Page 44 of Not Just for Christmas

‘Come on, Heather. I bet you’ll enjoy a slice of this fruit cake.’ I hid my smile and held out a small Dundee cake studded with almonds. ‘It says it’s soaked in brandy. What a treat!’

She took it off me and peered at the list of ingredients. ‘I prefer my own homemade cake.’

‘Hear, hear!’ said Dylan, gamely. ‘I’ve never had anything baked by you that I didn’t love. I still remember those flapjacks you used to make in the Aga.’

Heather patted her hair and pursed her lips, not quite succeeding in hiding her pleasure. ‘It has always been a skill of mine. I thought about opening my own tea shop on the farm at one time.’

I blinked at her. ‘I’ve never heard this story.’

‘I wanted something to run as my own, separate to the farm,’ she said, with a faraway stare. ‘And at the time, Craggy Bay only had a fusty old café which no one used. An aunt had left me a small inheritance; I was going to use that to renovate one of the barns.’

‘Why didn’t you go for it, Heather?’ said Dylan, removing Gus’s inquisitive paws from the kitchen table. ‘I bet you’d have cleaned up.’

‘Jim’s tractor broke down and we needed money for a new one.’ She squared her shoulders bravely. ‘And that was that. I don’t think Jim was ever keen on the café idea, to be honest. Still, water under the bridge now. Oh, I almost forgot …’ She dug into her handbag and pulled out a packet of crumpets. ‘I thought we could toast these over the fire on long forks as a treat. That’s what Daddy liked to do, Sam. And then spread them with butter and Marmite.’

‘Yes please, Nanny.’ Sam’s face lit up, and he dumped the chocolates he was holding back in the hamper.

‘Awesome,’ Dylan added. ‘I’ve seen crumpets being toasted in the movies, never actually done it.’

‘Thank you, Heather, how kind,’ I said with a rush of warmth for her. She and I were more similar than I’d realised; both of us had given up our dreams for Oakley men.

‘Dylan, do you think you could light a fire in the living room, while I put this lot away?’ I added.

‘Sure.’ He scratched his head. ‘Although I have to warn you, I’m not an expert fire starter.’

‘For goodness’ sake!’ Heather rolled her eyes. ‘Sam, show the man how to build a fire.’

‘But Dylan will have to light it,’ I added.

‘You need small sticks and big sticks and scrunched-up paper,’ said Sam, dragging Dylan out of the room. ‘It’s easy.’

By the time Heather and I brought in the tray laid for tea, the flames from the fire were hot enough to toast our crumpets. With the Christmas-tree lights twinkling and Christmas music courtesy of Dylan’s new phone playing quietly in the background, I knelt on the rug in front of the fire and began to relax.

‘This is nice,’ I murmured, pulling Sam close to kiss him.

I had so much to do still before Christmas, even thinking about it made my heart speed up. But this, I reminded myself, was what it was all about. Toasting crumpets over a crackling fire with the people I loved, chatting, sharing memories and creating new ones. Special times could be found in the small moments of joy, the unplanned ones squashed between the planned, the unexpected scattered among the ordinary. Sam would remember this day probably for the rest of his life. It pained me to think that Jack wouldn’t be part of the memory, and that Dylan was here instead, but I was glad it was happening all the same.

‘You’re a great fire builder, Sam,’ said Dylan, loading a crumpet onto the toasting fork. ‘I had no idea how to do that when I was your age, in fact our apartment didn’t even have a fireplace.’

‘Did you live in America when you were seven?’ Sam asked Dylan between mouthfuls.

‘I did, I still do.’ He reached over and dabbed melted butter off Sam’s chin. ‘Although I’m not sure where home really is these days, I travel so much.’

‘That’s sad. Home is my favourite place,’ said Sam.

‘And the farm will always be your home,’ said Heather, batting Gus away from her plate. ‘Just like your daddy. He used to sit by the fire with his dog Toby and toast crumpets.’

‘I love being home too,’ I agreed, diplomatically. ‘But it doesn’t have to be a place. Sam, you know that song Uncle Dylan wrote called “Home”?’

‘Yep,’ Sam mumbled through a mouthful of food. ‘You’re always playing it.’

Dylan looked at me in surprise. ‘You like that one?’

I nodded. ‘Especially the line “I just want you to know that wherever you may be …”’

‘… you will always feel like home to me.’ Sam sang the rest of the line in his sweet little voice.

‘Dude, that was awesome.’ Dylan high-fived him, a big grin plastered on his face.