A Yorkshire Christmas (9 page)

“Well, what about when you were little?” Molly pressed. “Didn’t you have a Christmas tree then?”

Noah got a strange look on his face, almost as if he’d been sucker-punched. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and Claire, sensing that some memory or feeling had been prodded, hurried to fill the silence.

“How about some hot chocolate?” She passed a bag of mini-marshmallows, yet another item Noah had thrown into his shopping cart yesterday, to Molly. “Why don’t you put a few marshmallows in each cup?”

She poured the hot chocolate and Molly diligently counted out the marshmallows, making sure each mug had the same amount. Claire glanced at Noah out of the corner of her eye, and saw that he was staring into space, in the grip of some memory. She couldn’t tell from his face whether it was a good or bad one.

“Noah?” she prompted, holding a mug out to him, but he just shook his head as if rousing himself from a dream and with a muttered apology left the room.

‡

W
hile Molly drank
her hot chocolate, Claire tidied the kitchen and then investigated the contents of the ancient fridge, hoping she’d find something to give the girl for lunch.

There were the makings for sandwiches, and she’d just put it all out on the counter and opened a can of tomato soup, when Noah reappeared in the kitchen, a battered cardboard box in his arms.

“Here we are,” he said, and his voice came out sounding strange, a little croaky.

Molly looked up from her hot chocolate, a cocoa mustache coating her top lip.

“Decorations,” Noah explained, and then cleared his throat. “Ornaments.” He put the box on the counter and then took a step back, almost as if it were a ticking bomb that might go off at any second.

Oblivious of her father’s discomfort, Molly abandoned her hot chocolate and reached for the lid of the box. “Where did you get these?” she asked and Noah gave a little shrug.

“In the storage loft. They haven’t been used in a long time.”

“Be careful, Molly,” Claire said quickly, for she could see that some of the ornaments looked fragile. All of them looked old and well-loved, once upon a time, and they made her wonder about the boy who had once hung them on the tree… and the man who, it seemed, never had.

“Look at this!” Molly exclaimed, and lifted up a pinecone dusted with silver glitter, a red yarn ribbon tied around one end. “Did you make this?”

Noah’s mouth quirked in a tiny half-smile. “I think that was me. I was generous with the glitter. David was much more careful.”

“David?” Claire asked before she could help herself.

“My brother.”

“And what about this one?” Molly held up a hand-knit Santa, complete with white yarn beard and a red hat with a white pompom.

“My mum knit that,” Noah said. “Your grandmother.”

Molly’s eyes brightened with curiosity as she turned to Noah, the Santa still held aloft in her hand. “Where is she?”

“She died a long time ago, Molly.” Noah gave her an apologetic smile. “I was only about your age.”

“And what about your father?” Molly asked slowly. “My grandfather.” Claire could see the girl was making connections, pieces clicking into place as her father became more of a real person, someone with family himself, with a history.

“He died too, five years ago,” Noah said quietly.

“Did I ever meet him?”

Pain flashed across his face like lightning and he shook his head. “No.”

Molly looked as if she wanted to ask more questions, and some deep-rooted instinct made Claire swoop in.

“These ornaments look great. How about we finish our hot chocolate and then hang them on the tree?”

Molly picked up her cup, thankfully distracted, and Noah’s gaze met Claire’s over the top of the little girl’s head, his mouth curving in a smile of gratitude.

And even though it wasn’t anything much, just a smile, Claire felt a shivery rush of sensation through her insides. Noah Bradford’s smile
did
things to her.

They finished their hot chocolate and ate the sandwiches and soup Claire had made, and then Noah hefted the box into the sitting room where he’d managed to rig the tree up, next to the fireplace. Soon Molly was busy retrieving the treasured ornaments from the box, exclaiming over each one before hanging them on the tree.

Noah sat on the sofa and watched her, a smile on his face that made Claire ache to see it. He looked so happy and sad at the same time, both proud and regretful. Sharing Christmas with the daughter he never saw had to be bringing all sorts of emotions to the forefront.

“Aren’t you going to hang any?” Molly asked Claire after she’d put at least a dozen on the tree.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Somehow, even though she’d been spending time with them all day, hanging ornaments on the tree felt like an intrusion into their family.

“Go on,” Noah encouraged her. “You aren’t that much of a Scrooge, are you?”

“A Scrooge,” she exclaimed in only semi-mock outrage. “I’m not a Scrooge.”

Noah arched an eyebrow, his gaze locked on hers. “Yet you wanted to spend Christmas by yourself?”

“As did you,” she shot back, and then could have bitten her tongue. What would Molly think if she believed her father wanted to spend Christmas on his own? Thankfully she hadn’t seemed to have heard; she was hanging a large glass globe filled with fluttering golden stars on the tree.

“I didn’t think I had any choice,” Noah said and Claire cocked her head.

“Isn’t there anyone you could have spent Christmas with?” she asked quietly, so Molly wouldn’t hear.

Noah shrugged. “My brother David, maybe. But he’s busy with his own life and family.”

She frowned. “Aren’t you part of that family?”

“I’m a bit of a black sheep.” Noah leaned forward and took an ornament from the box; it was a silver snowflake, just a little bit tarnished. “Here you go.”

Silently, Claire took it from him, her fingers brushing his as his gaze held hers. A black sheep, who stayed to run his family farm?

