Their hands met. Touched. His hand was warm, his palm hard, his hold strong. The handshake of a man who could be trusted to care for his family. To stick around through thick and thin. Who would do his best by the people he loved.
The kind of handshake she could get used to. If she were a sticking around kind of girl. Which, of course, she wasn’t. She wouldn’t let herself be. Ever.
‘Daaaaddy … what shoe goes where?’
Callan looked up from working flour into the fruitcake he was making for the local sewing club’s annual Christmas morning tea to see Mia staring at him, her socked foot tapping impatiently as she held up two glittery ballet flats.
‘Swap them round.’ He went back to stirring, his heart sinking as he took in the stodgy mixture. It wasn’t how it looked in the recipe he’d found online. But then, nothing he made looked like the recipes he found online. Not for the first time since Abigail had passed away just over eleven months ago did he find himself wishing she’d kept her recipes inside a book and not in her head. The thought was quickly followed by a sharp twist of guilt in his gut. Abigail hadn’t planned on dying. Hadn’t asked for the aneurysm that had taken her away from them. He had no right to feel exasperated.
‘Daddy, can you put them on for me? I’m tiiiired.’
Callan took a deep, calming breath. Fought the irritation that rose. How his wife had done the baking and looked after Mia without once complaining or raising her voice, he had no idea. Abigail had made it all look so easy, so effortless. Whereas he spent his days feeling like he was fighting an uphill battle. Making the daily quota of food to ensure his regulars had something to eat with their tea or coffee. Keeping the kitchen and shop clean and tidy. Then there was the actual serving of people, all of it done while listening to Mia’s constant questions, helping her whenever she asked, ensuring she’d remembered to brush her teeth, put on weather-appropriate clothing, and that the food that inevitably got caught in her curls was brushed out.
What had it been called in the article he’d read on one of the parenting sites he’d been frequenting since Abigail had passed?
Mental load.
A concept that was apparently foreign to the majority of men, but well known among the online mummy community.
All the little things that the person who runs the household has to juggle and keep track of. Things as small as remembering to buy toothpaste before it runs out. Ensuring there’s clean underwear available at all times. Buying Christmas presents. Pulling the Christmas tree out of storage. The last two things he’d not yet done, even though he knew he had to.
There was no way he was letting Mia’s first Christmas without her mum be as gloomy and depressing as he felt.
It had to be magical.
Unforgettable.
Infused with all the sparkle and joy that Abigail had brought to the season year after year.
At least now that he’d put aside the pride that had him in ‘do it all myself’ mode since Abigail’s death, and hired Josie, he’d have time to decorate, to get the Christmas tree, to buy the toy ponies or dolls or princess costumes that Mia kept talking about. Two presents? One from Santa, one from him? Who was he kidding? He was going to buy everything on her list and more. He had to if it meant seeing her little face light up. If it helped ease the pain of not having Abigail there.
‘Daddy!’
A whine of impatience combined with a soft thump of foot on wooden floor brought Callan back to his senses.
‘Mia, sorry. Daddy was in another world.’ He abandoned the wooden spoon in the glutinous mixture and squatted down to Mia’s level. ‘What can I do for you, princess?’
‘Shoes. Help me. Put them on me. And you weren’t in another world, silly Daddy, you were right here.’ Mia collapsed onto the ground and held her shoes up to Callan.
He repressed a sigh. How many times did you have to remind a child to use their manners? An infinite amount of times, it seemed. ‘What’s the magic word?’
‘Pleeeease.’ Mia gave him her most winning smile. One that melted his heart when he was sad inside. One that riddled him with guilt on the rare occasion he snapped at her.
‘That’s the word.’ He slipped the pink sparkly shoes onto her feet, then ruffled the top of her head. ‘We always use our manners, right?’
‘Right.’ Mia gave a firm nod then looked up, her serious expression morphing into one of unbridled happiness. ‘Josie!’
Callan twisted round to see Josie staring into the cake mixture. Hot embarrassment coursed through his veins, though hopefully not his cheeks. He didn’t want Josie to see that he knew he was failing. That he was trying to keep things going, but wasn’t quite getting there. He didn’t want anyone to see it.
‘What happened to this?’ Josie picked up the spoon and prodded the mixture.
‘New recipe I’m trying out. Found it online. I think they may have made a mistake with the quantities. Too much flour. Or not enough eggs, or brandy, or something. I think I’m going to have to start again, with a new recipe …’ He trailed off, painfully aware that he sounded every bit as uninformed as he felt.
‘Hmm, I see.’ Josie set the spoon down and reached for the navy-blue apron emblazoned with the shop’s logo that was hanging on a hook attached to the wall.
She might have said she understood, but Callan hadn’t missed the tightening of her lips, the narrowing of eyes, that told him she saw the problem wasn’t with the recipe, but with the person who was making it.
‘So, it’s a fruitcake you’re making?’ She efficiently wrapped the ties around her waist then fastened them at the front. ‘I know I’m not meant to be cooking, but I have a recipe that never fails. And it uses just three ingredients. I could make it or give the recipe to you if you’d prefer to do it yourself.’
‘Daddy, you promised we’d go get some new Christmas decorations.’ Mia tugged at his sweater. He looked down to see excitement shining in her eyes. ‘Remember? You said now that we had a Josie we could do it. And go see Santa too. I haven’t told him what I want.’
‘And what do you want from Santa?’ Josie picked up the bowl of sludge and scraped it out into the rubbish bin.
‘Yesterday I wanted a pony, but today I want a Cinderella dress. And glass slippers.’ Mia tapped her chin. ‘And a crown. All princesses have crowns, and Daddy says I’m a princess, so I have to have a crown.’
‘Well your daddy’s quite correct, and I bet Santa will be most happy that you’re asking for a costume. Far easier for him to transport. Can you imagine trying to fit a pony in a sleigh?’
Callan nodded a thank-you to Josie over Mia’s head. He’d forgotten all about asking what she wanted from Santa. Rookie mistake.
‘So, do you want me to whip up that cake?’ Josie flicked the kettle on, reached up to the shelf above the stainless-steel bench and fished out four teabags from the box. ‘It’d give you the time to go shopping.’
‘Would you mind?’ Callan lifted Mia into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. I know it’s not part of the job, well, I said it wouldn’t be. But clearly there’s, er, something wrong with this recipe and I’ve run out of time … and if the sewing club don’t get their fruitcake …’
‘Consider it done. You two go visit Santa, buy those decorations. I’ll be fine. Just be back by three, if that’s okay. I have that meeting with my potential landlady …’ Josie shooed them away, a smile lighting up her warm hazel eyes.
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