He shrugged. “Whatever.”
She had to stop expecting him to morph into some sweet little cherub, Laurel told herself. He was fourteen. Maybe most fourteen-year-old boys were like this. They probably were, judging from the few she’d seen loitering about on the streets, looking either menacing or obnoxious, in dark hoodies and low-slung trackie bottoms, smelling of far too much cheap aftershave, hair long and gelled on top and buzzed short on the sides.
Thugs in the making, one of her friends, determinedly childless, had said when a group of boys blocking the entrance to the Shambles in York had refused to move out of the way to let them through. They’d had to shoulder their way through, and Laurel had felt a little frisson of fear at the lads’ surly expressions, the simmering testosterone, their unwillingness to move.
Really, compared to that lot, Zac was a saint. Sort of. He’d gone back to his phone without answering her question about lunch, and so she decided to take charge, at least a little bit.
“Ham and cheese toasties it is, then,” she said firmly, and went back downstairs. Outside clouds had started to scud across the sky, and Laurel wondered if it might snow. They’d have to go out before it did, and get their tree.
Tonight she’d build a fire, and they’d put up the Christmas tree, and maybe, just maybe, Zac would do more than grunt at her. If she kept her expectations low, perhaps they’d both fare better.
And maybe, when she wasn’t looking for one, she’d find the miracle she’d been wanting all along.
Chapter Six
It didn’t snow; it rained, icy, needling drops that pelted down as Laurel and Zac headed into the garden centre outside Kirkwall.
At least inside it was warm and cheery, everything as Christmassy as possible, with carols playing and an elaborate Santa’s grotto, decked out in evergreen with a jolly Santa ready to welcome children on his knee. Zac was definitely too old for that. Laurel stopped by a basket of brightly coloured baubles.
“We don’t have any decorations for our tree,” she realised out loud. Zac just shrugged. “What do you and your mum do for Christmas?” she asked. “Do you have any traditions?”
“We usually get a takeaway,” he said, and Laurel had to keep from gaping at him.
“A takeaway? That’s it?” Another shrug. “I mean, what about a tree? And presents? And a roast dinner?” Obviously they didn’t have the roast dinner, since he’d just mentioned the takeaway, but still. A takeaway as your only Christmas tradition? That was so sad.
“We don’t do that stuff. Mum never saw the point.” He sounded indifferent, but Laurel couldn’t help but be appalled. She lived alone, and she still had a tree, and presents—one for Mistral, at least, and one for her neighbour Helen—and a roast dinner for the friends who were kicking around with nowhere to go for Christmas.
She decorated her little cottage to the hilt, and watched the Queen’s speech and all the rubbish telly, and sang Christmas carols at the top of her voice while whipping the cream for her Christmas pavlova and sneaking a tipple or two.
She’d done it all since Abby had done it for her, back when they were little. After Abby had left, she and her father had eaten a roast dinner for two, pulling a cracker and wearing paper crowns… but when Laurel had left home, her father hadn’t continued the traditions or seemed to want to, and so she’d only spent a handful of Christmases with him over the years, finding it rather grim to sit in front of the telly all day, her dad only rousing himself to eat the dinner she’d made.
It made her sad to think Zac didn’t have any traditions save for a rubbish takeaway. Why hadn’t Abby ever seen the point? Because she certainly had when they’d been younger; Laurel had distinct memories of Abby lugging a tree into the house when their dad had been working overtime. She’d put Christmas carols on the CD player while they’d decorated the tree and made popcorn to string with cranberries. She’d even made a roast dinner, because it had always been Laurel’s proud job to mash the potatoes. When—and why—had that stopped?
“I don’t understand,” she said slowly, and Zac gave her a blank look. “Your mum used to love Christmas.”
He shrugged. “She never did with me.”
“Well we’re not having takeaway this year. And we’re definitely having a tree.” Laurel plunged her hand into the basket of baubles and put several into her shopping trolley. “And pavlova, and Christmas carols, and presents and stockings.”
Zac didn’t reply—no grunt, no shrug, no blown-breath “whatever”, and Laurel decided to count it all as a win. She was on a mission. She was going to make this Zac’s best Christmas ever, the first real one he’d ever had.
Before too long, her basket was full of ornaments—bright, shiny baubles, cotton wool-bearded Santas, a wooden reindeer, a tiny pair of skis. She couldn’t resist any of them, even if Zac didn’t seem particularly enthused. He would be.
When it was all on the tree, when the Christmas carols were playing, when she’d made hot chocolate and they’d hung up their stockings…
“Stockings!” she exclaimed. “We don’t have stockings.” Zac just looked at her. “You know, to hang up.”
“We never did stockings.”
“Not even stockings?” After their mother had died, Abby had always filled her stocking for her. Laurel would wake up to find it at the end of her bed, lovingly lumpy with packets of sweets and small toys. What had happened, to make her sister go from that to this? No stocking, no Christmas, for her own child?
“Let’s go pick some out,” she told Zac, but he shrugged and turned away.
“I’m going to the café. They have free Wi-Fi here.”
Of course they did. “Fine, I’ll come find you when I’m finished.” Laurel watched him walk off, determined more than ever to make this Christmas count.
She found the stockings in another aisle and picked out two in red felt with white trim. Of course, if they were going to do stockings, she would have to fill them. What on earth might Zac want for Christmas?