Chapter One
It was snowing in Carrawen Bay. Thick, soft flakes dropped from the sky, coating the beach like icing sugar. The sea was grey and wild, bucking and foaming, the horizon a smudgy blur through the snowfall. The world felt quiet, muted by the ceaseless tumbling flakes as they swirled and spun.
I couldn’t resist a moment longer. Seized by a burst of excited joy I rushed outside in my pyjamas and bare feet onto the wooden deck of the beach café, and ran down the steps to the sand, leaving footprints behind me. Snowflakes floated onto my hair and eyelashes, and I was dimly aware that perhaps I should have put some wellies on – or a dressing gown at least – but . . .
‘Pinch, punch . . .’
‘Ow!’ Somebody was assaulting me.
‘First of the month – and no returns!’
My eyes snapped open, my snowy dream vanishing in an instant. I was in bed with my boyfriend Ed, not outside whirling about on the beach after all.
‘You woke me up,’ I grumbled. (I’ve never been much of a morning person to be honest.) ‘I was dancing in the snow.’ Then his words permeated my dream-tangled brain and I was suddenly wide awake. ‘Oh. It’s December!’
He grinned. After five months of being together, I was yet to tire of that grin. Ed was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Friend, lover and business partner all rolled into one, he was funny, sexy and loyal. Oh, and did I mention that the man could cook? Like properly, seriously cook? (I’m telling you, ladies – a chef for a boyfriend is the way forward.) I was half a stone heavier already but had never been happier.
‘Dancing in the snow, eh?’ he teased. ‘Is that one of those Carrawen Bay Christmas traditions you keep telling me about, Evie?’
I pulled a face at him. If you believed Ed, I had apparently been banging on about Christmas quite a lot recently. And yes, okay, I might have mentioned once or twice my plans to keep up the Christmassy rituals my aunt Jo had established over the years: the tinsel and crêpe paper bunting festooned around the café; the Christmas Eve bonfire and carol singing down on the beach, where all the villagers gathered and made merry with hot, spicy mulled wine; the Christmas Day post-lunch cliff-top walk, and of course the Christmas angels . . .
That wasn’t all. I had been downloading Christmas hits to my iPod in preparation for today’s calendar-turn to December, as well as checking out the best place to buy a Christmas tree around here (Tregarrow Farm, ask for Mack). That was on top of planning our romantic Christmas breakfast (champagne cocktails were to be involved), compiling exhaustive lists of stocking-filler ideas (Ed would need a huuuuuge stocking at this rate) and leafing through every single ‘perfect Christmas’ magazine article I could get my mitts on.
Oh, all right. Busted. When everything was listed like that, maybe it did rather look as though I had been just a teeny bit obsessive lately. But in my defence, I only wanted my first Christmas with Ed to be the most perfect and wonderful day ever in the history of all Christmases past. One that we’d look back on fondly in years to come, and say ‘Remember that first Christmas at the beach café? Wasn’t it the loveliest, most romantic day ever?’
Nothing wrong with that, was there?
Now that it was December, the countdown could properly begin. I had a chocolate Advent calendar that I had managed not to break into yet. I even had an Advent candle that we could burn down day by day. It was starting! At last, Christmas was starting!
Fired up by a bolt of happy excitement, I rolled on top of Ed and kissed him. ‘You know, there’s one Carrawen Bay tradition I might not have mentioned,’ I said, enjoying his look of surprise, which was quickly followed by that familiar glint in his eye. ‘It’s the first of December stay-in-bed-all-morning tradition . . .’
He wrapped his arms around me, warm and strong. ‘I think I’m going to enjoy this tradition,’ he said.
Later – quite a lot later, actually – once we had peeled ourselves out from under the duvet, Ed made us both scrambled eggs while I set about the coffees. (I knew my place and it was definitely away from the cooker.) We ate in one of the café booths, still in dressing gowns, with the ‘Closed’ sign hanging on the door, and I found myself glancing around, trying to remember how Jo used to position her Christmas decorations. She had always closed up the café over the winter, often taking herself off to warmer climes during January and February, but never missed a Cornish Christmas. Like me, she considered it the high point of the year. When it came to the big day, she’d always host lunch for friends and family in the café, pulling the tables together in the centre of the room and laying out a special red tablecloth. I could picture her now, carrying in the huge bronzed turkey on its platter, with the rest of us fidgety with anticipation, all eyes on the prize . . .