The Best Little Christmas Shop. Maxine Morrey
I shoved myself up and turned back to face him. ‘And please don’t think I’m not happy to be home. I am. You know I am. I guess it’s just in different circumstances than I thought it might be. I feel a bit like … I’m not sure who I am right now.’
Matt gave a half laugh. ‘Lexi. You are you. You’re not, and never will be, defined by what job you do. You’re fun, intelligent, and apparently some blokes think you’re sort of pretty so –’
I stuffed a cushion over his face and he waggled his arms and legs about comically and I found myself laughing properly for the first time in what felt like months. In fact, it probably was months. I took the cushion down, and Matt took big, dramatic breaths, his eyes wide.
‘You daft sod.’ I leant in on my knees and gave him a big hug. ‘Thanks, big brother. I really missed you.’
Matt dropped a kiss on top of my head. ‘I know you did. I’d miss me too.’
I sat back and shoved the cushion at him. He grabbed his tea and finished the last of it before picking up both the mugs and rinsing them out in the tiny sink.
‘Come on. Mum’s got a lasagne big enough to feed the whole village over there. Everyone else should be here by now too.’
I hesitated in the quick brush I was giving my hair as part of the attempt I was making to pretend that I was totally put together and hadn’t just been having a blub. Not that it mattered. They’d all see straight through me anyway. Just like Matt was doing now.
‘Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t,’ Matt said.
‘They’re going to think I’m a failure. That I should have made better decisions.’
‘Lex. They’re not. Not one person thinks that. At least not one person who matters. You made the only decision you could.’
He was right. Deep down I knew that. Not that it made things any easier.
‘Stop thinking about it now. It’s done. And I’m hungry so stop faffing and come on.’
I tossed the brush onto my bed and headed for the door. ‘Nag, nag, nag,’ I mumbled as I passed him, neither of us bothering to hide the big grins on our faces. As much as it was scary in one way, it felt unbelievably good to be home.
A week later I was still up to my eyeballs in Christmas wreaths and in full realisation of what Matt had meant when he’d said orders had soared. The Four Seasons had started life as a quirky little gift shop many years ago – opened by my newlywed parents. It had a USP before that was even a thing in that it followed the seasons. In summer, it was stuffed to the roof with bunting, picnic blankets and baskets, tiki lamps, parasols and everything else you could think of, and plenty you hadn’t, for a perfect summer’s day.
But now, in the grips of winter, it was overflowing with Christmas-related goodies and a warm, cosy ambiance. This was enhanced by a massive tree that had only just fit in the door and was topped off with classy but festive instrumental music playing softly in the background.
Much of the stock was locally made, some by my family, others by friends, and the rest sourced from artisans both here and abroad. My parents had always loved discovering and nurturing new talent, although since Dad’s heart scare a couple of years ago they’d stepped back a little and my brothers now took it in turns to do the travelling for this side of the business, cramming it in around everything else including their families.
From a little shop in the village, over the last forty years, the business had grown into a very successful online one too and my brothers still had more plans for it.
The shop was part of my childhood, part of the fabric of my life. I’d actually taken my first steps in it, and growing up, I’d help choose new stock for the next season. Talking shop was never banned at our dinner table. It was positively encouraged. My brothers and I had been chief toy testers for many years and now my nieces and nephews had taken over that mantle.
Even though my own career had taken me out of the country for over half the year, my family had always made sure I was still included as much as I had the time for. Mum would email me a few pictures, or send me some product samples, asking what I thought. Depending on my mood, and how far away from home I was at the time, it was sometimes a bittersweet experience. I loved that they made a point of keeping me involved in any way they and I could manage, but I knew that had I been closer, I’d have been sat around the big, timeworn pine table discussing that same product with my family in person. Laughing, teasing, talking. And the truth was, I’d never stopped missing that.
Running a business was hard work but the shop had grown along with our family and, as such, it was almost another family member. Even when it took nearly every minute of our time, we loved it. And, much to my surprise, I now found myself sat back behind the project desk next to the till and experiencing exactly what Matt had meant about orders having shot up.
I put aside a completed wreath, gave a glance around my currently quiet surroundings, smiling at the warm fuzzies it set off somewhere deep in my soul, and began work on the next one.
Winding mistletoe around the main structure, I held it up, eyeballing it and sussing where the holly would go. The process was remarkably soothing and although I’d been doing much the same thing for the past week, in between serving customers, I’d felt some of the tension I’d been carrying around for a long time very slowly begin to ebb out of me.
Creating was good for the soul my parents had always said, and although I’d been taught some basic skills, I’d always been more interested in tinkering with the old Jag Dad had in the garage below my room. It was one of those projects he always meant to get around to but never had, and then his heart attack had happened. It had been a huge scare for all of us. Dad had always seemed full of life and indestructible – big and broad like my brothers – but his heart attack had brought us down to earth and now we all fussed him probably a little too much for his liking.
But, thank goodness, he’d been sensible and my parents took the opportunity to step back a little, leaving much of the day-to-day running to Dan and the others. And leaving the Jag to me. But it was still sat in much the same condition as when he’d given it to me. I just never seemed to get the time to do anything on it. During the times that I did get to visit home, I wanted to be with my family and friends, catching up on everything I’d missed, not stuck out on my own in a chilly garage. As much as I loved cars, and that Jag particularly, I loved my family more.
Who knows? Maybe now that the career I’d worked so hard to build was swirling around the plughole, I might finally have the time to do something on it. Not exactly the way I’d planned things to go but still. Although I loved the shop and had worked in here since I could remember, possibly as more of a hindrance than help in my early years, I never thought for a moment that I’d be sat back here in my thirties. A sharp jab in my thumb from a particularly robust holly leaf brought me painfully out of my reverie.
‘Oh f –’ I glared at the leaf now firmly attached to my digit. And then I looked over it and directly into the wide, soft grey eyes of a little boy around five years old who was regarding me curiously. Behind him stood a pair of long, indigo-denim-clad legs. My gaze followed them up and I found myself on the end of an intense stare from a similar pair of eyes.
But these were a much stormier grey, set in the ridiculously good-looking face of a man I assumed to be the boy’s father. I cleared my throat and swallowed my words, making a mental note to get one of my brothers to fix a bell to the back of the door as soon as possible.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.’
The man quirked a dark brow almost imperceptibly. ‘Evidently.’ His expression was firmly set to unamused. I gave him a fixed smile and looked back to my desk, hoping he’d leave to go and practise his ninja shopping skills elsewhere. The young boy’s eyes were focused on my hands as I picked up the holly again, a little more carefully this time.
‘Come