Christmas with the Single Dad Doc
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Annie O'Neil
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12
CHAPTER ONE
‘DASHING THROUGH THE...’ Kiara stood back from the snowflake stencil she’d taped to the window, then gave the aerosol can a good spray. ‘Snow!’
She carried on humming the Christmas song as she filled in the dozen or so other gaily shaped stencils, until her windows were transformed into magical snow crystal portals. Seeing actual drifts of snow outside her house would’ve made the effect even more enchanting, but the one thing Kiara wasn’t in charge of in her new life here in Cornwall was the weather.
Unless...
She could dip into her Christmas Decorations Fund just a teensy bit more than she already had and buy some fake snow. Or—Ooh! A rush of excitement swept through her. A snow machine! After all, she quickly justified, any expenditure would be worth it, considering she was doing all of this mad over-the-top decorating for charity.
As a midwife, she knew just how important funding for specialised equipment was, and First Steps, her chosen charity, was renowned for helping families in need to furnish their homes with the specialised equipment they needed to give their newborn the very best chance to live a happy, healthy life. Ventilators, specialist cots, apnoea monitors... They all made the world of difference to an infant...just like being at home did.
As such, she pulled out her phone and on her increasingly long ‘Christmas Decorations’ list tapped in snow machine.
With a grin, she perched atop the armrest of her new sofa and admired her handiwork. Inside, it already looked like the day before Christmas. Stockings? Check! Chimney. Check! Tree, plate of biscuits, nativity scene, miniature glittery reindeer and unicorns? Check!
Sure, it was only the beginning of November. And, yes, she was aware of the handful of side-eyes she’d already received from some villagers, clearly wondering whether the new kid in town was a bit bonkers. She wasn’t bonkers. Just new, and a bit lonely. And making the cottage feel all cosy and set for the festive season was her way of settling in. Especially as the view outside her window was no longer the familiar bustling London high street.
She twizzled round so she could look out of her new front window. Through the prisms of faux flakes she could see that outside the clear blue sky shone brightly over a crisp and increasingly autumnal Carey Cove. The leaves had turned and, courtesy of the warm afternoon sunshine, were glowing in multicoloured hues of red, orange and yellow as they floated down in colourful drifts. Not so much that the trees lay bare, but just enough to ensure there were always plenty of leaves for her to skip through if no one was around, as she went on her daily trip into the village to explore the smattering of shops along the solitary high street. Which was blissfully far away from London.
London.
The word hardened like a shard of ice in her chest. This would be the first year ever she would miss the Christmas lights being switched on. There would be no bustling into a pub after, to raise a glass of festive cheer with friends and family. No walking around the twinkling streets of London arm in arm with her boyfriend as all the shops decked their halls with boughs of—
Stop!
She didn’t live there any more. Or have that life. She lived here, in the picture-postcard village of Carey Cove. A glorious seaside village that didn’t have a patch on big, old, overcrowded London, where it was far too easy to fall in love with dazzlingly talented surgeons. Surgeons who, along with having piercing blue eyes and flax-coloured hair, were liars, liars, pants on fire.
As if sensing the vein of discord threatening to break into her happy but still fragile new existence, her phone rang with her mum’s tell-tale ringtone: a Bollywood song her mother regularly sang in an off-key, happy voice similar to Kiara’s.
‘Hey, Mum. Perfect timing as ever.’
‘Hello, darling...’ Her mum’s voice instantly thickened with concern. ‘Everything all right? This isn’t a bad time, is it?’
‘No, not at all. I meant it’s just nice to hear your voice.’
And it was. Even though she was twenty-eight, and had lived on her own for years now, she was an only child, and she and her parents were very close. Her mum had stuffed countless tissues into Kiara’s hands over the past ten months. Nor had she been shy about voicing her concern when Kiara had announced that moving to a different hospital in London wasn’t the solution to her post-breakup blues. But a new home was.
A new home in a new village in a new county. Far, far away from London. Even her father, a poster boy for Britain’s renowned stiff upper lip, had expressed concern that moving a five-hour train ride away from her family in London might not be the wisest of decisions.
‘Are you all right?’ her mother asked, not even pausing for breath as she added, ‘It’s not too late to back out, you know.’
