Chapter 31

Bitter cold though it is, the outdoors are a joy. We’re high up a mountain of course, so the chances of
perfect Christmas weather are good in any case, but the scene outside could have been scripted in
from some Dickensian novel.

Snow lies, as they say, deep and crisp and even, well up to the knees. Over field and road and garden,
it lies drifted up against walls and seats. Air catches in my throat, the chill inflating my sinuses, and my
breath blows out in blue clouds, then hangs in the air, glinting.

The dogs race around, excited and enthusiastic, panting despite the cold. Poor Meg, low-slung and
woolly as she is, collects snow on her underside. It balls up to dangle in blobs from her tummy and I
keep having to pull them off her.

Wonder what it’s like down by the Mill?

White water rushing with white foam by even whiter snow…

Together we stroll; me, Michael and Ryan, with Charlotte’s father bringing up the rear; around the back
of the house and across the courtyard towards the woods.

Lucid with cold; the day is blessed with that clear unsullied light you only get when the temperature is
well below zero. The sky is a brilliant azure overhead, fading to opal at the horizon.

Michael leads us past white hummocks which I know, under the surface, are Charlotte’s vegetable
garden. A few tattered greenish spikes stick up out from under the snow. “Remind me on the way back
to take in some sprouts,” he says. “James was asking for them.”

The thick blanket of snow that fell overnight has frozen until the surface snaps like the iced top of a
Christmas cake, and like the best such cakes, its brilliant white crust is highlighted by the dense green
of a holly tree with its scarlet berries.



“I don’t remember seeing that tree there before,” I comment.

Michael huffs. “That’s because it was hidden by brambles until earlier this Summer. They’d scrambled
up and all but swallowed it. I cleared the space around the tree and it’s paying dividends now.”

Klempner frowns. “So, why not pick your holly from there?”

Michael gives him a dry look. “Because I enjoy looking at it. So does Mitch. She can see it from her
window and watch the birds eating the berries.”

Sure enough, when I look again, the tree dangles half-coconuts and fat-balls from its lower branches. A
bird table close by homes a storm of small riotous birds.

We stomp through the snow, having to lift our feet between steps. “I’ll clear this later,” says Michael.
“Give Mitch an easier walk back to her place.”

“I’ll help with that,” says Ryan.

“You’re on.” Michael points forward and towards the treeline, sweeping out towards the meadows which
stretch down the mountain. “There’re several hollies in the hedgerow at the edge of the woodland and
one really spectacular tree. It’s covered in berries… at least if we beat the birds to it.”

With each step, the iced surface of the snow snaps, my feet sinking through. It’s like walking on a
cross-trainer and my thighs are aching by the time we cross the few hundred yards to Michael’s tree.

He’s right though. It is spectacular. Deep green leaves reflect the bright sunshine. Glossy blobs of ice
twinkle at the prickles and the branches are brilliant with berries. As we draw closer the sound of
squabbling birds rattles over the snow and flapping, squawking shapes rise into the air, protesting our
presence.

Ryan chuckles, “I don’t think they’re very happy about us stealing their breakfast.”



They’re even less happy when the dogs spot them and tear across, barking loudly to chase them off.

Stooping, I scoop up a handful of snow, cracking through the crisp surface to get to the softer stuff
underneath, then packing it into a hard ball.

“Come on you lot!” I toss the snowball and it arcs through the air, bursting into icy shrapnel as it lands.
The dogs charge after it, a howling, bouncing hairy mass, not looking where they’re going.

Michael scrapes up a handful of snow, packing it in his hand to a ball, but as he swings back to throw,
the dogs leap. Emma collides squarely with both snowball and Michael's chest….

“Whoa...” His arms windmill as he tips back and vanishes under a snowdrift.

I'm all but wetting myself with laughter.

The dogs explode off in all directions, all except for Mac, who runs under the snow with only a moving
bulge on the surface and his waving tail to mark his path.

*****

All of us laden with holly, we return to the house. Klempner looks Michael up and down. “A change of
clothes maybe?”

“No maybe about it. I’m fucking frozen.” But the big, handsome blond man is laughing.

We pass the vegetable garden again. “Sprouts?” I say.

“Ah, thanks for the reminder.” He scans the snow-capped stalks, chooses one and tugs it up whole, by
the roots. Then another. This one resists, its feet rooted in the frozen ground. Michael tries again, but
when it doesn’t come free, produces his pruning saw. He brandishes the cut stalk. “That’s one part of
Christmas dinner sorted out.”



*****

We return to find Richard stapling sheets together, several copies of the same document.

James pushes a mug of hot wine into my hands, steaming and spicy. Another into Ryan’s. I suck at it
and a warm glow shimmers down through my stomach to fingers and toes.

Richard hands me a document; another copy to Ryan. “Here you are. All done. Your purchase contract
for the Mill. Read it at your leisure. Take your time, both of you. To expedite matters, I’ve arranged
matters so that you would be buying the property from me. Be sure it’s what you want to do. Read it
thoroughly and bring me the signed copies.”

My hands tremble as I take the contract from him. “We buy it from you? But I thought your friend was
the owner?”

He smiles slightly. “If you decide to do this, Kirstie, I will take up my option to buy the property, then you
will buy it from me. In practice the two sales will take place concurrently.”

“It sounds very complicated.”

“Perhaps to you, but I do this kind of thing all the time. I’ve made myself a rich man this way. But, on
this occasion, it means the two of you get what you want for a far better price.”

“My office is free,” says James. “You’ll be quiet in there if you’d like that.”

The dogs tumble after us as we head through. Ryan takes a tall leather armchair to read his copy. I
commandeer James’ desk. Flipping through the sheets, I speed-read dense paragraphs of legalese.

… where hereby Richard Charles Haswell (hereafter known as ‘The Vendor’) will sell to Kirstie
Jamieson and Ryan Dougherty (hereafter known as ‘The Buyers’) the property known as ‘The Mill’



along with such lands as are marked within the red boundary on the accompanying plan…

My excitement mounting, my stomach flutters and my cheeks are growing warm. I keep reading,
scanning quickly, over the pages.

The Mill, its contents and environs will be sold for the consideration of…

I stare at the sale price…

… And something inside me freezes over.

It’s not as though I didn’t know the figure, but somehow, when it was spoken, it didn't sound so much.
The words spilled out, fast and unimportant.

Now that I see it in print...

Oh, my God...

My gut plunges…

What am I committing myself to?

The glow in my cheeks turns to a hot flush. But my hands are cold. I gulp at my wine, trying to quell the
uneasiness in my belly.


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