‘I think I have fallen in love with you.’
‘With me?’ she whispered.
‘I don’t have a girlfriend. Not any more. There was Annabel, and I went to the ball with her and then we left university and it’s over. Because I can’t stop thinking about someone else. I can’t stop comparing every single woman I know with someone who has come into my life and lit it up like a Catherine wheel.’
He stepped forward and took her hand.
‘There’s a place just outside called the Kissing Gate.’
‘Do we need to go that far?’ she whispered.
He took her face between his hands and kissed her softly on the lips. And somewhere deep down, she felt her own fireworks go off in her heart.
24 December 2012
It had been a busy day. The busiest Christmas Eve Amy could remember. Much of it had been spent eating: breakfast pancakes with strawberry butter and maple syrup at Good Enough to Eat, hot chocolate and pumpkin muffins at Sarabeth’s Bakery in Chelsea Market, and cupcakes from Sprinkles on Lexington. She had shopped for Christmas presents for the family in Bloomingdale’s, popped into the Plaza Hotel to see their giant Great Gatsby-themed Christmas tree, watched the ice skaters on the rink in Central Park, and even queued up to get inside the iconic toy shop FAO Schwarz – which Georgia agreed was all part of the Christmas experience.
But pulling up outside Carmichael Street, Amy reconsidered the wisdom of inviting Georgia round to her house, which looked so much smaller and more shabby than she remembered. Her dad had said ‘the more the merrier’ when she had rung to check, but then he had once invited a hobo to dinner when he’d spotted him panhandling outside Dempsey’s: any excuse to break out his Old Navy Rum was a good one to her dad. She knew her mom would be fretting about the food and the seating and the dishes, probably furiously polishing the ‘good’ silver – that was the cutlery set from Macy’s rather than Kmart – at this very moment. Amy was more worried about the rest of the family. Would her brother Billy embarrass her with tales from their childhood? Would Uncle Chuck get drunk and insist on singing? More to the point, would it all be a little, well, lower class for such a sophisticated lady as Georgia Hamilton?
‘A charming house,’ said Georgia, as if she was reading Amy’s mind. ‘I am very much looking forward to meeting your family.’
‘Well, don’t expect too much,’ said Amy.
‘On the contrary, Amy,’ said Georgia, taking her arm as they walked up the path, ‘I am a great believer in nurture over nature and I do not think people appear from nowhere fully formed. You are a product of your family, Amy Carrell, and on that basis, I expect them to be perfectly charming.’
Amy was about to say that she could expect all she liked but that wouldn’t stop Uncle Chuck from groping her ass, when the door flew open and Amy felt herself sucked into a huge hug.
‘Merry Christmas, Aunt Amy!’ cried the two children clinging to her waist.
‘Hey, hey,’ she laughed. ‘Careful or you’ll crush all these presents I brought.’
The children started clamouring for the gifts, but Amy held them out of their reach until she was inside the house. ‘Here, go and put them under the tree.’
She looked around and was immediately hit by a rush of affection and nostalgia. The tree was where it always was in the hallway, sagging under far too many trimmings, the battered and threadbare angel she’d so loved as a girl still clinging gamely to the top. There were old-fashioned paper chains strung along the beams of every room and crêpe paper reindeers and snowmen tacked to the windows, just as there always had been. But most of all it was the smell that made Amy go weak with longing: that mixture of pine needles and cooking and punch and candles, each smell laid over that indefinable scent of ‘home’.
‘Hey, honey,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Welcome home.’
Amy fell into her father’s arms, loving the feel of him: his strength and warmth. He felt safe and right. In his embrace she was five years old again and doing cartwheels of excitement waiting for Santa.
‘Dad,’ she said. ‘This is my friend, Georgia Hamilton.’
‘Hey, how ya doin’?’ he said, stepping forward to offer his ham-hock hand. ‘Nick Carrell. Ya takin’ care of my little girl for me, I hear.’
‘Dad . . .’ said Amy, blushing.
‘Oh no, Amy has been taking care of me, Mr Carrell,’ smiled Georgia, meeting his gaze. ‘And she’s been doing a wonderful job.’
‘Amy! Honey,’ screamed Connie Carrell, running out of the kitchen.
Her mother had literally wept tears of delight when Amy had called her a week earlier to say that she was coming home, and her excitement still hadn’t subsided.
‘This is just the best Christmas present I could ask for. My little girl home. Nick, get Georgia a drink.’
‘You like whiskey?’
‘Nick!’ said Connie, slapping his arm. ‘You can’t offer this nice lady whiskey.’