Second Chance - Jane Green [60]
Heaven forbid she would have given him the slightest indication that she was the least bit interested.
Life had gone back to normal very quickly. She had written a long letter to Sarah. A letter filled with memories of Tom. Of the things she had loved about him, of stories she hoped would bring some solace to Sarah. She’d known she couldn’t send the usual condolence card. The I’m-so-sorry-to-hear-of-your-loss card, of which she’d seen hundreds on tables around Peter and Maggie’s house. Holly hadn’t planned to write the nine pages she did, but she’d been glad when she finished, knowing that even if it wasn’t received in the spirit in which it was sent, it had somehow comforted her to write it all down, and that had been enough for the moment.
One morning she had just got back from taking the kids to school and had dashed upstairs to get her portfolio before running into the office for a meeting about next year’s line of Christmas cards – the theme was going to be angels, and Holly had spent a week researching and coming up with ideas for illustrations.
She had put together a presentation that was incredibly beautiful in its simplicity: thick vellum card, roughedged, almost as if it had been torn, and a halo of tiny white feathers. On others, tiny Christmas trees of the same delicate feathers, some with a small sprinkling of glitter. Another had a single sprig of miniature mistletoe and another a tiny holly leaf. In small handblocked letters beneath were individual words: peace, love, faith, trust, joy. They were exactly the type of Christmas cards Holly likes to receive herself.
Holly loves Christmas, probably, she has always joked, because of her name. Her memories of childhood Christmases are nothing but good, and she still feels a flutter of childlike excitement when she finishes decorating the Christmas tree and stands back, turning on the lights for the first time.
As a little girl she would make car journeys pass more quickly by leaning her head on the window and counting how many trees she saw in windows. Each one was exciting, each one a promise of more glorious things to come.
Marcus has never quite been able to see the point of Christmas, so although Holly still does all the things she has always done – a huge tree glistening with lights, holly wreaths over the fireplace and around the front door, fat red candles nestling among gleaming cranberries in glass vases – sharing Christmas with her family isn’t ever infused with the joy that Holly had always anticipated.
The kids love it, though. They make paper snowflakes and stick them to all the windows, string multicoloured paper lanterns throughout the playroom and kitchen, and bake gingerbread men and mince pies– which they adore making although they both refuse point – blank to take even one bite of them once they are baked.
Holly had been completely consumed by this presentation for the past few days, and turned back to check her emails before she left, just to be sure there wasn’t, as there so frequently was, a last – minute email from work saying the meeting had been cancelled.
And there it was. An email from Will. Holly, as usual, was in a hurry, but she leant over her chair and clicked it open, the rush on receiving the previous emails he had sent disappearing completely, simply curious to know what he might have written after what feels like weeks of radio silence.
To: Holly
From: Will
26/11/06 4:56:09 AM
Subject: Apology
Dear Holly,
I meant to write earlier but life suddenly seemed to become very difficult. Losing Tom felt like I was living in a dream sequence for a while. A part of me kept expecting to wake up and hear that it was a joke, that someone had played an enormous trick on me, and that the next time the phone rang it would be Tom at the other end.
But at some point after the service, it