Lily’s romantic encounter last Christmas has sustained her all year, but will the handsome stranger keep his promise to return? An exclusive short story by SCARLETT BAILEY, author of The Night Before Christmas
till in darkness, the high street, which would be bustling in a few hours time with festive last-minute shoppers, was blanketed with a pristine covering of virgin snow. Cradling
her mug of coffee, Lily left the counter, laden with the fresh flowers that Darren the delivery man had dropped off just before six, and went to the window. The night before Christmas – almost – and all was
silent and still, sparkling under strings of coloured lights that ran through the town. Christmas Eve had come around so quickly. So much had happened in the last year that the days had flown by, and Lily had barely had time to pause for breath as she built up her florists from strength to strength. Lily’s Blooms had been open a year
today, almost to this very hour. But gazing out of the frosted window, waiting for the world to wake up, Lily wasn’t reflecting on how well she had done to make a go of the florists, or to get on with life after the divorce. Lily was wondering just one thing – would he be back? She had waited a year to find out. “Those wreathes won’t decorate
Jessop, however, had other ideas. Still occupying the flat above the shop, she came to work most days – unpaid, uninvited and very, very opinionated. Yet despite her attempts to continue to treat Lily like a Saturday girl and her insistence on speaking her mind, which even Mrs Jessop admitted wasn’t quite what it used to be, Lily had grown very fond of her. “I don’t know, dried oranges and cinnamon sticks
didn’t really fall in love
People
at first sight. Well, not other people anyway
themselves you know.” Mrs Jessop’s voice startled her as the older woman appeared from upstairs like an apparition in a matinee jacket and slippers. Only Mrs Jessop wasn’t a ghost – she was the shop’s last owner, back when Lily’s Blooms had been Jessop’s the Florist. Lily had bought the shop from her when, at 84, the old lady was supposed to be retiring. Mrs
on a wreath? Where’s the tinsel? Where’s the holly?” Mrs Jessop sniffed at the box of wreath decorations. “Anyone would think you were making a Christmas cake, not trimming a circle of Norwegian spruce.” “It’s the fashion, Mrs Jessop,” Lily smiled, returning to her station where she began to organise the day’s blooms, including a stack of poinsettia, about 20 mini potted Christmas trees and, of course, her chicly dressed door wreaths. “I blame the youth of today,”
Mrs Jessop muttered, nevertheless beginning to wire cinnamon
sticks on to the nearest wreath. Lily let her mind drift back to a
year ago, just a few minutes after the shop had opened for the very first time. It
was when she first, and last, met Michael. He’d
breezed in along with the north wind and icy rain. “I need a present for an angry woman,” he said,
looking flustered, his dark hair tousled, his cheeks ruddy from the cold. About her age, Lily thought, 40-something and dressed in a long dark coat with what looked like a kit bag slung over one shoulder.