Free A Yorkshire Christmas by Kate Hewitt

sounds, the sights, the smells, made Claire feel as if she’d stepped into a daydream. A fantasy.
    And for a few minutes, maybe an hour, she could enjoy it. Surely that wouldn’t hurt anyone?
    The hot chocolate was simmering on top of the Aga and Claire had just located some mugs, giving them a discreet rinse before placing them on the counter in front of Molly, when Noah came in, stamping snow from his boots, his cheeks red from the cold.
    “I got the tree inside. Now I just need to figure out how to put it up.”
    “Don’t you have a tree stand?” Claire asked, and Molly piped up,
    “What about decorations? Ornaments and icicles and a star for the top?”
    “I’m not sure I have any of that,” Noah said with a rueful smile, and Molly looked at him in incredulous pity.
    “Haven’t you had a Christmas tree before?”
    “Not for a long time,” Noah said, and there was a sadness to his voice that made Claire wonder why he hadn’t. Where was his family—the sibling she’d seen in that photograph, his parents?
    “Well, what about when you were little?” Molly pressed. “Didn’t you have a Christmas tree then?”
    Noah got a strange look on his face, almost as if he’d been sucker-punched. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and Claire, sensing that some memory or feeling had been prodded, hurried to fill the silence.
    “How about some hot chocolate?” She passed a bag of mini-marshmallows, yet another item Noah had thrown into his shopping cart yesterday, to Molly. “Why don’t you put a few marshmallows in each cup?”
    She poured the hot chocolate and Molly diligently counted out the marshmallows, making sure each mug had the same amount. Claire glanced at Noah out of the corner of her eye, and saw that he was staring into space, in the grip of some memory. She couldn’t tell from his face whether it was a good or bad one.
    “Noah?” she prompted, holding a mug out to him, but he just shook his head as if rousing himself from a dream and with a muttered apology left the room.

Chapter Seven
    ‡
    W hile Molly drank her hot chocolate, Claire tidied the kitchen and then investigated the contents of the ancient fridge, hoping she’d find something to give the girl for lunch.
    There were the makings for sandwiches, and she’d just put it all out on the counter and opened a can of tomato soup, when Noah reappeared in the kitchen, a battered cardboard box in his arms.
    “Here we are,” he said, and his voice came out sounding strange, a little croaky.
    Molly looked up from her hot chocolate, a cocoa mustache coating her top lip.
    “Decorations,” Noah explained, and then cleared his throat. “Ornaments.” He put the box on the counter and then took a step back, almost as if it were a ticking bomb that might go off at any second.
    Oblivious of her father’s discomfort, Molly abandoned her hot chocolate and reached for the lid of the box. “Where did you get these?” she asked and Noah gave a little shrug.
    “In the storage loft. They haven’t been used in a long time.”
    “Be careful, Molly,” Claire said quickly, for she could see that some of the ornaments looked fragile. All of them looked old and well-loved, once upon a time, and they made her wonder about the boy who had once hung them on the tree… and the man who, it seemed, never had.
    “Look at this!” Molly exclaimed, and lifted up a pinecone dusted with silver glitter, a red yarn ribbon tied around one end. “Did you make this?”
    Noah’s mouth quirked in a tiny half-smile. “I think that was me. I was generous with the glitter. David was much more careful.”
    “David?” Claire asked before she could help herself.
    “My brother.”
    “And what about this one?” Molly held up a hand-knit Santa, complete with white yarn beard and a red hat with a white pompom.
    “My mum knit that,” Noah said. “Your grandmother.”
    Molly’s eyes brightened with curiosity as she turned to Noah, the Santa still held aloft in her