmas day.
Only this time he didn’t quite believe his own narrative. Sarah hadn’t stranded him with this turkey. His own pig-headedness had done that.
He’d wanted to be stranded—with Sarah.
“And now it’s just you and me,” he told Bigfoot. “That’s life. She’ll go back to Manhattan, you’ll get eaten and there’ll just be me again. Which is the way I want it.”
Except, she was right here in this house. And she was . . . Sarah. And the way he was feeling . . .
“I should get right in there with you,” he told Bigfoot. “You and I . . . we both need cold water in large quantities.”
Chapter Eight
‡
C hristmas morning for the last few glorious years had been peaceful. He’d given himself the day off work, he’d slept late and he’d spent the rest of the day in magnificent, wonderful silence. He hadn’t felt responsible for anyone. He hadn’t felt guilty for anything.
Today, though, was not about silence. Sarah had relieved him on turkey duty at five (nicely defrosting, he’d reported at handover) and he’d barely hit the pillow when Katie’s brood was up and whooping.
He checked Harold and found him awake, pushing himself up on his pillows, looking flushed and almost as excited as the kids.
“A house-full. We have kids for Christmas. Max, can you help me to the living room? I want to see the kids with stockings. And I have something for you, and for Sarah. Two parcels in the bottom of my bag—yours is labeled, the other I was going to post, but didn’t get a chance. Wasn’t that lucky that I can give it to her in person?”
Lucky . . . that Sarah was here? Two days ago, he’d have laughed at the thought. Now he looked at the old man’s transparent happiness and he almost agreed with him.
Lucky . . .
He helped Harold dress, helped him to the big front room with Sarah’s enormous Christmas tree, swung the door wide and stared in amazement.
Santa had been here. Every stocking was laden. Under the tree was an enormous pile of gifts. There was a plate of shortbread on the hearth with bites taken out and an empty beer glass with bits of white whisker stuck on the lip.
Santa had been with bells on.
Katie was lying on the settee looking like a beached whale,
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