The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Sixteen

‘ O ne month and three days until Christmas.’ Sophie spoke the words into the quiet of Harry’s study, the fire crackling in the background. Darkness, Terror and Clifton were asleep on the rug in front of the flames, the wind whispering through the trees in the darkness outside, beyond the cosy barrier of the curtains.

Harry didn’t reply immediately, just as he’d so far ignored his beer, whereas Sophie was nearly at the bottom of her bottle. But she didn’t say anything else, because there was a lot of pleasure in watching him work, his head bent over the ancient sewing machine Vea had lent them, creating the bunting that, at the beginning of the week, he’d had no interest in making. Now, he was focusing on it as if his life depended on producing a hundred perfect pennants.

‘You are great at this.’ She couldn’t hide her wonder, because she hadn’t expected such delicate dexterity from a man who was adept at knocking fence posts into the ground. ‘There I was extolling the virtues of working with your hands, and you’re the one who should be teaching me.’

‘I could certainly teach you some things, if you wanted me to.’

Sophie’s breath hitched.

Harry looked up, his lips parted. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sophie, I’m sorry, I—’

‘It’s OK.’ She grinned to cover her fluttering heart and racing thoughts. How immersed in his work must he have been to let those words slip out? She didn’t think he’d been joking – or not entirely.

His eyes were back on the sewing machine, perhaps out of embarrassment, and with the overhead light above him – they’d turned it on so they could see well enough to work – his long eyelashes made feathery shadows on his cheeks.

‘This is a lot of bunting,’ he said gruffly, after a few minutes of awkward silence.

‘I know,’ Sophie said. ‘But it’ll be worth it. We’re supposed to be doing it together, though.’

Technically, they still were. Sophie was tidying up the pennants Harry had sewn together using the thick, glittery ribbon they’d chosen, snipping off loose threads and generally neatening up where necessary. Except he really had it under control, and now they had a long trail of Christmas pudding bunting, another with gambolling reindeer on, and a third that was a frenzied delight of triangles in glittering red, green, gold and silver, which made Sophie’s eyes hurt.

‘We are doing it together,’ Harry murmured, his focus on the fabric and ribbon he was easing beneath the needle. ‘Anyway, I’m going to get to the end of this row, then we’re downing tools.’

‘We are?’ Sophie hid her disappointment. She thought of her flat, homely but with few distractions on a Friday night in November.

‘I thought I could cook something, if you wanted?’ Harry said. ‘Unless you have other plans.’

‘Oh! No, I don’t. I’d love that.’ She pointed at the sewing machine. ‘Hurry up, then. I’m starving.’

‘Yes, boss.’ He flashed her a smile that felt more dangerous than she cared to admit.

He refused to let her help him in the kitchen, which left her stuck in the study, unwilling to take herself on an illicit tour of his house while he was otherwise occupied. She got out her notebook, looked at her paltry list of Secret Bookshop candidates, then put it away again. At least getting involved in the festival had done the village some good, even if it hadn’t yet solved her book-shaped mystery.

Fiona and Ermin had been delighted when she’d cornered them both in the shop and told them the festival was moving to the village green, and they’d embraced her ideas about involving the community: the pot-luck buffet, the open-mic night, everyone making decorations for the tree and some kind of games tournament.

‘Which game?’ Ermin had asked eagerly, Poppet dancing at his feet, impatient for her walk.

‘I don’t know yet. I need to see what games the village hall has first.’

‘And you’ll allow anything at the open-mic night?’ Fiona asked. ‘Any talent at all?’

‘I think so,’ Sophie said. ‘We want everyone to feel comfortable taking part.’

‘Jazz mentioned something about singing,’ Fiona said. ‘She’s done some busking in the past, and I was going to suggest she could get involved in the carol choir, but she might want do something on her own.’

‘How’s she doing?’ Sophie saw her whenever she popped into the shop, but she still seemed elusive, almost like the ghost they had believed her to be when they’d heard her in the abandoned bookshop.

‘She’s still here,’ Fiona had said, her smile wavering. ‘She says she’s grateful for our help, but she doesn’t want to be in debt to us. She’s going to see Mary about a job at the hotel, because she wants to pay us rent. She said she might stay until Christmas, then move on.’

Sophie had felt a dull ache in her chest. It was all so familiar, that need to be self-sufficient, to not want to rely on other people. ‘I’ll ask her to coffee,’ she’d said, wanting to help in some way.

