The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he next morning, Sophie was sitting on the kitchen counter in the manor, reading a book she’d found shoved unceremoniously on the end of a bookshelf in Harry’s study: The Art of Being a Consultant Who Cares. Harry was frying bacon, slicing a seeded sourdough from Dexter’s bakery, and the radio was playing festive songs, ‘Fairytale of New York’ following ‘Last Christmas’ in the background.

‘Listen to this,’ Sophie said, swinging her legs.

‘Do I have to?’ Harry took four eggs out of a box and put them next to the hob.

‘ Being a truly caring consultant ,’ she read aloud, ‘ means thinking like your client, bringing yourself to their level. You will never understand how best to help them unless you identify with them in some way. See what colours they like, match your tie to their jumper. Bring them their favourite coffee when you meet. Take an interest in their children’s lives. Harry!’ she laughed.

‘It was my leaving present when I left the job in London – a tongue-in-cheek one.’

‘It’s a real book, though,’ Sophie said in wonder. ‘It has a publisher and everything. But it’s incredibly nuts. Is the writer a real human, do you think?’

‘He’s probably a psychopath. You get a lot of them in high-stakes business.’

She leaned back on the counter. ‘Are you a psychopath?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Harry turned the bacon over, and the sizzling ratcheted up a notch.

‘You said nice things last night.’ She put the book down. ‘About Mistingham, and about me.’

‘And you returned the favour.’ He put down the spatula and stood in front of her. She widened her legs, caging his hips between them.

‘I didn’t,’ she said. ‘I mumbled something pathetic up on that stage. But that was your fault, because you caught me off guard.’

‘I think you said …’ He closed his eyes, as if he was trying to remember. ‘ Working with Harry has been great .’ He opened them again, and gave her what could only be described as a cheeky smile. It entirely warranted her flicking a tea towel at his arm.

‘Hey!’ He rubbed the spot where she’d landed her weapon. ‘You are way too good at the tea-towel flick.’

‘A boy in one of my foster homes did it constantly, so I had to up my game.’

Harry squeezed her waist. ‘No need to up your game here,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to change anything about yourself; you don’t need to try at anything. Just be you.’ He kissed her nose, then went back to his pan.

‘OK,’ Sophie managed around the lump in her throat. ‘Except I think we’ll have to try hard to rustle up some visitors for tonight.’ She gestured to the window, the blur of rain against the glass, the tap-tap-tap from the sleet that was mixed up with it. The trees were swaying chaotically, like a backing group that had all been given a different dance routine for the same song.

‘Some of the hardier villagers will still come,’ Harry said. ‘And if it gets too awful, we can move most of it into the hall. The open mic, the Rudolph Hoopla. The bridge tournament and the Decoration Station will just have to be squeezed a bit.’

Sophie slid off the counter and got out plates and cutlery. ‘It’s going to fuck everything up, though. We can’t possibly fit all of it in the hall, and the craft stands and food trucks won’t survive a monsoon.’

‘We’ll play it by ear,’ Harry said calmly. ‘Take every challenge as it comes.’

It was this, Sophie thought: his certainty, his confidence, that she loved so much. One of the things, anyway. It made her feel safe, it made her feel certain. Her brain was stuttering over the word that had come so easily to her, the L word, when he said, ‘You remember that book you mentioned? You said you’d been given one as an anonymous gift?’

Sophie stilled, clutching two forks. ‘So I did tell you, then.’

‘You mentioned something about it.’ Harry cracked eggs into the pan. ‘Any luck finding out where it came from?’

‘No,’ Sophie admitted. After accusing Fiona, it felt tainted, somehow. Not the book itself, but her desperate need to find out the source. It was as if it was telling her to stay well away, enjoy it for what it was – like Winnie and Simon were doing with theirs – and stop digging. ‘I didn’t find out, but I don’t mind, really.’

‘No?’ Harry asked.

‘It was a generous gift, a story I love, so what else do I need to know? Sometimes, these things find their way to you exactly when you need them. I think it’s best if I leave it at that.’

‘Right,’ Harry said quietly, and when she glanced at him, he was staring at the frying eggs, as if they held within them all the mysteries of the universe.

‘This is a disaster,’ Sophie said loudly, as she and Harry reached the green that evening. Puddles covered the grassy surface, and the bunting was dancing frantically, one end looking perilously close to coming untied.

‘What?!’ Harry shouted, and she turned to him and repeated it. They were soaked already, their waterproof coats shielding them from the worst of it, but nobody would want to play Hook the Duck or eat baked Alaska in this.

‘It might ease off,’ Harry said, as Jason ran to his truck, carrying a box of supplies wrapped in a large plastic bag.

‘See you’ve not wangled the weather in our favour!’ he called over, grinning.

‘We’re trying,’ Harry called back. ‘Leave it with us!’

‘Maybe we should get Birdie to perform a spell,’ Sophie said, staring at the oak tree. ‘Some kind of anti-rain dance.’

‘I’d happily ask her if I thought it would make a difference. I need to check that the waterproof box for the electrics has stayed waterproof.’

Sophie’s stomach clenched. ‘Can’t someone else do that?’

‘What?’ He looked at her, his eyes gleaming beneath his hood.

