Page 87 of Knots About You
‘Oi, Kenny, shush a minute.’ Isla had the whole pub quiet in under a minute.
‘Awesome news. Claire is staying. And moving in with me.’
Jean gasped, hands to mouth and eyes shining.
‘And she’s definitely coming for Christmas.’ Jean clapped as Owen announced it.
‘You’ll need to get your needles out,’ Morag came over and put a hand on Jean’s shoulder.
‘Oh, my heart. Christmas at ours it is!’ Jean’s voice wobbled with glee. And it felt wonderful to see them happy that I was staying, like I belonged.
Jim leaned towards the phone. ‘Welcome home, lass.’
I blinked back tears. They may not have been my parents, but it didn’t make their warmth feel any less special.
Jeff yelled, ‘Hey Claire, what’s the capital of Canada? Toronto, right?’
A beer mat swiftly entered the picture, clipping him right on the forehead.
We promised to swing by after the quiz for a drink. Or three.
When Owen ended the call, he scooped me against him and cuddled me tight.
‘Well then,’ he said.
‘Well then,’ I repeated, leaning my head back against his shoulder and soaking in the moment.
A breeze tousled my hair, and rose goosepimples over my skin. Sand coated my clothing, and I smelled like vinegar and chips, but I didn’t care. My city self, who used to wear business attire as if it were armour, looked at the sea and the stars and the man and said,Fine. We’ll allow this.
‘I think I found my place,’ I said into his sleeve, surprised by how sure it sounded. ‘Untamed hair and all.’
‘Aye,’ he said, kissing the top of my head like a habit he intended to keep. ‘Looks like it found you back.’
I slid my hand into Owen’s, and he squeezed.
epilogue
OWEN
The homemade,eye-wateringly jumpers had us itching, and I could never quite decide if Mum loved them or just had a decades-long joke on our behalf. She’d gone all out this year and monogrammed the Initials in tinsel wool.
Atrocious.
Inspector Meowrse sat under the tree, worrying a bauble, and judged us.
The King’s speech wittered on in the background from the sitting room, while I had Christmas tunes filling the kitchen as I cooked. Claire had the house decked out in an obscene amount of twinkling lights, but I found there was little I could, or even wanted to, deny her. It marked a stark contrast from previous Christmases, where she hadn’t been around to infect every single day with joy. Not that we didn’t argue, we’d had a wicked barney over the validity of Scrabble words two nights ago.
Mostly so we had an excuse for nasty make-up sex.
Claire and Dad were at the coffee table with a jigsaw of a village that looked like a snow-coated, Victorian version of ours. There were an insane number of pieces, and Claire has been working on it with the occasional session for most of December. Dad pretended just to be helping because he was bored, but he scoured through every sky piece like a hawk, looking for the perfect fit.
‘Left of the steeple.’ Claire tapped a spot beside the steeple with a soft smile.
Dad tried it and muttered as it sank into place.
‘Aye, you’re a clever wee thing.’ Dad finally seemed to be adapting to retirement, partially because of my mother’s stringent rules for him, and partially because Isla ruled the distillery with an iron fist. She didn’t need viral reels to make it climb to new successes, though she used those too.
I pulled my roasters from the oven and secretly rejoiced in their golden crispness. Dinner was nearly ready. We just had one guest to go.