‘What?’ Even the idea of leaving made her blood run cold. ‘No, Mum. Honestly. I love it here. Not to mention the fact I’ve already signed my contract for Carey House.’
Her eyes flicked up the hill and along the treetops where, courtesy of some bare branches, she could just make out the golden stone chimney tops of the transfigured cottage hospital that commanded an arresting view of the harbour village. This was a new thing for her. Working somewhere small enough to actually learn everyone’s name.
After her life had imploded last year, Kiara had felt cornered into leaving the enormous inner-city hospital where she’d worked for five years. Shame and regret had been powerful motivators. Anger, too. She’d begun what had become a long string of short-term posts in maternity wards across London, hoping to find something—somewhere—that would make her feel as if she was starting her life afresh. A life reboot.
She’d finally found it. Here in Carey Cove. And that was why she couldn’t wait to start her new permanent midwife post at Carey House.
‘I’m not backing out before I’ve even begun.’ Kiara charged her voice with the confidence she knew her mum would be hoping to hear. ‘The last thing Carey House needs is to be short-handed when all those Valentine’s babies arrive.’
Her mother made a confused noise. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m not making the connection.’
Kiara grinned, perfectly able to envisage her mother’s bewildered expression. ‘C’mon, Mum. You know how to add. A night out on February the fourteenth with wine and flowers and romance leads to what to remember late in the month of November...?
‘A baby!’ Her mum laughed, but before it descended into silence she carefully began again. ‘I just want to make sure you’re feeling strong enough, after things with—’
Kiara cut in before her mum could bring up The Ex Who Should Not Be Named. ‘All good! I love it here. And, hey...remember that charity thing I told you I set up with First Steps?’
‘Oh, yes...?’ Her mother said, her tone indicating that she clearly didn’t remember.
Rather than mention her front garden, which was already bursting with Christmas decorations, Kiara proudly announced, ‘I’ve got a window’s worth of snowflakes.’
‘Is it that cold down there?’
Kiara laughed and told her mother it wasn’t. After they’d nattered a bit more, she hung up the phone, then tugged the ever-present scrunchie off her wrist and made her practised move of pulling her long hair into a swishy ebony ponytail.
She’d inherited her Indian-born, English-raised mother’s jet-black hair and her British father’s golden-brown eyes. Of course she missed her parents, especially near Christmas, but last year, having the carpet ripped out from underneath what she’d thought was her reality, had been quite the eye-opener. Making this change was the best thing she’d ever done.
She’d only been here in Carey Cove a fortnight, but it had been love at first scone. She looked down at her tummy and gave it a poke. Yup. Definitely a wee bit bigger than it had been. It was little wonder the Cornish were proud of their baked goods. She’d never enjoyed so many fluffy, jam-filled, clotted-cream-dolloped treats in her life. It was a good thing she was starting work tomorrow, otherwise she’d be looking a lot more like a roly-poly Mrs Claus than the too-thin version of herself who’d skulked out of London under the shadow of romantic humiliation.
She gave herself a short, sharp shake and made herself resume her off-key singing. Sure, she was single, eight weeks before her favourite time of year. And, no, it wasn’t snowing...yet. But everything else in her life was firmly under her control.
As if to prove her point, she sprayed one more snowflake into place. A level of snowflake excess her ex would definitely have rolled his eyes about. So wasn’t it lucky she didn’t have a boyfriend to be judgemental over everything she did any more?
She put her things away and then, after tugging on her favourite bright red gilet, went out onto the small thatched-roofed porch at the front of the cottage. The estate agent had promised that in the spring it would be bedecked with graceful strands of wisteria blooms, but right now it was swathed in garlands of pine and fir and wrapped in whorls of red ribbon and fairy lights.
Unlike Carey House, which was built of large butter-coloured stones, her cottage had been painted white, with beautiful green window frames and, of course, the traditional thatched roof. It was almost impossible to believe that selling her small one-bedroomed flat in London, perched above a busy sandwich shop, had bought her this amazing picture-perfect cottage.
Memories of her ex’s flat—the one she’d thought was his home—flashed through her mind’s eye. Glass. Steel beams. A preponderance of grey. Barely a personal item in sight. It was so obvious to her now why she’d been buffeted with frequent refusals to let her soften the place up with some cushions and a bit of bric-a-brac.
