A Yorkshire Christmas (12 page)

He’d only known her for two days, and yet he’d shared more with her about Dani, about himself, than he had with anyone else. And he had a feeling she’d shared more with him about her own past, and that bastard Mark, than she had with anyone else.

Were they just two desperate and lonely people needing to unburden themselves, or did they share a real and surprising connection? Was he a fool for even asking the question?

Last night he’d come so very close to kissing her. He’d seen the awareness in her eyes, the way her lips had parted in expectation. They’d both wanted the kiss but he’d stepped back because…

Because, hell, this was complicated. He didn’t want some fling, and he didn’t know what else anything between him and Claire could be. They lived different lives on different continents. And, he reminded himself, they barely knew each other.

It just felt like they did. A lot.

The kettle started whistling and Noah made a mug of tea, brewing it dark and strong the way he liked and needed before heading out into the dark and cold. The temperature had raised enough to let the sheep out to graze, and he hoped he had time before Molly woke up to lead them to the high pasture where the snow had melted enough for them to roam in safety.

He left a note for her just in case, and then headed out into the freezing morning, Jake at his heels. It took an hour to move the sheep up, and it was still pitch-dark when he came back into the house at half past six. His body ached with fatigue; it had been a long, restless night spent thinking of Claire and imagining what would have happened if he had kissed her.

Molly hadn’t stirred, so Noah set about making breakfast and counting down the hours until Claire would come back. They’d agreed last night they’d all spend the day together, but Noah knew his started a good deal earlier than Claire’s. Yet the thought of waiting another four or five hours until she came over was torture.

You have it bad.

He made another cup of tea and fried some eggs, tidied the kitchen—a rather novel experience—and then paid some bills while he waited for Molly to wake up.

She came downstairs a little bit before eight, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, the sight of her both breaking and melting his heart.

“Hey, there.” His voice sounded clogged and he cleared his throat. “Want some breakfast? I’ve got toast, cereal, eggs…”

“Toast.” She slid onto a stool, watching him warily. “Is Claire coming over today?”

“Yes.” Noah popped two slices of bread in the toaster. “She’s going to spend the day with us.” He took a breath, let it out slowly. “But would it be so bad, Molly, if she didn’t? If it was just the two of us?”

Molly didn’t answer and Noah watched her pick at a split in the wooden worktop with one ragged fingernail. “I just like it when Claire is here,” she said in a half-mumble.

“I do too,” Noah answered, choosing his words with care. “She’s a friend to both of us. But I love you, Molly. I love spending time with you, whether Claire is here or not.”

She looked up then, her eyes bright and sparkling, Noah realized, with anger. “No, you don’t.” She spoke with such flat certainty that he felt a jolt of shock.

“Why do you think that?”

One bony shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Because you never see me.”

“I see you every week—”

“For a couple of hours. You don’t come to my plays or concerts. You don’t take me on holidays. You don’t
know
me. The only reason I’m spending Christmas with you is because Mum has a new boyfriend, and he doesn’t like children.” Her voice hitched and she wiped her nose with the sleeve of her pajamas. “It’s not like you wanted me here,” she finished and slipped off the stool.

Noah gaped at her, stunned and horrified by Molly’s take on their relationship. In the silence, the sound of the toast popping up was joltingly loud.

Molly lifted her chin, her eyes sparkling now with tears. “I’m not hungry,” she said, and left the room. Noah heard her bare feet slapping up the stairs, and then the distant slam of her door.

He stood there for a moment, Molly’s words echoing through him.
You don’t come to my plays or concerts. You don’t take me on holidays. You don’t know me
.

No, he didn’t. He hadn’t, he acknowledged for the first time, actually tried that hard.

It occurred to him then what a feeble excuse for a father he really was. He’d told Claire he’d been afraid to ask for a change in the custody arrangement, and while that was the truth, it wasn’t quite the way he’d presented it to Claire.

He wasn’t just afraid that Dani’s parents would seek to reduce his time with Molly. He was afraid of messing up what he had with Molly, little as it was. Afraid of failing her, failing himself, failing as a dad. His track record at relationships wasn’t stellar, after all, and a child was the greatest responsibility of all.

And you didn’t even get her a present.

What an idiot he was. What a
jackass
.

No wonder Molly didn’t have the time of day for him now. Wearily he took the toast out, spread it thickly with butter and jam, and took it upstairs as a peace offering. He didn’t know what to say to Molly, but he knew he needed to say something.

He knocked once on the door, heard a muffled response, and opened it. Molly was sitting on her bed, leaning against the headboard, her knees tucked up with a notebook propped against her legs as she wrote or drew something madly.

“Just in case you’re hungry,” Noah said, and put the plate of toast on the bureau. Molly didn’t answer. “Molly, I know I haven’t been around as much as I should have been. Would have liked to have been.” Molly made a sound like a snort and Noah sat on the edge of the bed. “The truth is…” How could he tell her the truth? She didn’t know about his time in prison, or Dani’s wild ways. She didn’t know about the custody arrangement that kept him from seeing her more often. “The truth is,” he started again, “your mum and I have had some difficulties, and part of that was when we both got to see you.”

“And so you decided you didn’t want to see me,” she finished and Noah shook his head.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Seems it to me.”

How, he wondered, could an eight-year-old have so many snappy comebacks?

“What if,” he asked carefully, “I asked your Mum if I could see you more? Maybe you could spend the weekend here sometimes.” It shamed him that he hadn’t thought of this before now. Hadn’t dared to.

Molly didn’t answer.

“Do you like animals?” he asked. “You could help me in the barn if you wanted. But only if you wanted.”

