The Mistletoe Kiss

Chapter 1 The bookshop doorbell tinkled softly as Christy hurried in out of the pouring rain. Shivering, he leaned on it for a moment, allowing the familiar warmth to envelop him in its embrace, and the pungent scent of old paper, ink, and leather to calm him as it always did. “Good morning, Mr. Shaw.” Christy shook himself, and glanced over to where the shop owner, Mr. Fenton, sat behind his desk, pen in hand. Mr. Fenton didn’t look up, he continued to write in his ledger, spectacles perched on his nose. “Good morning, Mr. Fenton,” Christy said, trying not to drip all over the floor. He hurried through the shop into the back room and quickly divested himself of first his coat, scarf, and hat, then the rest of his wet clothes. He slipped into the clean, dry shirt, trousers, cravat, and waistcoat that were hanging there waiting for him, then pulled on his smart coat, and donned the uniform of respectability. Of a bookseller. It made his chest almost burst with pride every time. He tugged his waistcoat down, smoothed his damp hair, and then strode out into the shop. “Throw another log on the fire, would you?” Mr. Fenton said. The cosy fire in the shop warmed it and drew many a customer during the winter months. Christy hurried over and poked the embers and then rested a log on top. He held out his hands and warmed them. The dreary December drizzle had given way to a ferocious frost last night, then turned into pouring, freezing rain for his morning walk to work. He soaked up the warmth as he waited to make sure the log had taken, then headed for the back room, away from the customers, where the old range burned merrily. He swung the kettle over the fire to boil to make tea. Mr. Fenton liked tea at the start of the day. Today, a large pan of what looked like porridge simmered gently on the plate as well. Christy’s stomach rumbled as he gathered the tea things onto a tray and waited for the water to boil. The back room of the shop was the warmest, cosiest place on earth and Christy loved being the only person, apart from Mr. Fenton, who was allowed in. Two armchairs of worn, dark red leather sat either side of the range, in the centre of which a fire burned. There was a hot plate on one side, and an oven on the other. A huge hook for holding a kettle or a pan over the burning fire completed the ensemble. It was ancient, but Christy loved it. A big rag rug of myriad hues covered the floor, and the times that he had sat in one of the chairs with Mr. Fenton in the other talking about books, the world, and on occasion, politics, were some of Christy’s happiest moments. The kettle boiled and he made the tea. There were no customers yet, just Christy and Mr. Fenton. He always took the greatest care to make the tea exactly how Mr. Fenton liked it. He placed the china cup on a saucer, placed it on the tray with a cup for himself, and carried it through to the shop and placed it by Mr. Fenton’s elbow. Mr. Fenton looked up. He didn’t exactly smile, he wasn’t a smiling sort of a man, but his eyes warmed. He had the most beautiful eyes. Clear, crystalline grey, and so intelligent and sharp they bored into a man’s soul. Sometimes, Christy was a little afraid to hold his gaze too long, afraid of what he might see. “Thank you, Mr. Shaw.” Christy had long ago invited him to use his Christian name, but Mr. Fenton had just nodded and continued calling him Mr. Shaw. “My pleasure. What are we doing today, Mr. Fenton?” Mr. Fenton put down the quill and closed the ledger in which he had been writing. He had lovely hands too. Long, strong elegant fingers and clean, trimmed nails. The sight of them made Christy curl his fingers into his palms to hide the grime he knew lay beneath his own ragged fingernails. “Christmas displays,” he said, with a note of irritation in his voice as if pandering to the whims of the customers was something that he shouldn’t have to do. As if people should love and appreciate books in and of themselves, and as though adorning the shop with tawdry gewgaws, in the way that most shopkeepers did at this time of year, should not be something a serious bookseller should involve himself in. Christy felt as though he should adopt the same serious and slightly irritated attitude, but the prospect of Christmas decorations filled him with excitement, and set ideas whirling about his head. He tried to remain serious. “We’ve a couple of hours before the shop opens, I