Page 21 of The Christmas Letter

Holly busied herself in the kitchen and had just managed to find the coffee when Emma reappeared, holding a pair of multicoloured fluffy socks in one hand and a card in another. She thrust both into Holly’s hands at the same time.

Holly looked down. ‘What’s this?’

‘Well, traditionally you put socks on your feet, but if you have other ideas I’ll try not to judge.’

Holly held up the card – a cliff edge, which managed to look both majestic and powerful, and . . . lonely. She recognised the brushwork, the distinctive boldness of the landscape. She lifted her gaze to Emma.

‘You said you like art,’ she said simply. ‘So there you are. Happy Christmas and all that. It’s by a local artist. The one I mentioned in the café. Mirabelle—’

‘Landor,’ Holly finished, her voice barely a murmur.

‘You’ve heard of her?’ Emma’s eyebrows shot up.

‘I . . . Yes. Yes, I’ve heard of her.’

Emma gave her a long look, then sniffed. ‘I imagine she’d be happy to hear that.’ She picked up her steaming Earl Grey off the counter and cupped it between her hands.

‘Thank you,’ Holly said, her voice still low as she took in the painting – perfect, in miniature form. She remembered, so clearly, the first card she’d seen – and with the memory of that came the memory of Jack’s face: his dark eyes, his off-centre nose, the striking cheekbones. It was a disturbingly clear memory, given they’d had no more than a brief conversation three years ago. But still – that was two of Mirabelle Landor’s cards she’d been gifted now, both in the same place. Fate, a voice whispered in her head, though she shoved the voice – definitely her sister’s – aside. It had been her own damn decisions that got her here.

She shook her head helplessly at Emma. ‘I don’t have anything to give you.’

Emma waved that away. ‘You can make me one of those paper animals. A dog, to make up for not having my own. Or a tiger. I always did like tigers.’

The two of them sat for a while at the kitchen table, sipping their hot drinks in companionable silence. Holly had been right – the storm from last night had burnt itself out, and the sun was now shining over a garden that looked a little bedraggled. Even knowing nothing about gardening, she could see how beautiful it must have been once – could imagine it in full bloom in summer, with insects buzzing around, the smell of flowers filling the air.

As she drank her coffee, she couldn’t help glancing at Emma, who was flicking through the newspaper, now two days old. She didn’t look ill. At least not obviously. She was a little thin, perhaps, her face a little pinched. But she was there, sipping her tea, looking so . . . normal. Holly didn’t have enough experience with cancer to know what to look for, though – if there even was anything to look for. It must be different for each person, mustn’t it? But this could be a good sign. Maybe the cancer wasn’t that bad?

Holly cleared her throat. ‘Can I make you something? Toast?’ Because surely food was a good thing, if you were ill?

‘Think I’m out of bread,’ Emma grunted. ‘Might have some Weetabix somewhere.’

But as Holly got to her feet to find said Weetabix, there was a knock at the front door, then the sound of that door opening.

‘Hellloooooo!’

Holly jumped at the sound of the slightly shrill voice.

‘Emma? Are you up?’

‘Damn woman,’ Emma muttered, getting to her feet. ‘Need to remember to lock the door.’

When Emma left the kitchen and headed for the hallway, Holly hesitated, then followed, a little tentatively.

‘There you are, my darling,’ the voice continued. ‘Jim’s starting with all the chopping and whatnot already, so I wanted to pop round and—’ The woman broke off, raising her perfectly arched eyebrows, when Holly came into view. It was the same woman Holly had met yesterday in the café – the one who had given her Emma’s address. Pam – platinum-blonde hair perfectly blow-dried, wearing a red dress and big gold hoop earrings, along with a wash of red lipstick. ‘Ah, so it worked out ok in the end? You are an artist, then? I thought that might be a lie, though I couldn’t figure out why on earth you’d be lying about it.’

Emma let out a snorted Ha! and Pam turned to look at her.

‘Holly was the recipient of that Dear Stranger letter you made me write.’

Pam’s red lips pursed. ‘I thought that was supposed to be anonymous.’

‘It was,’ Emma said on a growl. But this time, Holly refused to wince, and straightened her back. If Emma had wanted her gone, she would have booted her out by now.

Pam gave Holly an overtly curious look, then shrugged. ‘Well, Merry Christmas to both of you!’ She held up a bottle of champagne, plus two glasses. ‘You have a third, yes, Emma?’

‘I’m not sure I should,’ Holly said quickly. ‘I’ll be driving soon.’

‘Nonsense,’ Pam said. ‘It’s Christmas – you must. She can stay another night, can’t she, Emma?’