Lilly grabs my hand, and I see the gossip’s eyes widen at the action as she brings me over to the bar where Donna’s serving.
“Two whiskies on the rocks, please,” Lilly asks.
Donna nods and starts preparing our drinks.
“I’m so sorry about that. We can go home if you want?” I can see it on Lilly’s face, that she’d go if I asked her to, but that’s not going to happen.
“No, I’m fine. This is great. It’s different to my home.” I could just imagine what my father’s face would be like seeing me sitting at some pub, sipping subpar whisky with people he’d deem lower class than him. “If I get stuck, I’ll call out to you in Italian.”
“Oh my God, the old ladies will probably have a heart attack at your hotness if you whip your native tongue out.”
I lean in a little closer to her. “You like it when I whip my tongue out, don’t you?” I say in Italian so no one can hear.
Lilly’s jaw drops, she blinks a few times in shock. “I can’t believe you just said that, in front of all these people,” she scolds me in perfect Italian. It’s the first time I’ve heard her speak my language in a complete sentence, and I like it.
“Here’s ye drinks.” Donna hands over two glasses of whisky to us before moving on to others waiting to be served.
“You speaking Italian is hot.” Lilly gives me the side-eye, but no one can understand what we’re saying. I doubt any of them can speak Italian.
“Stop it,” Lilly hisses.
“Fine, but tonight, I’m not going to stop. No matter how many times you ask me to.”
Lilly takes an unsteady gulp of her whisky while her cheeks pink the exact color they go when I make her come.
The night continues quite nicely, much to my surprise. Everyone is lovely in the village, and it seems they very much look out for Lilly as one of their own. You can see how proud they are of her for the work she’s done in Africa, and the way they affectionately talk about Lilly’s nan, which made her teary a couple of times, but she assured me she was fine.
“I’ve missed this food.” Lilly licks her lips. We have just finished a soup called Cock-a-leekie. I thought Lilly was playing a joke on me when she told me about it, but she wasn’t. What a strange name. Couldn’t imagine serving that at one of our family dinners, my mother would probably have a heart attack at the sinful name. Then I watch in shock as they bring out platters of large roasted turkeys, baked vegetables, and sauces.
“Lilly.” I nudge her gently. “At home… we don’t eat meat on Christmas Eve, giorno di magro, we eat lean to purify our body for Christmas Day.”
Lilly’s eyes widen.
“Oh, shit! They are going to think you don’t like their food if you don’t eat it. This is a huge tradition in Scotland to have a big roast turkey with all the trimmings. We can pretend there was an emergency phone call and leave. I can get takeout for us and go home and have something you would normally have.”
My world stops at that moment. She’s having a great time, but because I mentioned feeling a little uneasy about breaking my tradition, she didn’t even second-guess it. She’s willing to pack up and eat our dinner at home.
No, I can’t let her do that. She’s just come home from living in poverty for the last couple of years. Her sister is on the other side of the world, her parents are in London and don’t seem to communicate with her, and the two people she was closest with have passed away.
“It looks delicious. I can’t wait to try it all.”
Lilly’s hand reaches under the table, linking our fingers together. “Thank you.”
I want to kiss her in this moment, not caring if all these people see.
She is an extraordinary woman, nothing like I’ve ever met before.
10
Lilly
Luke had one too many whiskies last night, I think, judging by the snoring he’s doing this morning when I woke up beside him. I’m glad he had fun last night. I could tell it was a cultural shock for him, but he embraced it as did the village, but especially the old ladies. They loved giving him hugs and squishing his cheeks, and not the ones on his face. Poor guy was totally manhandled by the geriatrics.
Last night, Luke told me his tradition at Christmas Eve was to eat no meat to purify your body for Christmas Day, and because he didn’t get that last night, I want to do an Italian Christmas for him today, as much as I can with the limited food I have left in the pantry. I’ve spent the morning googling menus from the regions he said he lives in, and I think I have some items to make him something that might resemble Italian food with a bit of Scottish thrown in for good measure.
“Morning.” Luke groggily enters the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas.” Luke stills, rubs his eyes, and stares at me.
“It’s Christmas?”
“Yes.” He slumps down onto the armchair beside the fire, his voice a little rough from all his singing last night.
“Huh.” He stares at the crackling fire for a long couple of moments. Maybe Luke isn’t really that much of a morning person. Then, he suddenly jumps up and rushes toward me, grabbing my face and kissing me. “Buon Natale, Merry Christmas,” he says. “Sorry, that’s what I should’ve done when I first walked in,” he states as he leans back against the island.
“You had a wild night,” I respond, turning back to my pots that are bubbling away on the stove.
“Those old people can drink.” He shakes his head.
“Never get in a drinking contest with a Scotsman. You’ll always lose.”
“Now, I know.” He chuckles. “What are you doing?” he asks, noticing the pots.
“I’m attempting to make an Italian Christmas.”
His mouth opens
