Page 11 of Christmas Is All Around
“This car,” Eloise muttered, kicking it in an affectionate sort of way. “Do you know it already had the dent when he bought it used? He thinks it gives it character.”
“Have you considered punching him in the nose to see if he thinks it gives his face character?” Charlotte asked, and Eloise cackled. Just then, there was the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps crunching on gravel; Graham was jogging toward them, a wool coat flung over one arm and a messenger bag over the opposite shoulder.
“Sorry,” he said, slightly breathless. “I should have given you the keys.”
“I was contemplating breaking a window,” Eloise informed him. “It might have improved the looks of this car.”
“For that, you can sit in the back seat,” he said lightly. He turned to Charlotte and opened the passenger door. “After you.”
Within ten minutes, they’d made their way down the winding gravel drive, up the narrow country lane that led to the house (Charlotte closing her eyes and hoping fervently, as she had on the journey down that afternoon, that they did not meet any oncoming traffic, because in no universe was this road wide enough for two cars), and onto the A road that would lead them north. Eloise had been largely responsible for maintaining the flow of conversation thus far,chattering away about her job doing educational outreach at Kew Gardens, their younger sister Lizzie, who was a fashion design student at Central Saint Martins, and the full program of Christmas festivities that would be on offer at Eden Priory that season. Charlotte had mostly directed her attention out the window, though it did her little good—it was fully dark, and she could see nothing other than dark lumps that she thought were hedges, and the occasional welcoming lights of farmhouses or far-off villages.
Eventually, however, Eloise fell silent, and then, belatedly seeming to think that she had been remiss in her hostess duties, she asked, “Charlotte, what do you do?”
“I’m an artist,” Charlotte said absently, still staring out the window. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Graham’s head turn in her direction, lightning-fast, before turning back to the road ahead.
“Oh! What kind of art?” Eloise asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“Watercolors, mainly,” Charlotte said, shifting in her seat. “I do some acrylics, too, depending on the project. I run a shop through my website where I sell prints—lots of florals and citrus fruits and patterns like that—and then I also accept commissions, and have done some brand collaborations—limited-edition stationery lines, that sort of thing. People often commission me to paint their vacation cottage, or childhood home, or something—they’ll send me a photo to work off.”
“And the occasional interior?” Graham asked casually, and Charlotte’s head turned slowly toward his. In profile, his attention still fixed on the road, she could see the fine cut of his jaw—not helpful, brain, thank you—but also the amused curve of his mouth.
“Occasionally,” she agreed.
“Am I missing something?” Eloise asked, leaning forward.
Graham’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror to look at his sister. “We met earlier this evening—she was hiding in the nook behind the stairs.”
“Ha! Graham’s spot!” Eloise said, laughing gleefully. “Was he absolutely awful to you?” she asked Charlotte. “He’s so possessive of that goddamn bench.”
“No, he just started stripping.”
“Graham, what the hell?” Eloise braced her arms on the back of his seat. “Do you want to get arrested?”
“Myreindeercostume,” he clarified.
“Well, you should be arrested for that, too,” Eloise said darkly, leaning back against her seat. “You did not appreciate my creative vision.”
“Were the costumes your idea?” Charlotte asked warily.
“They were!” Eloise said brightly, looking extremely pleased with herself. She dusted at the apron she was still wearing. “Graham’s planned most of the events at the house lately, but I thought a Christmas lights switch-on is a bitdull, you know?”
Charlotte remained diplomatically silent, which was fine since Eloise didn’t seem to actually be looking for a response.
“—so if the whole family channeled the spirit of beloved Christmas characters of the past, it would liven things up a bit! I wanted to write us an entire skit, but Graham said we should just let people take photos with us instead.”
Charlotte turned to Graham inquiringly. “Do tell. Which specific reindeer were you? I assume you fully studied the character’s background so that you could properly channel its spirit.”
“Dasher,” he said, not missing a beat, his eyes still on the road. “I like to run. Seems like the deer and I could relate to each other.”
“Does Dasher refer to his running speed or his flying speed, though?” Charlotte asked thoughtfully.
“I promise you, I do not give a fuck.”
“Thisis why you always ruin things,” Eloise said, pouting. “You need to give more fucks, Graham. I wanted those people to believe that youwereDasher.”
“Seems like a big ask from a bunch of felt,” he said, but he flashed a grin at his sister in the rearview mirror, quick and fleeting.
“Anyway,” Eloise said. “There was still no reason to strip out of your deer suit in front of a guest!”
