Christmas at the Log Fire Cabin: A heart-warming and feel-good read. Catherine FergusonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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For Carole. Half-cousin? Or twice-removed? Still not certain. Just really glad you’re my cousin!
When I woke, I knew – even before I drew back the curtains – that it had snowed overnight.
The light was subtly different and there was an eerie, muffled quality to the early-morning sounds out in the village of Angelford, where the shop-owners were gearing up for another chaotic, till-ringing day of pre-Christmas cheer and gift-buying.
I slipped out of bed and crossed to the window. The snow glittered in the weak early-December sunlight, swathed like a smooth layer of white icing over our tiny front garden, making comical bulbous shapes out of the holly bush and the little rickety gate.
Standing there, I thought of that other Christmas long ago, when I was twelve. Our mad snowball fight. How I’d battled to keep the snowballs coming to defend myself, hurling them too soon in my excitement so that they ended up as little more than puffs of snow rising up into the air. I remember squealing with laughter as icy water leaked down the back of my coat, my hands numb and raw with the cold because, despite Mum’s best efforts, I wouldn’t wear my gloves.
The snow always brought the memories of that time flooding back.
Not that I ever forgot.
I’d tried to wipe it from my mind. Pretend it didn’t matter. But meeting my real dad when I was twelve, only for him to turn his back on me, wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you could blot out at will.
I’d spent four days with him that Christmas. Days that were full of kindness and laughter and learning all about exotic Italy, the place where he was born. And how to make the perfect snowball. Alessandro Bianchi made me feel that I was worth knowing. He’d listened intently to the things I told him about my life and laughed at my jokes, such a stark contrast to the way my bullying stepfather, Martin, made me feel. Although it had happened years ago – I was thirty now, all grown up – I could still recall that breathless sense of wonder when Mum told me Alessandro was my real dad.
I’d had a sense that I was on the brink of something really special; that a whole new life was opening up for me …
How wrong I’d been.
My insides clenched and I turned away from the snowy scene.
It never did me any good to think about the time my real dad came to visit; to linger on those few days I spent with him, as Mum stood by, wary and watching, like a hen protecting her chick.
In my hopeful childhood innocence, I’d assumed it would be the start of something real and life-changing. But in the end, those few days of Christmas turned out to be sparkling but transitory, like the snow itself. All too soon they had melted away into nothing …
When I open the door to my best friend, Erin, she’s standing there trying not to smile and give the game away. But I can see by the sparkle in her green eyes that she has news.
She flicks back her long blonde hair as if to build up the drama. Then she whips something from behind her back and pushes it into my hands.
‘What’s this?’ I laugh. It’s a beautiful scarlet apron sprigged with a modern design of snow-white Christmas trees. ‘For me?’
She nods gleefully. ‘For you, Poppy. You’re going to need it. Mrs Morelli wants you to cook for her on Saturday night!’ Her last few words are more of an excited squeal.
I glance wide-eyed from her to the living-room door. It’s open just a crack. ‘Are you mad?’
Her face falls a fraction. ‘But why not? It’s only a dinner party for eight.’
I stare at her in horror. It’s all very well cooking for Harrison, and occasionally Erin and Mark as well. I’m never happier than when I’m doing that. But cooking for eight strangers?
‘Oh God, Erin, you haven’t told her I’ll do it, have you?’ My heart is beating frantically. Partly because cooking for a living would be a dream come true, if I’m honest. But mostly because I know that I could never pull it off in a million years.
Erin grins. ‘I might have,’ she says coyly, before catching my dismayed expression. ‘Hey, don’t worry. I just said I’d check with you.’
I breathe out slowly, my hand on my chest.
‘But … oh, Poppy, you’re a brilliant cook!’ Her face twists into a frown. ‘You’re wasted at that Pretty Flaming Cheek Hotel.’
‘Pretty Flamingo Boutique Hotel,’ I remind her tartly, although she knows full well.
I’ve been a waitress in the restaurant of the Pretty Flamingo Boutique Hotel since I was sixteen and started working shifts at weekends for extra pocket money. Fourteen years later, I’m still there. I used to dream of going to catering college, but it would have meant moving away from home and I knew Mum needed me close by. Working in the next village means it’s easy to pop in and check on her in between shifts.
The hotel is owned by Evelyn and David Nutter, a couple in their fifties, although it’s Mrs Nutter who cracks the whip and makes sure to squeeze every last drop of profit from the business. She’s always been okay with me, although Erin doesn’t agree. She isn’t a fan of their hard-nosed approach to business and she thinks the Nutters take me completely for granted.
‘You must admit they do have a flaming cheek the way they treat you. You’re always being leaned on to do extra shifts by that Mrs Nutjob, and you’re far too nice to say no!’
I grin at her. ‘Erin, I enjoy being a waitress and I’m good at it. And Mrs Nutter is just trying to make the hotel a success so she and Mr Nutter can retire into the sunset.’
Erin grunts. ‘I know you’re good at your job. I’m not arguing with that.’
‘And I’m about to be promoted to restaurant manager, remember?’
‘Of course I remember. Mr Hastings is retiring and everyone knows you’re the perfect person to step into his shoes.’ She tries to look pleased. ‘And that’s brilliant, of course. It just seemed like fate when Mrs Morelli mentioned she was looking for a caterer.’
Her voice rises when she’s excited or agitated. I put my finger to my lips and indicate the living-room door, behind which my boyfriend is sitting on the sofa, poring over numbers on his laptop.
‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, leaning closer. ‘Didn’t mean to announce it to the entire universe. Is Harrison in?’
‘Yes. Harrison’s just back from work,’ I tell her in a normal voice, so he knows we’re not whispering and plotting. (Hardly necessary, really. When Harrison’s looking at numbers, he’s in his own little world.) ‘I’d invite you in but Harrison’s showing me some – erm – financial projections.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, marvellous!’ She beams, and I can see from her expression that she’s already planning a speedy escape. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then, shall I?’
Erin is thinking of buying a flat with her boyfriend, Mark, and last time she popped by, Harrison helpfully gave her a detailed run-down on the advantages and pitfalls of what every bank in Britain is currently offering in the way of mortgages. Well, it seemed like every bank to me. But that’s only because