suppose we could get something ready?” he said with a half-smile and a shrug. He wasn’t sure how long he had been arriving at the shop before seven, even though Mr. Fenton told him that he need not arrive until the time they opened, which was nine o’clock, but as Mr. Fenton seemed to appreciate his help, and, on occasion, his company, Christy continued to arrive as early as he could. Mr. Fenton nodded and picked up his cup of tea and sipped. He sighed and nodded, closing his eyes for a second. “There’s porridge in the back room if you would like some. I can never judge the quantity. I seem to have made enough for a battalion.” Christy’s stomach rumbled and Mr. Fenton raised an eyebrow. Christy blushed. “Thank you. That would be most welcome. Would you like some too?” Mr. Fenton nodded. “I think I will.” Christy hurried into the back room, taking the teacups with him, and filled two bowls with the hot, steamy porridge. “Sugar on mine, please,” Mr. Fenton called from the shop. “And a little milk. Help yourself.” Christy smiled and sprinkled sugar on, then poured a little milk over, watching it pool around the edge of the bowl. He added spoons, and Mr. Fenton appeared in the doorway, leaning heavily on his cane. “I’ll eat here. Will you join me?” There was a smart table with four chairs in the room, but Mr. Fenton lowered himself into one of the armchairs and then rubbed at his thigh. Christy knew that he had a bad hip and a troublesome leg, a problem he had been born with, and it often made walking difficult and painful. He didn’t know a great deal else about Mr. Fenton the man. Apart from the fact that he was a widow who lost his wife five years ago. He did, however, know a lot about his views on books and politicians from their many conversations. Christy handed him a bowl and took the chair opposite. Mr. Fenton’s face looked pale and tired, and the dark hair that flopped onto his forehead seemed laced with more grey than before. Christy watched him in the soft light from the fire and the brace of candles still burning. He held the bowl for a moment, as though warming his hands on it, then took the spoon and started to eat carefully and methodically. Christy stirred his own bowl and continued watching him out of the corner of his eye. “You look tired, Mr. Fenton. Are you not feeling quite the thing?” Mr. Fenton glanced over at him. His clear grey gaze held his for a moment and then returned to the bowl. “Didn’t sleep too well. Cold weather plays havoc with the leg.” He looked back at Christy for a moment before concentrating on his bowl again. “You don’t look too clever yourself,” he said. The dull ache in his head returned when Mr. Fenton shifted the conversation to him. To his shame, Mr. Fenton knew a little about Christy’s living circumstances because there had been occasions when Christy couldn’t hide the bruises. It was rare that Mr. Fenton commented, which was a good thing, because on the occasion when he had shown a modicum of sympathy or concern, Christy found himself close to tears which was mortifying in the extreme. He wanted Mr. Fenton to see him as capable and dependable and worthy of working in his shop, not as some snivelling boy. “Haven’t slept much either,” Christy mumbled around his porridge as he shot him a swift glance. The firelight flickered over Mr. Fenton’s profile. His eyes were firmly on his porridge. “You know, if you ever needed to, you could sleep here on occasion. There are spare rooms upstairs.” Christy’s heart beat so rapidly in his chest at the unexpected offer it made him lightheaded. “Thank you,” he whispered when he recovered himself. He could think of nothing he would love more than to sleep in the shop. His heart ached along with his head. Mr. Fenton scraped the last of the porridge from his bowl and Christy watched those slim, elegant hands hold the spoon. “You could always take a nap before the shop opens if you are particularly tired,” Mr. Fenton said, as he stood up. “The Christmas decorations can wait.” Christy stared. When he had first come to the shop, Mr. Fenton had been the grumpiest, prickliest man he’d ever met, but as the weeks had ticked by, he had unbent little by little, and now he often made Christy’s life easier by offering small kindnesses, but he’d never gone so far as to offer him a bed. “Thank you, but I’d best get on, Mr. Fenton,” he said, not looking at him, and finished his own bowl of porridge as quickly as he could.