12 Days 'til Christmas ✓

chapter twenty-one

"She's more than welcome here," I say, reaching out to touch his hand. His skin is warm, even warmer when he turns his hand over beneath mine so our palms touch. I try not to faint right then and there. "I can pick her up from the airport, if she needs? Does she have a way to get here?"

"They already landed; she got a taxi while I was still on the phone."

I pull a face. "A taxi from the airport? That'll cost an arm and a leg."

"I'm not sure she really cares about that right now," he says, and then with a slight laugh, he adds, "And she doesn't need to worry about money." He takes his hand back, pressing them together as though he's praying, touching his fingers to his lips. "Sorry to spring this on you."

"There's nothing to apologise for, Cas. Your sister's in need, and you know my stance on people in need."

He chuckles to himself. "Careful with that policy, else you'll end up with half the town living in your house."

*

Forty minutes later, I hear the tell-tale sound of a car slowing down outside my house and then the engine cutting out before doors open and shut with a thunk. I open the front door for the first time since Friday evening and Casper and I are greeted with a blast of frozen air, the temperature too low for more snow to fall. Casper darts out past me to help his sister, though she only has one hastily-packed bag, so he takes the baby from her instead.

The sight of him with a baby in his arms does something funny to my insides, going all jelly-like when he coos at the gorgeous little girl with a thick crop of jet black hair. His nephew, the three-year-old, charges at the front door and stops dead when he sees me, almost going arse over tit on the ice.

"Wait, Omar!" Jemima calls. Her accent is less pronounced that Casper's – he is undeniably Scottish, the same thick accent that everyone from Saint Wendelin shares, but Jemima has adopted a more English slant to her voice in her time down south.

I don't get a good look at her until the taxi pulls away and she trots over to her son, and once she's grabbed hold of his hand, she stands straight and gives me the exact same smile as Casper. It's eerie how similar it is, the same slightly crooked lips and dark eyes a thousand shades of brown, the same enviably thick eyebrows. She's wearing the most beautiful hijab, the same rich red as my dress with shimmery detailing, and I almost laugh when I realise she's wearing a Christmas jumper beneath her flowing cardigan.

"Come in, come in," I say, stepping back and holding the door open. Omar rushes in as though it's his own home, yelling about how cold it is. Jemima follows, and Casper brings up the rear with the baby in his arm, pulling an empty pram along behind him.

"Hi, Beth," Jemima says. "Sorry to be such an imposition. It's really nice to meet you, though, at last! I wondered when this day would come, though I wish it was under different circumstances." She lets out a tired laugh and follows me to the kitchen.

"It's nice to meet you too," I say, overthinking what she just said. "Casper's only been living here for a week though."

"He's been talking about you for years," Jemima says, some sixth sense telling her to grab Omar before he makes a run for it. He has a sweet, cheeky little face, but my attention is torn from him when I hear what Jemima just said.

Years? Really? The nervous tremor in my gut is more butterflies now than anxiety and I can't help a giddy smile break out, one that I desperately tamp down when I remember why Jemima's here.

"I'm so sorry to hear about your husband," I say, the words rushing out too fast. "Will he be okay?"

She nods and pulls Omar back to her side. Casper comes into the kitchen, bouncing the baby. Faiza, I suddenly remember, the name coming back to me out of nowhere.