There was only one thing Brett Cranley wanted for Christmas. And neither his Serbian secretary, nor anyone else, could give it to him.
Logan Cranley ran up Furlings’ drive with flushed cheeks, as delighted as a child on its birthday. It had snowed last night: not just a pale, half-hearted dusting, like icing sugar on a waffle, but a fully fledged dump of thick, heavy snow, like the frosting on a wedding cake. She and Tom had rushed out onto the lawn as soon as they’d woken up and made snowmen. Logan had given Tom’s an enormous erection, which they’d both thought screamingly funny, especially when it kept falling off. Tom had been more successful moulding a pair of tits onto Logan’s effort, complete with holly-berry nipples. Snow brought out the kid in everyone. It was impossible not to feel happy and Christmassy and excited on a day like today, and Logan was indulging her inner child with shameless delight.
The village also looked utterly magical, like a ravishing Christmas bride. Its snowy rooftops, punctured only by smoking chimneys and St Hilda’s stone spire, topped cottages cheerfully decked out with wreaths and berries and brightly twinkling strings of lights. Children sledged on the Downs, their shrieks mingling with the beautiful sound of the church bells pealing. And on the snowy green, an enormous Christmas tree hung with baubles of every size and colour sparkled enticingly, a cheerful reminder of the celebrations and feasting to come.
Logan had forgotten how much she loved it here. Or rather, how much she used to love it, before the fire at Wraggsbottom Farm and the humiliation that followed. But this Christmas, for the first time, she felt better. Laura Baxter’s kindness, inviting her down to meet Felix and forgiving her for everything, had been a huge step forward, relieving Logan of part of her guilt. Then, yesterday, she’d run into Gabe in the village stores. He was buying tinsel and, after a moment’s hesitation, had smiled broadly when he saw her and given her a hug.
‘Hello you,’ he grinned. ‘How’s London?’
‘Erm, nice.’ Logan blushed, but it was out of awkwardness rather than desire. In dirty jeans and a thick fisherman’s sweater, Gabe looked as craggily handsome as ever. But he no longer had the mesmeric hold on her that had consumed her through her early teens. ‘It’s lovely to be back, though. Fittlescombe’s so perfect at Christmas.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Gabe agreed. ‘I hear you brought a boyfriend down.’
My goodness, thought Logan. She’d forgotten quite how fast gossip travelled in this village.
‘You should bring him over to the farm some time. See what we’ve done with the place. Everything’s been rebuilt since the fire, courtesy of your pa.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Logan blushed again.
‘Don’t be,’ said Gabe. ‘All’s well that ends well. You should see the stables now. They’re so state of the art, they look like something out of Buck Rogers.’
‘Who’s Buck Rogers?’ asked Logan.
‘Never mind,’ Gabe laughed. ‘I’m old. Good to see you anyway, kiddo. Merry Christmas.’
Logan had stood and watched him dart out into the cold with the last of Mrs Preedy’s tinsel under his arm and felt a profound sense of relief. Gabe didn’t hold a grudge. And she didn’t fancy him. Well, not much anyway. It was the best Christmas present she could have wished for.
Or perhaps it was the second best. What she really wanted, deep down, was to have her father back. Not that she necessarily wanted to move back home permanently – she loved her life in London, loved MPW, and most of all loved Tom. But she wished she could wave a magic wand and heal the rift between herself and Brett, along with her parents’ foundering marriage. That she could come down to Furlings at weekends and holidays and that everything would be back to normal. Everyone was glossing over it, but Logan wasn’t stupid. Brett not coming home for Christmas was a big deal, the biggest. It had to be the beginning of the end.
Finally reaching the house, she burst in through the kitchen door, red faced and panting.
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ said Angela. Wearing a reindeer apron, and with her hands and arms elbow-deep in flour, so thick that she looked as if she were wearing white gloves, Angela was rolling out the pastry for another batch of mince pies. Yesterday’s attempt had been, as Tom rather tactlessly put it, ‘a bit cement-y’. Not that this had prevented him from eating an entire bowlful.
‘Gossip!’ Logan breathed heavily. ‘You’ll never guess.’
‘Gringo’s got the vicar’s bitch pregnant and he’s suing your dad for damages,’ suggested Tom, who up till that point had been deep in last week’s Sunday Times Sudoku at the kitchen table.
‘Wrong,’ beamed Logan. ‘Besides, anyone would be ecstatic if their dog had Gringo’s puppies. He’s a legend.’
The legend farted quietly from his basket by the Aga.