A December to Remember (101)
“That sounds about right. What about Patrick?”
“I’m here, Ma.”
Maggie swiveled round to see Patrick standing in the doorway, looking contrite, and her heart instantly felt as though it would explode.
“Hello, love, where have you been galivanting off to? Have you seen your Aunty Simone?”
“She’s been with me.”
“Doing what? I’ve spent the last ten minutes talking Aunty Star down from a carcass crisis.”
“I needed to make something right. I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time.”
“Oh, my darling, none of that matters. We aren’t losing the house—or the business—isn’t that amazing!”
“What? I mean, yeah, but how?”
“It’s a complicated story, but the long and short is Gilbert legally can’t turn us out, because we’re Norths. We don’t have to leave. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the eviction. And I should have told you how I felt about Joe.” She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I’m sorry I made you sad.”
“We both made mistakes, my sweet boy, so let’s promise to communicate better in the future, deal?”
“Deal.” Patrick smiled.
Maggie pulled him into a tight hug. “Now,” she said with a sniff. She released him and wiped her eyes. “Tell me what you and Aunty Simone have been up to, because I know it wasn’t helping with the chickens.” She cast a glance back at Star, who looked over at the chickens and shuddered.
“We were on a mission,” said Simone, stepping in beside Patrick.
“Good god, what happened to your hair? You look like a cave woman.”
“Salt spray,” Simone replied, touching her hand to the matted beehive her usually straight hair had become.
“Salt spray? Have you been at the beach? I take a morning off, and you’ve all gone loco.”
Joe walked in then, stepping around Patrick and Simone to stand in front of them.
“They came to stop me from leaving for France,” he said.
Maggie stumbled backward. Her brain ceased to form coherent words or instructions to her limbs, and she wasn’t sure her legs would hold her. Joe was here. Joe was here! Was this real? A hope that she’d dared not consider flooded her body. She loved this man, so wrong on paper yet so utterly perfectly right for her.
Joe approached her, slowly. Unsure. He couldn’t know that every atom of her being sang at the sight of him.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you who I really was. Can you forgive me? I love you, Maggie. I don’t care about the age gap, I don’t care if we have to live in a tent, I don’t care what the future brings. I simply love you, truly, madly, deeply, and that’s never going to change.”
Before she knew quite what she was doing, she ran at Joe, jumped into his arms, and wrapped her legs around his waist. He laughed, catching her with ease.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” he asked as she fervently kissed his head, cheeks, nose, any piece of his face she could get her lips on.
“This means I love you,” she said, looking into his eyes. “And I don’t care who knows it.”
“Ahem!” came Kat’s voice. “This is very unprofessional kitchen behavior, North sisters.”
Maggie slid her legs down from Joe’s waist and turned sheepishly to face Kat.
“Sorry, Kat,” she mumbled, her cheeks burning.
Kat shook her head in mock disapproval. “I’m happy you two have finally made things official. Your relationship is the worst-kept secret in Rowan Thorp. Now, the feast begins at four thirty p.m., and we have a lot to get done, so it’s all-hands-on-deck, aside from Verity, who came to tell me that she had two broken arms and needed to rest. Are we ready, team Winter Solstice?”
“Ready!” erupted the cheer from the kitchen.
50
The roasting of the hog began at midday. Troy and Kev had rented a portable hog roasting oven, which they set up in Augustus’s garden and took shifts to monitor throughout the day. Within a couple of hours, the smell was already permeating the village.
Fable Folk—the folk band Star had invited to play at the festival—had a vibe reminiscent of the Mamas and the Papas. Three men and one woman, Helena. They came with only the instruments they could carry, no amps or electrical equipment. True to Star’s predictions, they really did play for food and drink. Having filled themselves up at Betty’s for breakfast, they played impromptu sets outside the café and then each of the pubs. They sang “Scarborough Fair,” and “A Case of You,” and a good smattering of Christmas carols. All day long they were inundated with hot drinks, wedges of Christmas cake, and mince pies from villagers with requests for certain songs or simply as thanks for filling the village with their music.
“So, um, which of the band were you ‘friends’ with?” asked Duncan as they set off up the high street to collect tablecloths.
Star laughed. “You’re not jealous, are you?”
“No,” he said, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. “I’m only wondering who my competition is.”
She reached up and kissed him. “You have no competition. Trust me.”