Page 51 of Not Just for Christmas

‘God, no,’ he said with a laugh of surprise. ‘If I’m honest, I’ve been worrying about you running the place without Jack.’

‘I’m doing perfectly well, thank you,’ I bit back, jamming a hand on my hip.

‘Of course you are.’ He gave me a soft smile. ‘If anyone can do it, you can. The question isn’t whether you can, but whether you want to.’

‘That’s the million-dollar question,’ I said wryly.

Dylan nodded, his expression curious and caring. I felt guilty for thinking he’d be anything but supportive.

‘I might as well admit it. Nick’s not really a friend,’ I blurted out, suddenly wanting to tell him the truth. ‘The reason he was here that night is because he’s a property advisor.’

‘Really? Good, that’s great!’ Dylan’s face spread into a smile. He banged his chest and coughed suddenly. ‘I mean that you’re getting professional advice. So you really are thinking of moving?’

‘I don’t think I can, even if I wanted to. For one thing, Heather would kill me.’ I felt an uneasy twist in my stomach remembering her words about the farm always being Sam’s home. ‘This is Sam’s inheritance. I guess I just wanted to know that there might be another way of spending the next fifteen years until he’s old enough to take over. It’s fine, I’ll cope.’

‘Even though he told me last night he wants to be a pilot?’ He picked up a handful of pellets from the bucket and let a calf eat it from his hand.

‘He’s seven,’ I pointed out. ‘He has plenty of time to decide what he really wants to do. Farmer, pilot, billionaire devoted to his mother … whatever he chooses is fine by me.’

‘I knew I wanted to be a musician when I was seven.’ He gave me a wry look. ‘Just saying.’

‘Ah, but now, you’re ready for a change,’ I replied.

‘A change of focus, that’s all,’ he replied. ‘I’ll always be involved in music.’

His phone buzzed, and he groaned as he looked at the screen. ‘My manager again. Sending me the schedule for the press day in London next week.’

‘The twenty-third of December,’ I nodded, stifling a shudder of dread. ‘Jack’s anniversary. At least you have a good excuse not to go to the lifeboat launch. Unlike me.’

‘I didn’t want this media circus,’ he grumbled, shoving the phone back in the pocket of his coat. ‘But Will presented it to me as a fait accompli. As soon as I told him I’d be spending the holidays in the UK, he leapt into action and got the publicity machine turning. This is another thing I need to change: being at the beck and call of others, and giving people access to my life for the sake of promotion. I want to take back control.’

‘In that case, cancel it.’ I was feigning indifference, but mentally crossing my fingers that he would. ‘Then you could accompany me and Sam. If you wanted to.’

‘Tempting though that is, I can’t let Will down.’ He gave me an apologetic smile. ‘Phoenix Records have set up a whole raft of interviews and a lunch in my honour at their London studios.’

‘It’s OK, I’ll manage on my own,’ I said. Like I managed every day. ‘I’m not bothered either way, I just thought I should offer.’

He looked at me quizzically. ‘You really don’t want to go, do you?’

My shoulders sagged and I shook my head. ‘As far as Jack’s anniversary goes, why would I want to remember the worst day of my life? What I’d really like is for the day to be erased completely, so no one mentions it, no one asks how I’m doing, or sends me flowers, or tells me that time is a great healer. And at the lifeboat launch, that is exactly what is going to happen. I’d much rather remember Jack on his birthday and remember his life, not his death.’

‘I like that idea,’ he said slowly. ‘I like that a lot. Does Sam know it’s Jack’s anniversary?’

‘I don’t mention it.’ I sucked in a shaky breath. ‘It took him a long time to stop asking when his daddy was coming home. He’s in a better place now, we can talk about Jack without him getting upset. I don’t see the point in telling my seven-year-old son that it’s exactly two years since Daddy left us. What can possibly be gained from that?’

‘Gotcha.’ Dylan gave me a brief nod of understanding. ‘Poor kid.’

His phone buzzed again. His jaw tightened, but this time he didn’t look at it. He might not want to do this press day, but old habits die hard and Dylan had spent the last two decades prioritising work.

‘Look, you do your press day,’ I said briskly, ‘and I’ll do the lifeboat launch. And we’ll both just get the day over with and before we know it, it’ll be Christmas Eve.’

Dylan’s gaze lingered on me for a long moment, and he took a step closer.

‘How are you doing?’ he murmured. ‘Really?’

‘Good.’ I straightened and painted on a smile. ‘The herd is healthy, milk yield is good considering we’re going into winter. Our outgoings have increased, but we’re still managing to make a profit. And apart from the occasional bit of socially unacceptable language, Miss Cooper is happy with Sam’s progress.’

‘That’s all good to know,’ Dylan held my gaze. ‘But I asked how you’re doing.’