Anyway...
That was then and this was the build-up to Christmas. Kiara-style.
She stepped out onto the pavement in front of the house, which stood at the end of a lane about two streets up from the harbour. One of the many things that had attracted her to both Carey Cove and Mistletoe Cottage was the fact that all the homes had a front garden. Perfect for her ever-increasing display of Christmas delights.
She scanned the decor outside her new home with an exacting gaze.
Cuckoo for Christmas...but classy?
She pulled a Who are you kidding? face at the nutcracker figure standing guard at her front door. Classy only because it was for charity. This was pure unabashed devotion to decorations.
So far, she had three fairy-lit deer grazing outside the small porch. She hadn’t yet decided on which sleigh she wanted to harness them to...or if she wanted to get a Rudolph to attach to it. Her first instinct had been to put a sleigh on the lawn, but... One on the roof would totally be better. Maybe if she met someone at work who was taller than her—which wouldn’t be hard—she could get them to help her.
Her current favourites of all the decorations were the three penguins she’d bought with her loyal customer discount at an online Christmas store. Should she get more? Or plump for the snowman who did a little jig when you pressed his button nose? Decisions, decisions!
Perhaps a little sing-song would help.
She patted the pockets of her gilet and tugged out the remote control. After a surreptitious look around—although heaven knew why she was being shy about it...she didn’t exactly know anyone here—she pressed the power button.
Her insides went all tingly with childlike glee. Who didn’t love a singing and dancing penguin? If there were any Scrooges around she was determined to win them over with her pure, unadulterated love of Christmas. Which reminded her... She had some huge fake candy canes she wanted to attach to the little white fence that ran along the front of her garden, leading people to the miniature Santa’s Workshop donation box she’d affixed to her front gate. And those snowflake baubles. And the first of three living Christmas trees she wanted to decorate—all before she started work tomorrow.
She kept the penguins switched on while she ran into the house to get the other decorations. They would keep her company while she worked. Who knew? Tomorrow at work she might even start to make some friends who could actually talk back to her.
‘Harry! Remember what I said about going too far ahead on your scooter.’
Lucas’s daredevil three-year-old slowed down for about two seconds, and then...because little boys would be little boys...began to speed up again. Uphill.
Despite his concerns, Lucas laughed. He knew exactly what he’d fed his son for breakfast, and it certainly hadn’t been rocket fuel. ‘Harry! What’s the name of the game?’
His son stopped abruptly and, with one foot on his scooter, one foot on the ground, turned round. His blond hair fell in soft curls beneath his bright red helmet. The same helmet Harry had spent the morning begging his father to refashion into a Santa’s hat, even though they’d only just had Halloween.
His son’s grey eyes, a reflection of his own, glittered with fun. Then he unleashed an arrestingly warm smile that could only have come from his mother, gave his father a stately salute, and pronounced, ‘Safety first, Daddy.’
He smiled back, despite the sting of emotion tugging at the back of his throat as he remembered Lily’s long list of things he wasn’t to do once she was gone. No smothering. No over-coddling. No imposing his awareness of how fragile life could be on this little bundle of energy whose only perspective on life was that it was endless.
And, of course, the kicker: no more wearing his wedding ring after the first year.
He’d cheated. A bit. And by ‘a bit’ he meant an extra year and a half.
He’d taken it off when he’d been greasing up Lucas’s scooter and seen that the ring was loose because he still hadn’t got around to taking that Cooking Healthy Meals for your Child class the ladies at the Women’s Institute kept tempting him with. The moment it had left his finger he’d realised it wasn’t what connected him to his wife. His heart was. And that would be with him wherever he went, so the ring had finally gone into the keepsake box. The one his wife had started when they’d first met at uni. First cinema tickets. First airline tickets. And now first and very likely only wedding ring.
Lucas jogged up, his arms weighted with his son’s all-weather coat, his backpack, his lunch, and pulled his little boy in for a hug. ‘That’s right, son. Safety first.’
He gave the top of Harry’s helmet a loving pat and then, after giving him one more reminder about speed and distance, they set off again towards the nursery—which was, conveniently, only a hop, skip and a scooter ride from work.