Why wasn’t he close to his brother? What had his childhood been like, if his mother had died when he was no more than Molly’s age? She wanted to know the answers to those questions and more, Claire thought as she turned and hung the snowflake on the tree. She wanted to know more about this man.

She didn’t get a chance to ask Noah any questions, though, for Molly bounced back towards them with more ornaments, insisting that Noah take his turn, and then all three of them were decorating the tree until the box was empty and the boughs were weighed down with balls and baubles, knitted Christmas figures and painted pine cones.

As soon as the tree was done Molly planted her hands on her hips and looked around at the rest of the sitting room with its shabby sofas and worn rugs, the bookcases stuffed with old paperbacks, and the fireplace taking up nearly a whole wall.

“Nothing else is decorated,” she stated, and then looked at both Noah and Claire expectantly. “Do you have any more decorations up there?”

“I’m not sure…” Noah answered slowly. “I could look, I suppose.”

“How about we go outside to cut some holly and evergreen for the mantelpiece while your dad looks?” Claire suggested. “It will smell so nice in here.”

Noah gave her another grateful look before disappearing upstairs, and Claire and Molly got on their coats and boots before whistling for Jake and heading outside.

There were some holly trees right outside the farmhouse, and a few evergreens not too far away. In very little time they had armfuls of fragrant greens that they brought back into the house.

Claire cleared the mantel of stacks of old bills and newspapers, putting the papers in the recycling bin on the porch and the bills in the stack she’d already made in the kitchen. She was, she knew, becoming rather familiar with Noah’s house and its once-messy contents.

Molly helped her arrange the evergreen and holly, and Claire found some candles in a drawer in the Welsh dresser in the kitchen. When they’d put the candles among the greens, they both stepped back, satisfied with their handiwork.

“That looks fantastic,” Noah said as he came down the stairs with another box. “I forgot my mum used to do the same.” He sounded surprised and just a little sad, and Claire’s heart twisted again at the thought of his loss.

“What do you have there?” Molly asked and Noah opened the box.

“A Nativity set,” he said. “I used to love playing with it when I was little.” He took out all the pieces: shepherds and kings, Mary and Joseph, a sleepy-looking angel and the manger with baby Jesus. “And don’t forget these,” he said with a smile, and took out two sheep.

“Can I set it all up?” Molly asked eagerly and with a nod Noah cleared the deep windowsill that looked out over the farmyard. “How about here?”

Molly began arranging the pieces and as she watched her Claire realized with a jolt that it was already getting dark outside. Granted, in Yorkshire that meant it was only four o’clock, but still. She’d spent nearly the entire day with Noah and his daughter.

And what a lovely day it’s been.

“I should go,” she said quietly as they both continued to watch Molly. “It’s late, and you’ll want time with Molly…”

“Don’t,” Noah said quickly, the word, and the urgent tone he’d spoken it with, seeming to surprise them both. “She likes having you here,” he added in a more measured voice. “And I do, too. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

Claire couldn’t ignore the sense of happiness ballooning inside her, making her feel as light as air. She pursed her lips with a teasing look. “I think you just want me to cook for you.”

“That too,” Noah answered with a grin. “I’m not so bad with the basics, but…”

“I don’t mind.” She wanted to cook for them, Claire realized. She wasn’t much of a cook, but she longed to try. And yet hadn’t she been here before, worming her way into someone’s family because she wanted to belong? But Noah was so different from Mark.

He wasn’t, after all, Claire acknowledged with a sour churning of guilt and memory, married.

*

Noah watched Molly
set up the Nativity set a dozen different ways as Claire went into the kitchen to make dinner. He followed her with his gaze, noticing the subtle sway of her hips, the way her skinny jeans clung to her slender curves, her long hair falling down her back in a dark waterfall. The little pulses of attraction he’d felt all day turned into an overwhelming surge of longing.

This can’t go anywhere. You know that.

But he wasn’t ready to let the day end. It had been just about the best day he’d had in… well, since he could remember.

Molly had started playing with the Nativity set pieces as if they were dolls, and so Noah got up and went to start a fire. He sat back on his heels, enjoying the crackling blaze, its cheering warmth, and the sounds he could hear around him—Molly playing quietly to herself, the clank of pots and pans from the kitchen as Claire hummed a few bars of
Walking in a Winter Wonderland
.

Noah smiled, his heart as full as it had ever been. For the last five years he’d lived like a monk, or a hermit, tending the farm, trying to make ends meet, his social life consisting of no more than a nod to a person in passing or the few, fumbled hook-ups he’d had with women in York or Newcastle, when he’d gone there for business. Not much of a life of all.

And this isn’t either.

But he decided to ignore the annoying little voice and just run with the enjoyment and pleasure the day was giving him. It was only one day, after all.

A little while later, Claire called them into dinner, and Noah nearly did a double take at the sight of the kitchen table, yesterday covered with papers and dirty dishes, now laid for three, complete with napkins.

“It’s just a chicken stew,” Claire said, making a face. “Nothing fancy.”

“I don’t like fancy,” Noah assured her. He usually subsisted on beans and toast, with the occasional fried egg or bowl of plain pasta thrown in for variety’s sake.

“It looks delicious,” Molly piped up and Claire smiled and sat down, tucking her hair behind her ears.