Molly still didn’t speak and Noah forced himself to wait. “Would Claire be here?” she finally asked and his heart sank.

“I don’t… no. Probably not. She lives in America, Molly.”

Molly sniffed and looked away. The silence stretched on, seeming endless.

“Maybe,” she finally said grudgingly, and Noah felt relief flood him, a cold, clear rush of feeling.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take maybe.” He sat there for a moment more, but Molly didn’t seem inclined to say anything else and so with an awkward pat of her knee he rose from the bed and went back downstairs.

As he came into the kitchen he heard a gentle tap on the back door, and another flood of relief rushed through him at the sight of Claire standing there.

“Good morning,” she said with a shy duck of her head, and he couldn’t keep from grinning back at her. Didn’t even want to try.

“Good morning. I’m glad to see you.” He had the strong impulse to hug her, the
need
to touch her, but despite coming so close to kissing her last night, he decided to keep his hands to himself. For now.

“How’s Molly?” Claire asked as she came into the kitchen, unwinding a long, colorful scarf. Her cheeks were flushed with cold and she wore her long, dark hair in a high ponytail.

“She’s okay. We had a talk.”

“A talk?”

Noah raked a hand through his hair. “Just the start of one, really. She didn’t think I wanted her here.” Claire nodded, seeming unsurprised, and Noah asked, “Did you know that?”

“She told me something similar when I saw her over at Holly Cottage.”

“Right.”

She gave him a small, sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s good. At least we’re starting to have these conversations. I told her that maybe I could see about changing the custody arrangement, getting some more time with her.”

“Do you think that could happen?”

“It should happen,” Noah said, surprising himself with his fierceness. “Some of the things Molly has let slip make me think Dani’s not doing as great a job as I hoped she was at motherhood. She’s just throwing money at Molly, the same way her parents did to her.”

“I know how that feels,” Claire said quietly. “And as a kid, it’s not good.” Noah raised his eyebrows, wanting her to say more, and she continued hesitantly, “My parents were the same. We had a huge house, the best education, everything money could buy. My mother put on the most beautiful Christmases.” The smile she gave him was twisted. “Designer tree, gourmet meal, the whole house decorated to the hilt.”

“But?” Noah asked softly, because he knew there was one.

“But it felt so empty. I never felt like my parents cared about me, just about their image—our image, as this perfect family. They weren’t interested in what I was doing or what I liked. They didn’t spend any time with me. Every year the only present I ever got was an outfit to wear to the big, swanky New Year’s Eve party we went to. And it was always an outfit I hated, some ridiculous frou-frou dress.”

“Frou-frou dress,” Noah said with an answering smile. “I haven’t heard that one before. But I think I get the idea.” He grimaced. “And speaking of presents, I haven’t bought anything for Molly. That’s how bad a dad I am.”

“Remember that advice about not beating yourself up?” Claire reminded him.

“Yeah, I know. And you said it was hard to follow.”

“Yes.”

They gazed at one another for a moment, the silence spinning out, turning into something expectant and yet also wonderful. The silence of two people who understood each other. Noah’s heart started to beat harder, and he wanted to say something of what he was feeling. But what?

Claire, I’ve only known you two days but I feel like we have something here.

What if she laughed him out of town? Or worse, what if her face crumpled in pity as she explained that there was no way anything could ever happen between them?

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked instead, his voice coming out kind of croaky, and Claire gave a nod.

“Sure.”

“I checked and the Christmas Eve service is at four.”

“I thought maybe we could bake cookies this morning. I can do it with Molly, I mean, if you need to do some stuff on the farm.”

“I’m good. I could do a bit of biscuit baking.”

“Biscuit,” Claire said with a shake of her head. “I forgot. My godmother taught me a bunch of British words. I used to love hearing her speak.”

“How is it that you have a British godmother?”

“She and my mom went to college together. They were best friends back then, but I think they’ve grown steadily apart since. Still, Ruth has been great about keeping in touch with me. Birthday and Christmas cards every year, and always an invitation to visit Ledstow.”

“She’s a nice lady.”

“Yes, she is. I appreciate her letting me stay here.”

“So do I.”

They gazed at each other again, both smiling rather foolishly, and again Noah felt the need to say something.

Again he didn’t.

*

Claire hummed softly
to herself as she retrieved the ingredients for cookies from Noah’s cupboard. He had all the basics, thankfully, and she’d found a cookbook in a cupboard, dog-eared and lovingly worn.

As she paged through it to look for cookies recipes, she saw the notes written in a feminine hand in the margin, certain recipes circled or amended. She thought it was Noah’s mother’s handwriting, and she felt a little tug of loss at how different Noah’s life must have been after his mother had died.

He came into the kitchen as she was flipping through the cookbook, and she looked up. “Was this your mother’s?” she asked and he glanced down at it, frowning slightly.

“Yes, I suppose it was.” He picked up the cookbook, leafing through it. “She liked to bake. She always had something for us, biscuits or flapjacks, after school.”

“It must have been so hard when she died.”

“Yeah.” He closed the book, returning it to the counter. “It was.”

“How did it happen?”

“Cancer. Less than six weeks from diagnosis to death. It was so fast I think our heads were all still spinning at the funeral.” He shook his head slowly. “None of us had time to process it. I think that’s why my dad shut down. Why David just wanted to leave.”

And why Noah had found his escape through fun-loving Dani.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“And how long have you been working on your own here at the farm?”

“I came back after I got out of prison, when I was twenty-one. I did some courses at college, but there wasn’t the money or time for a degree. My dad died five years ago, from early-onset Alzheimer’s. He’d been going downhill for a while before that, though.”