Saving Christmas in the Little Irish Village (The Little Irish Village #5)

Chapter 32

32

When Tom and Hannah stood back to admire their handiwork, the Christmas tree was resplendent with glittering knick-knacks, and Tom was rubbing his hands together in satisfaction of a job well done. Hannah looked on, pleased because after hearing about Tom’s childhood, she’d thrown herself into beautifying the tree, determined not to dampen his enthusiasm for the task.

‘I think the smell of a real tree is good for the soul,’ Tom said.

‘I think you’re right.’

He raised his eyebrow at that.

‘I mean, I agree,’ Hannah modified, making him grin. Her stomach killed the moment by protesting loudly that lunch had yet to be served, and she wrapped her hands around her tummy. ‘Sorry. It’s a law unto itself, my tummy, and it’s telling me it’s starving.’

‘Mine agrees with yours.’

Nora had ducked in over half an hour ago to let them know there was a pot of home-made soup left on the stove that needed warming. Nan had gone off to her Christmas party.

‘Come on then.’

Tom didn’t need to be asked twice. He picked up the box of decorations and glanced over to where Liam was entertaining Americans at the bar with a Guinness-pouring demonstration. Nora, baking done, was teaching another tour-group member how to order a pint in Irish.

Tom picked up his pace, seeing Hannah holding the connecting door to the kitchen open for him. ‘Liam and Nora are natural hosts. My dad could learn a thing or two from them.’

‘They love it. I don’t think either of them could imagine a different life,’ Hannah replied, directing Tom to the storage cupboard where the box could live until it was time to take the tree down. She was rolling her sleeves up, having fetched a couple of bowls, when he returned empty-handed a moment later. But instead of sitting at the table waiting for his lunch like the paying guest he was, Tom automatically went to the stove to begin heating the soup.

He belonged here.

The rogue thought made Hannah freeze.

‘OK?’ Tom glanced at her statue-like form.

‘Grand, just looking for the bread knife.’ Hannah made a show of looking for the knife. She located it in the sink, telling herself, You are being ridiculous, Hannah Kelly , then wiped it and began slicing into the remaining hunk of her nan’s soda bread. Thank goodness Tom couldn’t read her mind!

They set about putting their meal together in silence, and before long, they were sitting down to enjoy the fruits of their labour. If you could call reheating soup and buttering bread labour, Hannah thought as she dipped her spoon into the creamy blend of leek and potatoes, determined not to slurp like she usually did with soup. She was soon wiping her bowl clean with the last chunk of bread, and when she glanced at Tom, she saw he was smirking. ‘What’s so funny?’

He tapped his chin. ‘Soup.’

Hannah swiped her chin with the back of her hand. ‘Gone?’

‘Not quite.’

He reached over and wiped the remnants away with his thumb, and Hannah could feel the imprint of his touch long after he’d lowered his hand. She set about collecting up the dishes, glad of something to do.

What was going on with her? Why was he having this effect on her?

‘I’ll wash – you dry,’ Tom stated, following her over to the worktop.

Hannah was puzzled over how she could have done an emotional U-turn where the Shamrock’s guest was concerned in just a few short hours. Come to that, her feelings had done a complete 360 degrees, not just a U-turn. ‘Fine by me.’ She picked up a tea towel, waiting while he filled the sink.

‘Are we still on for heading to the abandoned farm?’ she asked.

‘Of course.’

‘We could walk lunch off.’ A blast of fresh air would sort her out, Hannah decided.

Tom turned the taps off and glanced over at her. ‘I’m up for it if you are?’

For some reason, his response to the straightforward suggestion felt loaded, and Hannah brooded as he set about scrubbing the bowls. What was he up for exactly? And more to the point, what was she up for?

By the time they rugged up to venture out, the kitchen was tidier than when they’d found it. A briny wind blowing straight in from the Atlantic cut through them as they hunkered down and followed the road past the deserted park.

‘Have you always worked for non-profit organisations like Feed the World with Bees?’ Tom asked as, from the park, the sound of the swings’ forlorn squeaking as they were blown back and forth reached their ears.

‘Pretty much straight from college.’ Hannah relayed the infamous Christmas tree story where it had all begun then gave him a brief rundown of her work history, opening up about how things weren’t working out like she’d thought they would.

‘I don’t feel like I’ve found where or what I’m supposed to be. When I left college, I saw myself heading abroad to work on the front lines for different organisations where I could make a difference. But when it came to it, I was frightened. I don’t think I’m strong enough to cope with the reality of it.’

Hannah swallowed. She’d never told anyone this before, but she had nothing to lose. If the Greenhouse project didn’t go ahead, then in all likelihood, she’d never see Tom again once he left Emerald Bay. The thought made her sad, and she felt small inside her coat as she said, ‘All I ever wanted to do was something that contributes or helps people or the planet in some way, but I’m a glorified paper pusher with a big mouth.’

‘There she goes again: Debbie Downer, and you are helping. The work you do is important.’

