I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,62

able for weeks; there must be magic in the brandies or the toasted marshmallows, possibly the cherries… or maybe he was just enlivened by the wonderful company he was keeping.

He had made his present himself and he hoped that it would work, because if ever anyone needed some guidance it was him. He was Charlie years ago, barricades up, letting no one in and nothing of himself out. If Robin hadn’t been so damned persistent, Charlie would have ended up a lonely, sad old man. Instead he’d had a lifetime of love and joy and he wanted the same for this person.

He hoped he’d read the words of a contented old Yorkshireman and learn from his hard years of experience. It would be a shame for it all to go to waste.

* * *

Robin was next. His hand was trembling as he put his present inside the sock. He didn’t want to go through with it, wished he had thought of something else now, but he knew that the recipient wanted this more than anything and he had to think of him before self. It would make him as happy as it would make Robin sad, as if they were on opposite sides of an emotional see-saw. But he owed him this. For all the wonderful years they’d shared, for all the love, the fun, the laughter. But he was dreading the giving of it.

* * *

Luke tiptoed downstairs. This time next year his Christmas would be very different. A new era awaited, one he never imagined would be his.

He had to stretch the sock to fit his present in it. Stupid but full of meaning. It represented a time in his life when he didn’t think his lot could be any better. Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been aiming high at the time where luxury was concerned, but he had everything his unambitious heart wanted. Life was so much better now, but in a different way. It was comfortable and calm and easy. Before, it was raw and exciting and edgy and that had been a fit for the Luke he was then. He had needed to be him first, the blank sheet of paper to be written on, the rough copy. It was just a shame that the grateful thrill of the simplest pleasures had become collateral damage of his evolution.

He hoped his gift would mean something to her, that she’d take from it what she’d meant to him once. The page may have turned and they may have skipped forward chapters, but it was still there, an integral part of their book. Of them.

* * *

Jack was the last one to go downstairs; all the other socks were filled except the long red one. Present-choosing was never his forte, which was why he tended to delegate the duty to those who would pick something more suitable than he could, because he didn’t want to get it wrong. He felt ridiculously apprehensive about putting his gift into the sock. Maybe it was too subtle, maybe it was overstepping a mark, crossing a line. Maybe it wasn’t crossing it enough.

He had the luxury of time, being the final stocking stuffer and sat in the armchair for a moment, enjoying the peace. Something cracked, as if it was the inn settling down to sleep, resting its old bones. How good it would have been to sit somewhere like this with a lovely woman in the armchair next to him, enjoying a nightcap after a mad half hour putting their children’s toys under the tree. He did want what his friends had, that shift of focus from the material to the personal. They all still worked damned hard, but now what they did had more purpose, because they were building for a family. It made them both tougher and softer at the same time. They’d changed and he wanted to change with them. He did want children, wanted them to have the things he didn’t have, things his dad had missed in pursuit of giving him what he thought was the most important. Because he’d loved him.

Finding this out from Mary, and that his dad had been proud of him, had meant everything and, if what she’d said was true – and he had no reason to doubt it – he could have discovered it a lot sooner had he not rebuffed her in a corridor. It sounded crazy but it was as if he had just met her, this kind,