Short Stack - Lily Morton Page 0,92
new little boy,” Silas says.
“That’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” I say. “He’s so pretty.” His coat is the same rich brown as his mum’s, but he has a white flash over his eyes and the most ridiculously long eyelashes. I grin at Silas. “You’re so bloody clever.”
He wrinkles his nose. “I didn’t do much.”
“But you did it looking very clever,” I say soothingly, and he laughs.
There’s a noise at the door, and we turn to see the farmer. “Now, that’s a pretty sight,” he says with a smile of relief.
“Mother and baby are doing well,” Silas says, standing up and pressing his fists into his back. I make a mental note to give him a massage later on.
“So, Bill, what are you going to call him?” Silas asks.
Bill shrugs. “I reckon seeing as Nutmeg and I ruined your Oz’s Christmas Eve, he can have the honour.”
“Really?” I ask delightedly. “I’ve never named a horse before. Okay, let me think.” I tap my fingers against my teeth for a second, eyeing the tiny horse before nodding. “Michael Bublé.”
Silas bites his lip with humour in his eyes.
“What?” Bill sounds startled.
“Michael Bublé after the singer,” I elaborate. “It seems appropriate. His career always has an unfortunate rebirth every Christmas.”
“Oh, okay,” Bill says somewhat unconvincingly. “Michael Bublé it is then.” He seems to drift off for a second and Silas’s mouth quirks, but the farmer rallies. “I can’t thank you enough, Silas,” he says. “Flora’s got the kettle on. You’re both to come down to the kitchen and have some breakfast with us, and you can have a wash.”
“Yes,” I say fervently to the latter.
Silas smirks at me. “That sounds lovely,” he says calmly. “We’ll follow you in.”
We watch him go, and as Silas collects his stuff, I wander over to the barn door. The sky is clear again, dawn is breaking with red streaks spreading over the blue sky, and the cold light reveals a stunning view of rolling hills covered in snow like iced cakes. Trees laden with snow stoop and bow before us, and in the distance, is the grey mass of the sea. In the background, “Silent Night” plays on the old radio, and the beautiful carol seems to echo through the barn and out onto the air.
Silas comes up next to me. “Okay?” he asks quietly.
I lean into him, loving the heat of his body. “It’s absolutely perfect,” I say on a happy sigh.
“Really?” He sounds incredulous. “Even though you’ve been dragged out of your bed to spend Christmas Eve in a barn?”
I smile. “It never did the Baby Jesus any harm.” He laughs, and I rise up to kiss his chin. “Silas, I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else but here with you.”
He wraps his arm around me and kisses the side of my head. “Happy Christmas, darling. I love you.”
“I love you too,” I say affectionately.
We stand for a second looking out over the valley until he stirs. “Fancy going back to bed and welcoming Christmas Day properly?”
“Certainly,” I say. “But only if you intend to wash your hands before you touch my nether regions.” I pause. “Extensively and with very hot water.”
His laughter falls into the soft morning light.
Milo and Niall
The Big Four-Oh!
Milo
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the phone.
“Sweetheart, it’s fine. You can’t help it.”
“But I was due back today, and it’s your bloody birthday. If only this sodding wall painting wasn’t taking so long, I could be with you.” I pause and say in a small voice, “On your birthday.”
“Darling, I hope I have many more. You’re talking about it as if it’s my last one. Not planning to do away with me, are you?”
“Please don’t ever ask me that question after you’ve tracked mud all the way through the house,” I say faintly, and the warm sound of his laughter soothes me a little. “It’s just that this is a special one.”
“I’m forty, not expecting a telegram from the Queen.”
I smile at the surliness in his voice. “I know you’re not enjoying the idea of being forty.”
“Let’s not discuss it,” he says hurriedly. “Tomorrow I’ll be on the wrong side of forty, and I’ll be looking at my teeth falling out and middle-aged spread.”
“I’m pretty sure the wrong side of forty happens when you’re nearing fifty, not the day after your fortieth birthday. And the only spread you’re likely to have is your legs.”
There’s an arrested silence on the other end of the phone. “Milo, you naughty boy,” he says,