Twins For Christmas. Alison Roberts
it break and drift down in pieces.
‘We don’t do Christmas.’ He wasn’t shouting but the quiet words were chillingly final. ‘Not in this house.’
Poppy burst into tears. Oliver was staring at the falling paper chains and Emma just knew she was going to see this staunch little boy cry for the first time, too. But the sound that came out of his mouth was more like a cry of fear.
‘Daddy …’ His pointing was urgent and Emma turned her head automatically, in time to see the flames from the paper chain that had landed on top of the stove.
With a vehement curse Adam flung himself towards that side of the kitchen. He grabbed a tea towel, put it under the cold tap and then covered the pile of burning paper. It was all over in seconds.
Except that it wasn’t over. Both the children were sobbing and this time Oliver had no objection when Emma gathered him under her free arm and took both children out of the kitchen and away from their father.
They were still sobbing by the time she’d got them bathed and into bed. Poppy fell asleep almost instantly, totally worn out by her misery. When Emma went back to check on Oliver again, she found he was also asleep—a tight ball of child entirely covered by bedding, with only his nose poking out. She bent and kissed the cold little nose.
‘It’ll be okay,’ she whispered, just in case he wasn’t really asleep. ‘I promise.’
She would just have to make it okay, she decided as she forced herself to go back downstairs instead of going to hide in her room, which was what she would have preferred.
Somehow she would have to put things right.
Adam didn’t hear Emma coming down the stairs but he knew she was on her way by the subtle change in the dogs. The way they pricked their ears and Benji’s tail made an almost apologetic sweep of the tiles that he couldn’t suppress.
He didn’t look up, however, so he was still sitting there at the table with his forehead resting on one hand and a whisky glass encircled by the other as she came into the kitchen. He hadn’t cleaned up the mess of charred paper yet and all he’d done with the plates of half-eaten food had been to push them to one side to make room for the whisky decanter and two glasses.
Two glasses?
Well … he had to start somewhere, didn’t he?
‘I’m sorry.’ It was harder than he’d expected to get the words out. A shame it made it sound like he didn’t really mean it but he did. He was absolutely appalled at how he’d behaved. And in front of the children …
He shoved the empty glass towards the closest chair at his end of the table. ‘Help yourself.’
She probably didn’t even drink whisky, he thought, as he remembered her refusal the other night. The night when he’d had the impression that she understood exactly how he was feeling.
Could he make her understand this?
The fact that she sat down in the chair and then reached to pull the stopper out of the decanter gave him a glimmer of hope. At least she was prepared to listen. He waited until he’d heard her pour herself a dram and then the clink of the stopper going back. He still couldn’t look up to meet her gaze, however.
‘It was the tree,’ he said. ‘It was in the same place. Exactly the same place.’
There. He’d said it. Only maybe it wasn’t enough because all he got back was an expectant silence. He risked a glance up from the amber liquid he was swirling in the bottom of his glass.
Blue eyes, she had. With a hint of grey, like the sea when there was a storm on the horizon. Right now they looked as big as oceans, too. She looked as though she could already see all she needed to know but she wanted to hear the words as well.
Adam took a sip of the warmed whisky and felt the fire trickle down his gullet.
‘The tree was right there beside the fire,’ he said finally. ‘When I got back home on Christmas Eve. It was covered with all its decorations and the lights were still flashing as though nothing had happened. All the presents were underneath, waiting for the bairns in the morning.’
Still Emma said nothing.
‘I’d had to go all the way to Edinburgh,’ Adam continued. ‘To identify Tania’s body. I’d been thinking all the way that she would be terribly burned and it would be the worst thing I’d ever seen but there wasn’t a mark on her, apart from the soot in her hair and around her nose and mouth.’
It had still been the worst thing he’d ever had to deal with, though. The shock of seeing his dead wife had been terrible enough. To be told she hadn’t been alone in her bed had been an additional blow he hadn’t been able to handle.
The police had been so understanding. Apologetic, really, at having to deliver the extra blow. Sympathetic. It could be kept quiet, if that’s what he would prefer.
Of course he would. Nobody would ever know. Emma certainly didn’t need to know, even though it was tempting to tell her, thanks to the look of appalled empathy in her eyes. Did he want her to really understand? To feel … sorry for him?
No.
He cleared his throat. ‘She’d died from the smoke inhalation, not the flames.’
Flames. How shocking had it been to see that paper chain erupt? The children must have been terrified and it was all because he hadn’t known what to do with that dreadful surge of feelings that had been unbearable.
‘It was very late by the time I got back. My mother was asleep upstairs with the children and it was the early hours of Christmas Day. The day I would have to tell my bairns that their mummy wasn’t coming home.’
‘I’m so sorry, Adam.’ The words were a whisper and when he looked up again there were tears rolling down the side of Emma’s nose.
‘It’s not your fault.’ He wanted to reach out and catch one of those tears with his thumb and wipe it away. He wanted to go upstairs and kiss his children and tell them he was sorry and that they would never see him like that again. He would do that. Soon. Even if they were asleep. And then he’d do it again tomorrow.
‘None of this is your fault,’ he told Emma. ‘It’s me.’
‘It’s me who’s tried to force you to bring Christmas into the house. I’m so sorry. For your loss and for the hurt I’ve caused. I was thinking about the children and their Christmas and I lost sight of how much it might hurt you.’
Emma was clearly not a practised whisky drinker. She took a gulp that made her cough and splutter and Adam had to resist the urge to pat her on the back.
To smile even.
‘I’ll get rid of everything,’ she offered. ‘I’ll explain to the children that you’re not ready to celebrate Christmas yet. That we can go and see the tree in the village and we don’t need to have one in the house. We can take the paper chains to school and I’m sure Caitlin will let us put them up in the classroom. And I’ll—’
Adam reached out and put his hand over hers. Only because she wasn’t looking at him and he wanted her to stop talking.
It worked. Emma went very still but Adam didn’t take his hand away from hers. It felt tiny and soft and warm under his and he liked it.
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘What you can do is show me how to make a paper chain. I want to fix this one so it’s right for when the children come down in the morning. And tomorrow I’ll go up into the attic and find the box of decorations for the tree.’
‘Oh …’ There was a sparkle in those blue-grey eyes that looked like more than the remnants of tears. And her hand moved under his. Turned and twisted so that her fingers were grasping his palm. Squeezing it. ‘Really? You’ll let us have a real Christmas? In the house?’
‘Aye.’