I snorted. “What magic?”
“You still haven’t told me why you hate Christmas. It’s so full of joy and cheer. What’s not to like?”
“Is it though?” I asked. There wasn’t anything joyful about my Christmases as a child. They were about as magical as an old sock.
“Of course. It’s a festival of lights, a time to come together—to eat, drink, and be merry.”
“It’s not religious to you, then?”
“Not particularly. The human race has always needed something to cheer them up during the dark, short days of winter. The winter solstice, Christmas, Hanukkah, the birthdays of Zeus and Jupiter—actually, let’s not even go down the pagan god route, because there are like fifteen of them or something who all had their birthday around this time. All I’m saying is that Juliet was right when she said, ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’” She grinned as she opened a wrought-iron gate in front of a thatched cottage. “That’s what my mother said to me when I asked her if Santa was real.” She laughed at the memory. “I didn’t have a clue what she meant but I was so confused I didn’t ask again. My parents always made it so special for me as a child and I’m determined that it will be special forever. But this year, especially this year, Christmas has to be perfect.”
“Nothing’s ever perfect. Better just to accept that and get on with life. It’s just a day. It will pass like all the others.”
We came to a stop on her front step. Celia’s white-blonde hair lit up her face. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the cold of the night and matched the tip of her nose.
“No more deflection,” she said. “Why do you hate it so much?”
I shrugged, a little thrown by her insistence. But there was something about that determined streak of hers that drew me in. “Too many ruined Christmases as a child, I suppose. My parents didn’t like each other. At all. And they weren’t afraid to show it. Even after they divorced, they insisted that the three of us spend the festivities together, which meant Christmas was unbearable for my entire childhood.” Every year I went into each festive season with the same hope and optimism that Celia seemed to have in abundance. And every year that same hope and optimism would be extinguished little by little, by the relentless arguing of my divorced parents. Even when they weren’t throwing insults and accusations at each other, the atmosphere could be cut with a Christmas cake slice. “Maybe it would have been different if I’d been allowed to come to Snowsly.”
“You wanted to come?” she asked.
I nodded. I’d begged my mother every year to be allowed to come to Granny’s. Partly because I always felt at home here—it was where I spent all my school holidays when I was growing up. “Of course. Christmas in Snowsly is the stuff of legends. I was desperate to experience it for myself.”
Every year, my pleas to my parents were met with incredulity. They couldn’t understand why on earth I didn’t want to spend the festive season with them. Perhaps they thought they were better at pretending to be friends than they were. But even as a child it was patently clear they couldn’t stand each other. And they didn’t love me enough to fake it. Not well, anyway.
“But as you grew up and were able to choose for yourself, why didn’t you come?”
It was an obvious question without an obvious answer. “I suppose I didn’t want to be . . . reminded of everything I’d missed. And I was just out of hope that this time of year could be anything other than awful.”
“Out of hope?” Celia reached for my lapel like she’d done earlier. Between her touch and the kindness in her expression, there was something reassuring about us being connected. Even if it was in a small way. “That’s so sad.”
“You don’t need to feel sorry for me. Five-star service in Barbados isn’t such torture.”
I expected her to make a joke in return, pull out one of her Christmas puns, but instead silence passed between us for one beat and then two.
“Well, you’re here this year.” She straightened her spine and looked right at me. “This is the year you finally see what a magical time it is. You’ll find your hope again.”
Celia believed what had been done could be undone. I knew better. History couldn’t be rewritten.
When I didn’t reply, Celia tugged on my lapel. “Let yourself believe in the magic.”
I covered her hand with mine, the tops of her fingers melting like ice cubes into the heat of my hand. She looked up at me, so earnest, so desperate to convince me, that I couldn’t crush her optimism and tell her I’d tried. For years, I’d done everything I could to convince myself that the next Christmas would be different. But at eighteen, I’d stopped trying, and it was the best thing I’d ever done. I’d escaped.