‘Why?’ Fiona had asked. ‘So you can share your plans about leaving Mistingham behind?’

Sophie hadn’t known what to say to that. She hadn’t wanted to tell her friend that she’d done nothing more to set her move in motion since looking up Cornwall on her phone. The truth of it was that mysterious books, Christmas festivals and Harry taking up so much of her time meant she hadn’t had a chance to plan her getaway in any more detail.

Harry came back into the study carrying two plates piled high with food. There were sausages, mashed potato and gravy, peas spilling across the top, and Yorkshire puddings placed precariously on the side.

‘This looks incredible,’ Sophie said, moving to his desk.

‘The Yorkshires are Aunt Bessie’s, but the sausages are local.’

‘Do you always eat in here?’ she asked, as Harry put a plate in front of her.

‘Not always, but the kitchen and dining room are disaster areas right now. I think the mash is dust free.’

Sophie scooped some up on her fork and tried it. ‘Well, even if it’s not, it tastes delicious.’

They tucked into the food, the silence between them so much more comfortable than it had been a couple of weeks ago.

‘What will you do when the house is finished?’ Sophie asked. ‘Find a full-time consulting job?’

He laughed. ‘I don’t know if the house will ever be finished.’

‘You’re committed to staying here, then?’

‘Of course.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Did you think I was going to refurbish it, then sell it and move away?’

‘I didn’t know, honestly.’ She shrugged. ‘You were in London for a long time, and you don’t always seem happy here. You don’t enjoy the consultancy work – it’s not your long-term plan – so what will you do when the house is exactly as you want it?’

He cut into a sausage, speared a piece on his fork. ‘Something more creative,’ he said. ‘Something to do with the manor, maybe. But I haven’t allowed myself to think about that yet. I’m still trying to catch up, after everything that happened with Dad. It’s not been the easiest few years.’

‘Has it helped, having May close by?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘She’s the most positive person I know, and it was hard to see her after she came back from America. She was so defeated by it; how the whole thing – the industry, the lifestyle – differed from her expectations. But she’s bounced back, we’ve helped each other, I think, and it’s good not to be rattling around here by myself.’

Sophie stabbed peas onto her fork, avoiding his gaze. ‘How long have you been together?’

Harry was silent for a long time, and eventually, Sophie looked up.

‘May and I aren’t together,’ he said, but he didn’t sound surprised that she’d asked. ‘We were, briefly, as teenagers – which feels like a lifetime ago – but it didn’t last. We’re good friends now, and I honestly don’t know what I would have done without her, but there are no romantic feelings there, for either of us.’

‘OK,’ Sophie said, far too brightly, and went back to her dinner.

‘I don’t think she’s spent any time thinking about what my hands are capable of,’ he murmured, and her breath caught. She looked up to find him staring at her, his expression impassive. Was he waiting for her to reply? Was he teasing her? Sometimes she had no idea what was going on behind his hazel eyes.

‘Harry—’ she started.

‘What about you and Dexter?’

‘ Dexter? ’

‘You’re close, aren’t you?’

‘We’re friends,’ Sophie said. ‘Just friends. It hasn’t been that long since his wife died, I have no idea if he’s even considering …’ She shook her head. ‘There’s never been anything between us.’

‘Right,’ Harry said. He nodded, then went back to his food.

In the quiet that followed, the crackling, smouldering fire seemed to echo the tension simmering between them, the atmosphere no longer comfortable but instead charged with something that, to Sophie at least, felt as if it could set the entire manor alight if they weren’t careful about it.

Once they’d finished eating, they moved to the armchairs in front of the fire.

‘Tell me about Mrs Fairweather,’ Harry said, cradling his mug of hot chocolate. He’d made it for them after he’d cleared up the plates, had even found some marshmallows in a cupboard that he assured Sophie were still in date. ‘You said she did more for you than anyone else?’

Sophie tucked her feet up under her, inhaled the sweetness coming from her mug. The dogs were drowsy and content in front of the flames, and Sophie wished she felt the same. Everything had shifted since she’d asked him about May, the boundary between them suddenly gone, making room for possibility that brought with it an undercurrent of panic. She didn’t know what to do with her newfound understanding. Mrs Fairweather was easier ground, and she was glad he’d asked.

