Page 36 of Every Christmas Eve
We were choosing love, and we were letting go, all at the same time.
It was a conversation and a Christmas Eve that would change both our paths for the rest of our lives.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ben
NOW
She doesn’t respond to my text message.
It was a bit of a shot in the dark, I guess, so I do my best to shake her off my mind as the evening draws in by doing what I came to Ballyheaney House for. With notebook in hand, I take one room at a time, jotting down information not only on what we need to fix up a little but also on what improvements we can make overall. I scout around the attic, finding rather groovy decorations we still have from yesteryear to bring some festive magic and warmth back, but with every step I take around the house I’m haunted by memories of happier times.
Voices from the past echo through my mind and fill my senses as I stand in the blue ballroom. I see the string quartet in the corner on my dad’s makeshift stage, which was made from wooden pallets we’d stained a deep mahogany colour, topping it up annually for the big occasion. He was always so pleased with the result and would spend hours inthe outhouses sanding and painting by himself before revealing his work of art. Then he’d stand back and admire it all in place, before lighting up like a child when he saw the stage in use on Christmas Eve.
I look up to the high ceiling, where I can see in my mind’s eye the long, heavy strings of lights draped from each corner to the grand chandelier centrepiece, carrying large yellow bulbs to give the room a warm glow, while in the fireplace a turf fire burned ‘for smell and a cosy atmosphere’, according to Cordelia, even though year after year we’d let it smoulder away before the room became too hot.
And as I move from room to room, I repeatedly check my phone for a reply from Lou, but there’s nothing.
I repeat to myself that at least I tried.
Uncle Eric throws together a feast of home-made pepperoni and mushroom pizza decorated with rocket and olives for dinner, pouring red wine like there’s no tomorrow, while Ava laps up all the maternal love and attention my mother gives her in bucket loads.
‘A tasty margherita pizza just for you, Your Majesty,’ my uncle jokes as he sets a bubbling cheese version down in front of my daughter, who is already licking her lips. Uncle Eric has discovered cooking in his later years. I sometimes believe it’s been his saviour as he tends to his small but prosperous vegetable patch in the garden and a greenhouse that bursts with colour in summer. He’s taken great pride in sending me photos since Cordelia gave him a crash course on the iPhone last year.
While we eat, I break all our usual dining rules by havingmy phone within reach, which gives me both comfort and waves of anxiety as I watch and wait for some sort of message from Lou.
It was a very humble invitation, nothing suggestive or presumptuous on my part, but perhaps I should have worded it differently. Or should I have made a phone call instead of a cop-out text? It dawns on me once more that I know absolutely nothing about her life now. I don’t know where she lives, or who she lives with. I don’t know if she’s single or if she’s still with John after all this time. I don’t know how her daughter Gracie is. She must be twenty years old now. My God, there’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then.
‘This is the best pizza ever,’ Ava announces, which makes Uncle Eric sit up in his chair across from me. ‘Even better than the ones from The Sphinx, and they’re our favourites, aren’t they, Dad?’
I hear her, but I’m barely listening.
‘Sorry, darling?’ I curse myself for drifting off instead of enjoying this special moment with my family.
‘This is better than The Sphinx at home?’
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right,’ I reply, determined to stay in the present from now on. ‘Far better. So where are you taking us next weekend, Uncle Eric? China? India? This is going to be great fun now that you’re a super-chef. I’d never have thought it in a million years, but credit where credit’s due. This is top-drawer pizza.’
Uncle Eric thinks for a moment as he chews his food.
‘India sounds like a good shout,’ he says, his eyes dancingwith excitement. ‘I never did make it there in real life, despite my intentions, but now you say it, I quite fancy dabbling in a chicken tikka masala. Maybe you could help me download a recipe before you go home, Ava?’
And as they chat, I drift off once again to a place in my heart I’d hoped I’d closed the door on long ago.
‘I’m going to pop out for a while if you don’t mind, Mum,’ I say after washing up. ‘Are you OK here with Ava? I’ll be home well before her bedtime.’
If I’m not mistaken, I can see my mother fight off a smile as she dries the last few plates with a tea towel. We have an industrial-size dishwasher in the utility room at Ballyheaney House, but Mum still prefers us to wash the dishes by hand when it’s just ourselves for dinner.
‘Where are you off to?’
I do my best to sound nonchalant about my plans for the next hour. When I was thinking of coming here I’d imagined a workhorse-style trip where I’d tackle as much as possible in a very short space of time, no doubt exhausting myself and dreading the drive back to Dublin where I’d plunge myself into work once more and juggle all the plates in the air with Ava’s homework, music lessons and sporting commitments through the week.
But now my mouth is watering for a cold, creamy pint of stout down at a bar where I know I’ll always be greeted like an old friend, no matter who is there and no matter how much time passes between visits.
‘I’ll see where my thoughts take me,’ I reply. ‘I quite fancy the walk to clear my head. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
Mum raises her eyebrows and puts her hand on my upper arm.