Lucas stemmed another cautionary call when Harry added leaf-catching to his repertoire.
For the billionth time, man! Life isn’t full of assurances. Plasters exist for a reason. Knee patches. Helmets. And doctors.
He, of all people should know that. Not just as a doctor, but as a husband. How could he forget the cancer he and his wife had convinced themselves would go into remission—
‘Harry! Not too far.’
‘I’m not too far, Daddy! I can still see the whiskers on your chinny-chin-chin!’
‘Hey! I shaved this morning!’
Hadn’t he? He put a hand up to double-check that he hadn’t missed anywhere. Struth... He hadn’t shaved. So much for being on the top of his game again. At least stubble was considered trendy. Not that his looks were a priority. His son was. Their routine. Getting their lives on a forward trajectory. And, of course, his job. The one thing besides his son that brought a smile to his face.
Since they’d relocated here to Carey Cove from Penzance, where there were far too many memories, he’d finally cracked getting their lives up and running. Morning story and cuddle in bed with his son. A shower for him while Harry played. Nursery ‘uniform’, such as it was, ready to be stepped into one leg at a time, then arms up overhead for the logoed sweatshirt, collar out. Hair semi-tamed into submission. Check. Check. Check.
Why had things gone wrong this morning?
Socks.
That was it.
They had a massive pile of socks and yet somehow, against the odds, there hadn’t been a pair amongst them.
Note to self: buy more socks.
He had to laugh. So much for having their lives back on track. If something as simple as locating a pair of matching socks threw a spanner into their entire morning routine—
Be kind to yourself.
Another one of his wife’s reminders. And, to be fair, he hadn’t forgotten to shave in well over a year. Nor, as he’d done two and half years ago, had he completely given up, using what energy he had to try and soothe a crying baby whose mother would never hold him in her arms again.
‘Daddy, look!’ Harry pointed towards the end of the lane where...yes...there it was. Mistletoe Cottage.
And that was when the lightbulb went on. This house—a homage to Christmas—was yet another reason his so-called ‘game’ was off-track right now.
The cottage all but screamed a daily reminder of the countdown to Christmas, and it was a time of year he found impossible to enjoy. Not because it had been Lily’s favourite, or because it had been when they’d lost her. No. She’d lost her life in the throes of the most beautiful spring either of them had ever witnessed. It was more that Christmas was about family. And the most important member of their family wasn’t there any more. Never would be.
And even though he’d promised himself he would make this a Christmas to remember for Harry—who, to all intents and purposes, was finally old enough to truly understand and fall head over heels in love with Christmas—he simply couldn’t light that same flame of enthusiasm burning inside Harry in himself.
Thank goodness there was someone else in the seaside village who was feeling it as much as Harry. Not that they’d seen the new owner of Mistletoe Cottage yet... The ‘For Sale’ sign had come down a few weeks back, but it had been two weeks ago when the decorations had begun appearing. First a little Santa’s house. Then a few evergreen swags. Then wreaths and baubles and a preponderance of fairy lights. Every day there was something new. Including today when... Were those dancing penguins?
‘Penguins!’ Harry crowed.
Okay. Now there were penguins. What next? Waltzing polar bears?
If Lucas had thought Harry was hot-rodding before, he’d been wrong. One sighting of the bum-wiggling penguins and his son took off, one foot madly pressing the pavement behind him, as if his life depended on it.
Lucas quickened his pace, eyes trained on his son, until something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. A woman was coming out of the front door of Mistletoe Cottage holding a box of decorations in her arms. Petite. Dark-haired. He was too far away to make out anything else.
‘Aah-ow!’
Lucas’s blood instantly roared in his ears. One second with his eyes off Harry and, as he’d feared, boy and scooter had parted ways.
His speed-walk turned into a run. With the low hedge in the way, he’d lost sight of Harry. But he could see the woman’s head snap back as she dropped her box of decorations on the porch and raced towards his son.
By the time he reached the cottage there were no yowls of pain. There were voices. The woman’s and his son’s. And then...there were giggles.
Harry was still on the ground, and although he’d definitely grazed his knee, he somehow seemed entirely unfazed by it. Normally there would be howling by now. But the woman crouching down, face hidden by a sheet of glossy black hair, was somehow engaged in a greeting ritual with his son.
