Page 114 of Not Just for Christmas

She nodded and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘I thought losing Jack was the worst that could happen, but then when Dylan turned up and I saw how happy he made you, I was scared to death that he was going to take you away from me. Whisk you off to America and you’d disappear into a celebrity world that I’d never be a part of.’

‘Never going to happen,’ I assured her, squeezing her hand. I’d given up my own career dreams happily enough to help Jack run the farm when we got married and while I didn’t regret a second of it, it was my time now. I had goals, plans, things I wanted to do for myself, and for Sam. There’d be times ahead when Dylan’s music would take him away from here, and there’d be opportunities for us to travel, like our trip to see Mum and Dad at Easter. ‘This is Sam’s home. I want him to grow up here, I think Jack would be happy about that.’

‘You know, love, nobody expects to outlive their child. Losing Jack was the worst day of my life. But seeing you like this, seeing you living again, well, it’s made my Christmas. He’d be proud of you. And of Sam.’ She stood up and gave me a hug and we shed a tear and then laughed at ourselves for being so gloomy on Christmas Day.

It was turning into a pretty special day, I thought, watching Heather ladling steaming fragrant punch into two glasses, adding a third when the door opened and Dylan and Sam came back inside, dripping and laughing.

‘This is delicious, Heather,’ said Dylan, taking a long sip.

‘Play your cards right and I might even give you the recipe next year,’ she said, clinking her glass against his.

Dylan looked from me to her and grinned. ‘So you don’t mind if I stick around then?’

‘You’re Jack’s best friend,’ she said stoically, blinking away a tear. ‘I reckon you’ll do.’

‘I’ll look after them both, Heather.’ He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Promise.’

‘You’d better,’ she said, gruffly. ‘Or I’ll set Gus on you.’

Christmas lunch was a team effort and a triumph. The roast potatoes were crispy, the turkey succulent and despite eating his own body weight in pigs in blankets, Sam had managed two helpings of Christmas pudding. We’d pulled crackers, groaned at terrible jokes and secretly passed morsels to a grateful Gus under the table. Now the table was cleared, and we were full to bursting, I made a pot of coffee while Sam and Dylan lit a fire in the front room and called us through.

‘OK then, Sam.’ Dylan sat down at the piano, once Heather and I had joined them. ‘Time to showcase your talents to your mom and nanny.’

Sam scrambled up beside him. ‘Ready when you are!’

What followed was an enthusiastic but rather questionable rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’, full of wrong notes and laughter. Heather clapped along gamely, and by the time they finished, we were all wiping tears of laughter from our eyes.

‘Next year,’ Dylan said, still laughing, ‘we’ll nail it.’

‘I think you were out of tune, Uncle Dylan,’ Sam said earnestly. ‘Never mind.’

Then he jumped down, tugging Heather’s hand. ‘Come on, Nanny, let’s play with my LEGO airport. You can be the controller!’

‘Ooh, fun,’ she said, with a chuckle, ‘Do I get to wave the bats about?’

As their voices faded down the hall, the room grew quiet except for the soft crackle of the fire.

‘Lucy?’ Dylan turned to me, his face serious all of a sudden. ‘I’ve got one more present for you.’

‘Dylan, no,’ I began, laughing and groaning. ‘You’ve already given me too much. You’re so generous.’

‘Firstly,’ he grinned, patting the piano stool, ‘that’s impossible. Secondly, I didn’t spend money on this one, it’s from my heart.’

I sat down beside him, the heat of his shoulder brushing mine, my pulse quickening as he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket, set it on the stand in front of us and started to play. The melody was beautiful, simple and full, the kind that goes straight to your chest. Then he began to sing. His voice, rich, warm, a little rough around the edges, wrapped around the room like a blanket of warmth.

The song was called ‘Not Just for Christmas’. It was about someone being worth waiting for, and second chances, and a love that lasts, and when he mentioned ‘your beautiful eyes’ I realised the song was about me. About us.

When he finished, I just looked at him.

‘So?’ he said, eyes glinting. ‘A present worth waiting for?’

‘You know it is,’ I said quietly. ‘I love it, thank you.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled, a slow, dangerous one that still made my stomach flip. ‘I couldn’t have written it without you. It’s the song my new album needed. But more than that, it’s the words my heart has been waiting to say forever.’

And I kissed him, properly this time. Not cautious or careful, but the kind that made me dizzy. His hand slid to the back of my neck, the piano still vibrating faintly beneath us.

When we finally broke apart, I was smiling, happy tears streaking my face.