Christmas at Rosewood. Sophie Pembroke
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thought didn’t fill me with such dread.
Following Aiden’s look, Isabelle turned to me. ‘Now, Freya! I’m sorry, we haven’t been properly introduced, and I’m sure Edward hasn’t managed to even tell you everyone’s names yet. I’m Isabelle. Saskia’s grandmother.’
I resisted the urge to say I know. I recognise you from all the photos in the Rosewood Journals. I had a feeling that wasn’t the best way to start our acquaintance, given what the journals had to say about Isabelle’s earlier life, and her marriage to Nathaniel.
Frankly, I considered it a miracle that any of the family were still speaking to each other, given all the truths that had emerged in the writing of that book.
Isabelle went around the room, introducing me to the assembled company: Sally and Tony, Saskia’s parents – her dressed in a vibrant green and gold floaty top over leggings, and him in a Santa’s elf apron; Aunt Therese, looking like a throwback to 1953 with pinned hair and a nipped-in waist; and Saskia’s sisters, Caro and Ellie, and her brother-in-law Greg. Caro must be around Max’s age, I thought. There hadn’t been much detail about her in the Journals, probably to protect her privacy in future life.
Ellie was a study in opposites from her sisters – pale and blonde where Saskia and Caro were brunette. Greg held their baby girl, Nicolette, up in his arms so she could watch the lights on the tree. She must be around eight months, if I remembered what Edward had told me correctly.
He’d been so excited about the baby. I’d bet money it wouldn’t be long before he and Saskia followed suit.
All in all, it was a festive and happy family gathering – far removed from the scandal and secrets I’d read in the Journals. But even then, the love they’d all felt for each other had come through in the text. A tribute to Edward and Saskia’s hard work and talent, I supposed.
‘And of course, Edward tells us you already know Aiden,’ Isabelle finished, and I smiled tightly.
‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, but yes. We’ve met.’
‘Met.’ Such a small, insignificant word for what had passed between Aiden and I. But it would have to do.
‘I’m relishing the opportunity to catch up,’ Aiden said, his gaze locked with mine. His bright blue eyes were steady, but there was a glint in them. A promise of something.
Or maybe a threat.
Aiden, I suspected, wasn’t going to let me leave Rosewood without answering some questions – questions he’d been waiting fourteen years to ask.
Therese clapped her hands together. ‘Time for cocktails!’
Thank God. I needed a drink.
Mostly because I had a very strong feeling that Aiden wasn’t done with me yet.
The whole group moved through to the drawing room, with the exception of Tony, who headed for the kitchen muttering something about checking on the dinner. I caught up with Mum as we made our way down a long hallway, whispering so as not to be overheard.
‘You doing okay?’
Mum’s eyebrows jumped up in surprise. ‘Of course! Everyone has been lovely. Really, though, Freya. You should have brought some of your decorations. Max would have liked a piece of home here this week.’
I winced, guilt welling up. ‘Bad memories,’ I lied. It sounded better than No sentimental attachment to any remains of my marriage. Even if I didn’t, Max did – it was his family, his whole existence we were dissolving. I had to find a way to make this Christmas special for Max. I peered through a window as we passed. Still snowing. Good. Making a mental note to ask Tony if he had the makings of hot chocolate in the kitchen, I tried to reassure myself that Max was fine. ‘Max seems to be having a good time, though. He’s certainly made friends with Caroline fast enough.’
Up ahead, Caro and Max snuck off down a side passage, proving my point. I felt the pressure of the guilt in my chest ease ever so slightly.
‘Where are you two going?’ Edward called after them.
‘The middle room,’ Caro yelled back over her shoulder. ‘Max wants to see that Spontaneous Human Combustion documentary I TiVo-ed.’
Of course he did. Max had an unholy interest in the paranormal and horror stories – both reading and writing them. Which probably explained why he was so fascinated by the forbidden lure of Aiden’s dark and violent crime novels. Max’s lovely, sweet English teacher, Miss Yates, would be thrilled, I was sure, when Max went back to school after Christmas with a short story all about spontaneous human combustion to show her.
Mum gave me a black look, and I knew that Max’s sudden interest in human burnings was entirely the fault of my failed marriage, as far as she was concerned.
I was pretty sure Mum didn’t actually blame me for Darren’s affair and subsequent desertion. But I knew she believed I was the only person who could possibly have stopped it.
And I hadn’t. In fact, I’d done the exact opposite. Although, if she asked, I’d given it everything I could, of course.
‘Right, now who wants to try a Mistletoe Mojito and who would rather a Santa On The Beach?’ Isabelle asked, as Therese opened the drinks cabinet.
‘Does the mojito have actual mistletoe in it?’ Saskia asked, frowning. ‘Only it’s kind of poisonous…’
Therese rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a name darling, that’s all. Seasonal, you know.’
‘So, what do you make of them?’ Aiden’s voice, detached and emotionless behind me, made me flinch. He spoke as though we were observing characters in a play, not real people.
‘Why?’ I asked, turning to face him. ‘Are you planning on writing a crime novel set at Rosewood?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I meant, are they as you expected from the book?’
Oh. Right. ‘They’re all lovely,’ I said, evenly. ‘And I didn’t have any expectations.’
‘Of course you did,’ Aiden replied. ‘Everyone does. It’s part of what makes them so extraordinary.’
‘You seem to have settled in here very well,’ I pointed out. ‘You’ve been here, what, six months, you said? So you’ve had far more time to observe them. What do you make of them?’
Aiden gave me a strange half-smile. ‘Time isn’t everything.’
‘And that isn’t an answer,’ I snapped back, not wanting to hear what he meant by that comment. My brain was already supplying its own explanations. Answers that had to do with how two weeks of one Christmas holiday could still be confusing my life fourteen years later.
‘Ask me again after a couple of Santas on the Beach,’ he said. ‘Which one are you going to try?’
‘Um, neither?’ I’d stopped being a fan of interesting cocktails after a very unfortunate hen party about a decade earlier. ‘Think I can ask for a G&T?’
‘Leave it with me. I already promised I’d fetch Caro and Max soft drinks, anyway.’
‘You’ve been talking to Max?’ The words were out before I could stop them.
Aiden paused, looking at me with wary, waiting eyes. ‘Are you about to give me a warning to stay away from your son?’ I could just make out the restrained anger in his voice.
Ever since I arrived, I’d known that Aiden was holding back, covering his frustration and anger with a veneer of civility for the sake of our hosts. I wondered how long he’d be able to keep it up.
‘No,’ I said, as evenly as I