‘How do you do, Harry?’ She shook his hand in a warm, but formal style. ‘It’s such a pleasure to meet someone who loves Christmas as much as I do.’
If she was expecting Lucas to join in the I Love Christmas Every Day of the Year Club she was obviously recruiting for, she had another think coming. It was only November. He had enough trouble mustering up excitement for the day of December the twenty-fifth.
Clearly unperturbed by his lack of response, she smiled at Harry and pointed at his grazed knee. ‘Now... Important decision to make. Do you think you’d like a plaster with Santa on it? Or elves?’
‘Elves!’ Harry clapped his hands in delight.
The woman laughed and said she would run into the house and get some, as well as a cloth to clear away the small grass stains Lucas could see were colouring his son’s little-boy knees.
Her voice had a mischievous twist to it, and underneath the bright, child-friendly exchange was a gentle kindness that softened his heart.
‘I’m ever so sorry. Harry is just mad for—’ Lucas began, but when she looked up and met his gaze anything else he’d planned on saying faded into nothing.
Though he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’d never met, his body felt as if it had been jolted into a reality he’d always been waiting to step into. Every cell in his body was supercharged with a deep, visceral connection as their eyes caught and held. Hers were a warm brown...edging on a jewel-like amber. Her skin was beautiful, with an almost pearlescent hue. Glowing... Cheeks pink. Lips a deep red, as if they’d just received a rush of emotion.
Perhaps it was the unexpected excitement of a three-year-old boy careering into her front garden. Perhaps it was the fresh autumnal weather. Or maybe...just maybe...she was feeling the same thing he was. A strange but electric feeling, surging through him in a way he’d never experienced before.
She blinked once. Then twice. Then, as if the moment had been entirely a fiction of his own creating, realigned her focus so that it was only on Harry. Pulling him up, dusting off some invisible specks of dust, she walked him over to the steps of her small, elaborately decorated porch and sat him down, asking if he could count how many seconds she’d be away while she ran into the house to get a plaster, and starting him off with a steady, ‘One...two...three...’
She was back as Harry began to stumble over his elevens and twelves, and without so much as a glance at Lucas she turned her back and knelt down in front of his little boy. She began to clean his knee in preparation for the plaster.
Feeling weirdly blind-sided, Lucas made a lame attempt at conversation. ‘Quite a display you’ve got here. I’m guessing you like Christmas?’
‘It’s for charity,’ she said. ‘First Steps. Do you know it?’
‘I like Christmas,’ Harry said.
Though Lucas couldn’t see her smile, he could hear it in her voice as she answered his son. ‘It’s a pretty special time of year, isn’t it?’
‘It’s when Santa comes!’ Harry said.
‘And who doesn’t like Santa?’ Lucas tacked on, feeling stupidly left out, but also completely out of his element. He wasn’t into Christmas. Not at all. He wanted to make it fabulous for his boy, but...
He forced a limp smile onto his lips. The woman gave him a quick glance. It was dismissive, in the way someone might try to figure out where a fly was buzzing and then decide the fly wasn’t worth her attention. Or maybe she’d seen right through him. Knew he was more bah-humbug than ho-ho-ho.
Either way, he’d definitely imagined whatever it was he thought had passed between them. It might have been electricity, but it certainly wasn’t the type that led to candlelit dinners and—
Whoa!
He clearly hadn’t screwed his head on straight this morning. His life was about his son and himself and making sure they were healthy and happy. End of story.
‘Daddy?’
Lucas’s son’s expression was all the confirmation he needed that he’d definitely woken up on a side of the bed he’d never woken up on before. The cuckoo side.
‘Right!’ The woman stood up and briskly zipped her rather professional-looking first aid kit. ‘That’s you sorted, young man.’
‘Say thank you to the nice...erm...’ Lucas left a blank space, so that the woman could fill in her name, but no luck.
‘Thank you!’ Harry beamed up at her and received a warm smile and a miniature candy cane ‘for later’ in return.
‘Have fun today,’ she said, her eyes on Harry, and then, without so much as a glance at Lucas, she disappeared into her house, leaving nothing but air and mystery between them.
