Christmas at the Little Waffle Shack - Helen J. Rolfe
Chapter One
With only three weeks to go until Christmas day, Lucy couldn’t wait for her gorgeous Fraser fir to be delivered from the local farm. She’d selected it herself, which had felt like a fitting way to mark her first official Christmas living here in the village. The months had rolled on since she’d moved here back in the summer and she was slowly beginning to feel a part of life in the Cove.
She pulled the plug in the kitchen sink and let the water drain as Shadow, the slate-grey cat she’d adopted a month ago from a shelter, appeared and stretched languorously, clawing the carpet. ‘Hey, use your scratching post,’ she suggested, but he took no notice. At least the carpet was old. Maybe when Lucy updated the floor coverings in the compact two-bedroom flat above the Heritage Cove blacksmith’s workshop Shadow would be settled as much as she was and more willing to conform. She flopped down on the sofa and Shadow jumped into her lap. At the shelter she’d wanted to take every single cat in there, give them a brighter future, let them grow old and live out life to its full potential, but Shadow had been the first to run to her, the one who wouldn’t leave her be, and he’d won her over just like that. She hated to think the other felines might not get such a happy ending but she knew she couldn’t save all of them.
Shadow purred away contentedly. It was still dark outside and all the lights in the flat were on. It wasn’t a good look for this place, it merely highlighted the fact that the entire flat needed a face lift. The carpets were just the start of it. The cream formica benchtops in the kitchen were stained, the laminate walnut cupboards had seen better days and the light fittings throughout wouldn’t raise more than a couple of quid in a car-boot sale – and that would only be to someone trying to resurrect a look from the seventies.
In the warmer months ahead Lucy intended to make the flat her focus. She could see a lavender feature wall in the spacious bedroom, gleaming white tiles in the kitchen, a fresh shade of paint in the lounge. Her new home wasn’t very big, it didn’t need to be, but she could still make it special. The galley kitchen was first port of call when you came in the back entrance from the steps leading up from the workshop, then an archway led to the lounge area where the sofa and an armchair offered comfort, then through on the other side were two bedrooms – one not really big enough for anything more than her surplus belongings – and a bathroom that wasn’t completely decrepit but definitely needed bringing into this decade.
A rattle from the pane of glass in the window that looked out onto The Street, the main road running through Heritage Cove lined with shops and small businesses, made her jump. It didn’t seem to bother Shadow, whose eyes were closed in pleasure at the comfy spot he’d bagged before the rest of the village even woke up, but Lucy hoped it wasn’t as miserable out there as it had been yesterday when it’d poured with rain, a tree had come down blocking the main road into the village and howling winds coupled with plummeting temperatures had made even a trip to The Copper Plough, the Cove’s local pub, traumatic. Wintry weather made Lucy want to hunker down inside, cosy up in her flat and appreciate her independence. Some might think she was lonely, but she was very happy with her own company. Far better to be on your own than with someone who was completely wrong for you. Her friends at the pub last night had tried to get her talking about her love life, looked around at the local talent or anyone who’d come in from afar and might be perfect for Lucy, but with Christmas fast approaching she wasn’t interested in getting carried away in the romanticism of it all. She had her own business, a place to live, she had Shadow and she had Heritage Cove. Right now, there was no place else she’d rather be.
Shadow’s purrs of contentment were accompanied by dribble seeping into the arm of the sofa. A gift from Lucy’s ex-husband Julian’s gran, the sofa and matching armchair were floral efforts with enough bounce to mimic a trampoline, and they were