‘She treated me like a real person,’ Sophie said. ‘She told me that my hopes were valid, that growing up the way I had shouldn’t stop me from pursuing whatever life I wanted. She bought me a beautiful notebook one Christmas, and told me that writing my thoughts down would help me to sort through them. When she saw how much I loved crafts – collages and sewing, I did leatherwork at school – she encouraged me to go to art college.’ She smiled at the memories. Mrs Fairweather had been tall and rosy-cheeked, friendly more often than she was stern, though she wouldn’t let her kids get away with much.

‘And you decided to make notebooks?’

‘Not until I’d finished college. My final piece was all about different types of paper – collages and origami, pop-up greeting cards. I made a series of tiny sculptures with pages of old books, newspapers, tissue paper – and it just … it made me feel more excited than anything else I’d considered doing. I started small, getting to know the different processes and techniques around bar jobs and waitressing, spending whatever spare wages I had on supplies.’

‘You must have been dedicated, to get to where you are now.’

She smiled. ‘Partly. I was devastated when Mrs Fairweather retired, but I was seventeen, so I wouldn’t have been able to stay with her much longer anyway. We kept in touch, mostly by email, but she died four years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Thank you.’ She swallowed. ‘I was lucky to have her, and even luckier that she left me some money in her will. It’s been a big help, allowed me to focus more on my business. It’s never been the most lucrative of livings, but I’m building up a good customer base now, and I wouldn’t want to do anything else.’

‘Didn’t Fiona say something about the old sweet shop?’ Harry frowned. ‘I’m sure she mentioned it … a while ago?’

Sophie’s stomach flipped. ‘She suggested that I might be able to rent it out, have a permanent home for my notebooks, as well as somewhere more suitable to make them. It would be an investment, but I could work on more designs, buy in other stationery lines: pens and letter holders, quirky things that tourists would love.’

‘It sounds ideal,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m sure the owner would be fair with the rent, for something so creatively worthwhile.’

She laughed. ‘You’re just getting back on your feet; you can’t offer mates’ rates. Anyway, I’m not sure it’s something I want to do right now.’

Harry crossed one knee over the other. ‘Mates’ rates would be better than the zero rent I’m collecting at the moment. Those shops have been so far down my to-do list that I haven’t made finding tenants a priority. And you’ve just told me all the ways it would help you expand your business. I’d love to rent it out to you.’

Sophie stared into the fire. It sounded promising, but it was also a gamble. She would need to lay out a lot of money – to secure the lease, on shop touch-ups, notebook materials, other stock – before she saw any return. It might not work out, and anyway – anyway – she was leaving. None of it mattered.

‘I don’t know what my plans are, longer term,’ she said cautiously. ‘They might not involve Mistingham.’

Her words were followed by silence, and she saw the moment they landed, Harry’s eyes widening a fraction before he schooled his features into impassivity. ‘You’re not staying here?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘There’s this place in Cornwall …’

‘That’s hundreds of miles away. Do you have family there? Friends?’

Sophie shook her head. ‘Sometimes it’s good to shake things up.’ It was hard to put any conviction into her words when she was sitting here, opposite him.

‘You’re planning on moving to the other side of the country? Leaving this beautiful seaside village behind, leaving everyone – Fiona and Ermin, Dexter – because you want to “shake things up”?’ He was quiet, incredulous, and Sophie wished she could explain it to him in a way that would make sense. But was that even possible? Her decisions usually only made sense to her.

‘I haven’t decided yet,’ she said, and realized it was the truth. In the past, excluding Bristol, moving on had always felt right – exciting, full of possibility, not muddied with dread or uncertainty. Over the last few weeks, a tiny voice had been whispering to her, saying that maybe, this time, she was getting it wrong: maybe Mistingham held answers to questions she’d never stayed anywhere long enough to ask.

But Harry didn’t seem mollified by her answer. He nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared into the fire. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said after a moment. ‘Do you want me to drive you back?’

‘Oh.’ Her throat clogged with disappointment. ‘That would be great. Thank you.’

He stood up and held his hand out, and Sophie took it. She felt an unmistakable tingle as her warm skin touched his, felt his strength as he easily pulled her to her feet. But there was a bigger distance between them now than there had been earlier, when they were sitting on opposite sides of his desk, when she’d thought he was in a relationship with May and he’d believed she had a thing with Dexter.

Despite the cosiness of Harry’s study, the gently burning fire, Sophie suddenly felt cold.