‘Someone …’ she wanted to say more expendable , but that would sound beyond callous. ‘Just be careful, OK?’

‘Yes, boss.’ Harry gave her a reassuring smile, then strode over to the outside wall of the village hall, where the electrics for the lights, sound system and Rudolph Hoopla were plugged into a sturdy-looking box. It promised it was waterproof, and Sophie hoped that, even in the face of such a horrible storm, that was a promise it would keep.

An hour later, both the wind and rain had faded, and Harry had posted an update on the Mistingham Facebook group that wellies were the preferred footwear, but that there was more fun to be had at the Festive Oak Fest.

‘It felt strange, writing those words,’ he admitted, as he and Sophie sheltered under the awning of Natasha’s bar with cups of steaming mulled wine.

‘Using the words “more fun to be had”?’ Sophie grinned at him.

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ve had quite a lot of fun with you, recently,’ she pointed out.

‘Let’s not perform that on the stage tonight,’ Harry said, in the low growl that did funny things to her. ‘I’m not sure we’ll be invited to organize any more events if we do.’ His lips were inches from hers.

She swallowed. ‘It would be talked about for a hundred years, at least. But I didn’t just mean that. I meant all of it – buying lights together, late-night paddling, goat rescuing.’

‘You enjoyed the goat rescue?’

‘I enjoyed your shower afterwards. And I enjoyed Felix being safe.’

‘Felix is a menace.’

‘You love him.’

‘For my sins.’

‘You’re the best goat dad.’

‘ Goat dad? Sophie Stevens, you are just about—’

‘Just about what?’ She smiled up at him, and he glared at her. He was trying, but mostly failing, to keep a straight face.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and whip up some festive cheer amongst the people who have bothered to turn out tonight.’

Apart from the puddles, the evening got off to a good start, a four-piece band of teenagers starting off the open mic with a rousing rendition of ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’ that got everyone singing along .

‘Sorry about the puddles,’ Sophie heard Harry say as the young saxophonist picked his way across the grass afterwards. ‘You were great, by the way.’

‘We’ve got more songs if you want,’ the young man said with a cocky grin. ‘We can do Rihanna’s “Umbrella”.’

Harry laughed. ‘Definitely do that. I’ll find you space in the schedule.’

Half an hour later, Sophie had let go of most of her concerns. The villagers didn’t seem to care about the bad weather – seemed to thrive on it, in fact – and Simon’s fish and chips and Natasha’s mulled wine were both popular on such a cold night. The Decoration Station was also getting a lot of interest, and it swelled Sophie’s heart to know that each one of the little handmade decorations had a Christmas wish or a message of gratitude inside: that the oak tree – at the heart of the village where it belonged – was also carrying their heartfelt messages.

She was showing one of Lucy’s friends, Sabina, how to stand and throw to have the best chance of scoring big on the Carnival Toss, when she saw a familiar figure meandering through the crowd.

‘Thanks, Aunty Sophie,’ Lucy said with a grin, her reindeer antlers jiggling in the wind. ‘We’re good now.’

‘You sure? OK, then.’ She said goodbye and chased the dark ponytail across the green. She hadn’t seen May properly for a few days, and she wanted to ask her about Christmas presents for Harry. They hadn’t talked about what they were doing on Christmas Day, which seemed ridiculous when it was only three days away, but she thought that was probably because Harry didn’t want to pressure her into committing to anything she wasn’t ready for. She felt guilty, and she wanted to show him how much he meant to her.

‘May!’ she called. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the Rudolph Hoopla and someone singing ‘Mack the Knife’, and over the wind that had returned with full force, whistling between the food trucks and craft stalls, sending the oak tree’s decked-out limbs into a discordant frenzy.

May clearly hadn’t heard her, but Sophie persisted, pausing when there was a shriek from somewhere, making sure it was a happy shriek, not one signifying disaster. When she was confident it was a patron enjoying themselves, she hurried on. She saw May turn towards the row of craft stalls, and then, as she got close, someone shouted her name, their voice rising above the other festival sounds.

Sophie peered over the tops of heads to see who wanted her. It hadn’t sounded like Harry. Ermin, maybe? Was it …? There was a huge crack of thunder, followed by a long, loud rumble, as if a giant had taken the break on a huge pool table in the sky, and the balls were rolling, rolling, rolling above them. She instinctively ducked down, and now there were some unhappy squeals in the crowd, because with the thunder came the rain. It fell all of a sudden, like an icy sheet.

‘Shit!’ She scanned the green again and saw Harry standing by the oak tree, his hand raised, waving frantically, his expression telling her that she needed to get over there.

She raised her arm, hoping he’d seen her, and began to cross the green towards him, weaving through people who had their heads down, looking for shelter. Then the whole scene lit up in a huge flash, a second of complete whiteout, and the thunder crashed again. There were shrieks and people running, pelting rain and the howl of the wind. Sophie stood for a moment, frozen to the spot, and then, just as she was about to get going again, a deafening BANG obliterated all the other sounds, making her jump and plunging everything into darkness. No more Rudolph and his soundtrack, no more Frank Sinatra renditions, no more glimmering lights in the trees or glow through the hall windows. No more streetlights.

The whole of Mistingham faded to black, and then, all hell broke loose.