from a romp in the snow, they all trooped into the sitting room. Hugh had built a roaring fire and switched on the tree lights, and with the sun sparkling on the snow outside the window, the room looked magical.
Perched on the arm of the chesterfield, leaning against Duncan’s warm shoulder, Gemma watched the children. Rosemary had asked Kit to help his younger brother hand round the presents, but as soon as Toby found a few gifts bearing his name, he ripped into them, tossing shreds of paper about like a storm of New Year’s confetti. Kit, on the other hand, waited until he’d passed round a few gifts for everyone, then, only at his grandmother’s urging, carefully removed the
paper from one of his own packages. First he pulled loose the tape, then folded the used paper, then wound the ribbon into a neat roll.
Gemma marveled at the difference in the boys—Toby a miniature marauder, Kit hoarding his gifts while he watched everyone else, as if he wanted to postpone the pleasure for as long as possible.
Would he ever dive into anything with abandon, she wondered, without fearing that it would be snatched from him?
But in spite of his habitual caution and the slight shadows round his eyes, she thought he looked happier and more relaxed than he had in weeks. And he had stayed close to Duncan all morning, the tension of yesterday’s row apparently forgotten.
Now his eyes widened in pleasure as he finished unwrapping his gift from his grandparents—a trivia game he’d been admiring in the shops for months.
“How did you know?” Gemma asked Rosemary, laughing, as Kit went to give his grandmother a hug.
“A good guess,” Rosemary said lightly, but she looked pleased.
“Oh,” breathed Toby, his flurry of motion stilled as he uncovered his own gift from Rosemary and Hugh, a large wooden box filled with multicolored pastels, and a pad of drawing paper. “What are they?” he asked, running his fingers over the sticks. “Are they like crayons?”
“A bit,” answered Hugh. “And a bit like chalk. We heard you were quite the artist. I’ll show you how to use them later on.”
Giving Gemma’s shoulder a squeeze, Duncan stood up and rooted under the tree until he found his gift for his father. “I know it’s a bit like coals to Newcastle,” he said, passing it across with studied nonchalance, but she heard the anticipation in his voice.
Hugh hefted the package in his hand and grinned. “Feels like a book.” But when he had peeled off the paper, he sat for a moment, gaping at the small volume, before looking up at his son. “Where did you find this?” he whispered.
Kincaid had come back to the sofa and slipped his arm round s
Gemma. “A bookseller in Portobello. I thought you might like it.” It was, as he had explained to Gemma in great detail, a copy of
“I don’t know what to say.” Hugh pressed his lips together but didn’t quite stop a tremble.
Kincaid cleared his throat and said a little too heartily, “Read it to us, then.”
“Now?” asked Hugh, looking at his wife.
Rosemary nodded. “Why not? The turkey’s in the oven. We’re in no rush.”
And so Hugh stood with his back to the fire, a pair of reading glasses on his nose, and, in a credible Welsh accent, began to declaim the lines that took Gemma instantly back to her own sitting room the previous Christmas. Duncan had read the poem aloud to her and the children, and she had imagined a string of Christmases to come, with the boys and the child she carried snuggled beside her.
She shivered and Duncan hugged her a little closer. “Cold?” he murmured in her ear.
She shook her head and put her finger to her lips, listening intently as the words rolled over them, painting pictures more vivid than memories. Even Toby sat quietly, his pastels held tightly in his lap.
Duncan had outdone himself, Gemma thought, as if this Christmas, and this homecoming, had been particularly important to him.
He had woken her that morning by setting a box beside her pillow.
“What?” she’d said, blinking sleepily and pulling herself up against the headboard as he sat on the edge of the bed.
“Open it.” He was dressed, she saw, but tousled and unshaven, and she guessed he had tiptoed down to the sitting room to retrieve the package.
“Now? But what about the child—”
“This isn’t for the children, it’s for you. Go on, open it.”
She was fully awake now, and her heart gave an anxious little jerk. Pushing her hair from her face, she delayed. “It’s bigger than a bread box.”
“If you don’t open the damned thing, you’ll be lucky to get a loaf of bread, much less a bread box,” he’d said with mock severity, so she had peeled off the wrapping as carefully as Kit had. “And no, it’s not a toaster,” he’d added as she saw the appliance label on the card-board box.
She’d pulled back the box flaps and dug into the nest of tissue paper, easing out first a pottery sugar bowl, then a jug, in the same bright Clarice Cliff pattern as the teapot a friend had given her after her miscarriage.
“Oh,” she’d breathed, “you shouldn’t have— Wherever did you—
They’re lovely.” The pieces were rare, and bloody expensive, and she guessed he—and their friend Alex—had spent months looking for them.
“You like them?” He’d looked suddenly unsure.
“Of course I like them!” Pulling him to her, she brushed her lips across his stubbly cheek. His skin felt warm in the room’s chill, and smelled of sleep.
For just a moment, she’d hoped he’d chosen something a little more romantic, something that represented their future together . . .
Then she’d mentally kicked herself for being a fool. If she wanted something as mundane as a ring, all she had to do was ask and he would take her to the nearest jeweler. Instead, he had gone to a great deal of time and expense to find something that had personal meaning for her—not only a personal meaning, but something that symbolized her recovery. What could possibly be more romantic than that?
Dear God, did she think a little thing like a ring was proof against emotional disaster? Her thoughts strayed to Juliet and Caspar and
she shuddered, ashamed of her brief lapse into the pettiness of traditional expectations.
No, ta very much, she would much rather keep things the way they were. To prove it, she’d thanked Duncan with great enthusiasm, and now the memory of that warm half hour made her move a little closer into the circle of his arm.
Later, when the presents had all been opened, Hugh had finished his reading, and the sitting room tidied, they’d had turkey and all the trimmings at the long kitchen table. They’d pulled Christmas crackers to the accompaniment of the dogs’ barking, and had all put on their silly paper hats, much to Toby’s delight. Gemma knew that Rosemary and Hugh must be worried about Juliet, but they had done their best to make the day special for the children.
When they had eaten as much of the turkey as they could manage, they all pushed back their chairs with groans, and by mutual consent agreed to postpone the Christmas pudding until teatime.
Gemma insisted on helping Rosemary with the washing up while the men and boys got out the trivia set. She watched them—Hugh, Duncan, and Kit—as they sat over the game board, their lean Kincaid faces stamped with the same intent expression. And then there was Toby, the odd duckling in the brood. How lucky for him, Gemma thought, that he was not the sort to notice that he didn’t belong.
She was glad they had come, she mused as she wiped plates with a tea towel. She hadn’t realized until they’d got away just how much they’d needed a change, a break from work for her and for Duncan, a break from school for Kit.
When the phone rang, Rosemary was up to her elbows in the washing-up water. “I’ll get it, shall I?” said Gemma, and at Rosemary’s nod picked up the handset.
“Gemma?” The word was little more than a whisper, but Gemma recognized Lally’s voice. “Look, I don’t want my dad to hear me,”