‘Maybe. I wonder sometimes. And I don’t know if I want to pass out flyers and flog seed cards for the rest of my life.’ She didn’t know if she belonged in Dylan’s world either. ‘Mam talked to me about following in Shannon’s shoes and going into nursing once, but I don’t have the right temperament.’

‘No?’

Hannah side-eyed him. His mouth was trembling, and she gave him a playful shove, seeing the funny side of it. ‘Are you questioning my bedside manner?’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ His expression softened. ‘You’re forthright, is all. You say what’s in your heart.’

‘And sometimes there’s a time and place for that, which I don’t always pick up on.’

Tom’s hands were thrust deep into the pockets of his Burberry, and he was quiet for a few steps. Hannah was unsure whether she’d talked too much about herself. She was about to ask him about the route he’d taken to architectural project management, feeling bad about all the times she’d silently called him an architectural arse, when he spoke up.

‘You were great with the kids last night.’

‘Do you think?’ Hannah’s eyes lit up at the praise.

‘Yeah. I do.’

‘It was surprisingly fun.’

‘Yeah, it was. Have you ever thought about work that involves youth mentoring?’

Youth mentoring? What did that even entail? Hannah wondered, her step faltering. Her response was automatic. ‘Sure, I’d be hopeless at it.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘That type of work’s for people who have their lives sorted, and mine’s a long way from that.’

‘I disagree. You know your own mind, and that’s admirable.’

Hannah wished that was true. ‘What about what you do? Is it your passion?’

‘Yeah. It is. The only word I can think of that explains how it feels to see something step out of your head and take physical form is magic. I like overseeing the whole process.’

Hannah listened as Tom explained his work, seeing how animated his features became when he talked about it. There was so much more to his job title than she’d thought. It embarrassed her to think how easily she’d pigeonholed him, and she vowed to work on that whole judgemental thing.

They were closing in on the abandoned farm now, the lane devoid of the vehicles that had blocked it on Sunday.

‘Here we are,’ Tom said, gesturing to the cottage. He climbed over the stone wall, holding his hand out to Hannah, and she took it even though she’d no need of help. Today, the field was eerily empty, but muddied footprints were still visible in the soft soil where spectators had loitered less than forty-eight hours ago.

‘The cottage will act as a windbreak,’ Hannah said, swiftly approaching the ruin, which sat at a haphazard angle, like it was sinking into the soil in the middle of the field. She didn’t want Tom to see the colour in her cheeks from holding his hand.

A crow, startled by their presence, flew off its rooftop perch, cawing. It was a bird cry that always made her feel lonely. She looked over her shoulder to ensure Tom was still there because today, the prickling sensation at the back of her neck was an intense reminder of the ghosts that haunted this place.

Hannah stooped at the entrance to the cottage – the gaping rectangular frame where she’d sat huddled with Nan and Freya – and once inside, she straightened. The earthy smell was overwhelming, and she fancied that if memories had a scent, this would be it. The two windows were like empty eye sockets letting in the bare minimum of light, and overhead, through the rafters, were glimmers of the sky above.

When Tom blocked the doorway, Hannah had to strain to see. ‘Don’t bang your head on the frame,’ she warned.

Accordingly, he hunched over then stepped onto the mix of chipped flagstones and compacted dirt, giving his eyes a moment to adjust like Hannah had before taking in their surroundings. Then he moved to the interior door to check out the adjoining room.

Meanwhile, Hannah took a few steps, touching the dank bricks where the wattle and daub covering the walls had begun to crumble. They were slick, and she thought it was probably colder in here than outside. Her eyes swept over the chimney, which was now in a state of collapse. Once upon a time, a blazing fire in the hearth would have had a pot hanging over it. The soupy smell of stretching out food would have filled this space, growing more watery each day, until there was nothing left to put in the pot, and the people who’d lived here had to go.

A bottle clinked as it rolled on the ground in the room into which Tom had disappeared. Hannah closed her eyes, trying to imagine the previous occupants’ lives. For a second, she thought she could hear better times, when the clucking of hens had scratched in the dirt outside the cottage, but as Tom re-entered the space in which she stood, Hannah blinked the echoes away.

‘You can feel them, can’t you?’ Hannah shivered. ‘Those who came before.’ She might have played ghost hunting with her sisters and their friends when they were kids, but today was the first time she’d known in her heart they were here.

Tom’s eyes had widened to deal with the gloom, and she could tell by the glint she saw there that he could.

It was time to tell him the story that had brought them there.

‘When my nan and granddad first met, this was where they used to come. They planned their life together inside these walls.’ Hannah spoke with reverence. ‘I didn’t know, but Nan still comes here occasionally. To remember and to feel close to Granddad. That connection can’t be taken from her, Tom.’

‘Tell me how they met,’ Tom said quietly, and Hannah relayed the story still so fresh in her mind. And when she’d finished, she could feel the tug of the past keenly, gradually becoming aware of Tom’s eyes on her.

‘Now I understand,’ was all he said.