Miracle on Christmas Street

by Annie O'Neil, Annie O''Neil

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Contemporary Romance; Holiday Romance

Synopsis

'Warm, wonderfully wise and absolutely brimming with Christmas magic' Cressida McLaughlin

'The Holiday meets Love Actually in this perfectly-plotted tale about a community coming together. Miracle on Christmas Street is precisely the warm, fuzzy, feel-good Christmas tonic we all need this year. I adored it!' Helly Acton, author of The Shelf

Behind every door is a festive wish...

When Jess Green arrives at her new home on Christmas Street, she quickly realises that this will be a December to remember! After the disaster of last year, she was hoping to curl up and avoid the festivities - but her new neighbours have other ideas...

Together, they're creating something extraordinary: a real-life advent calendar. As each house opens its door for wreath-making, gingerbread icing or carol singing, Jess finds herself swept up in the holiday cheer. Every house, that is, except for No. 24, home to the cantakerous Mr Winters.

But when disaster strikes, can Jess pull off a festive miracle - and make her own Christmas wish come true?

Feel-good, funny and irresistibly festive, this book is guaranteed to melt your heart this Christmas!

'A delightful Christmas read to curl up with' Bella Osborne

'A sparkling, funny, festive treat!' Laura Kemp

Release date: September 17, 2020

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Black Friday

367 days ago

Jess spied the glowing Santa from across the heaving shop floor. Plastic, cherry-cheeked, his chubby little red-suited body cosily nestled among frosted fronds of fake evergreen, garish holly berries and Day-Glo snowflakes. The wreath screamed holiday kitsch. A glorious combination of the best and worst in Yuletide decor.

It was exactly what she wanted.

Needed? Not so much. But need wasn’t what Black Friday shopping was about, was it? In fact, now that she thought about it, squished, as she had been for the past hour in a not entirely friendly queue of shoppers waiting for the security guards to unlock the front doors of Urban Outfitters, greed crushed need on days like this. Disheartening? Yes. Something she was going to worry about? Not today. No, today Jess was actively engaging every fibre of her being and, more pressingly, the remains of her dwindling bank account, into making her life look perfect so that, eventually, it would feel perfect. Then, and only then, would the dark suspicion that things had gone completely off track go away.

Who knew a cheese sandwich could wreak so much havoc in a prep-schoolteacher’s life?

The increasingly familiar prickling of tears stung at the back of her throat.

Anyway.

She gave the Santa wreath an I see you smile.

Did he …? Did Santa just wink at her? Well, wasn’t this a lovely turn of events? Day-Glo Santa was complicit in her plan to use consumerism to elevate her mood during her enforced absence from work. She locked eyes with him.

Okay, Santa. It’s you and me, pal.

Charged with determination and humming ‘Have Yourself a Kitschy Little Christmas’, Jess began shouldering her way through the crowd of wired shoppers. It was dog eat dog, as if everyone had downed fourteen shots of espresso before the shop doors had opened and then charged in, indiscriminately stuffing their baskets full of on-trend baubles, crocheted ‘paper’ chains and seasonally accented mini-cactus gardens as if their lives depended upon it. A woman came barrelling past her hauling a gin-filled advent calendar. An eye-wateringly high price tag was swinging from its adorable drawers, no doubt hand-painted by a virginal Laplander under the light of the North Star. The tag told her the calendar was worth her entire month’s rent. A princely sum for some airline-sized bottles of gin stuffed into a wooden tree.

Not that she was judging.

Homewares were important. Soft furnishings and just-so knick-knacks had the power to turn a house into a home. She should know. Living in an immaculate testament to charcoal, chrome and glass made her a bit of an expert on what did and didn’t work. (#LifeLessonNumberOne: Don’t let your estate-agent boyfriend convince you that living in his company’s executive show flat in exchange for discounted rent is a good idea. No knickers hung over the radiator. Ever.)

Two steps forward, one step back. Progress was slow. As pathetic as it seemed, she really, really needed this wreath. It was a symbol. A prize that would remind her that she could and would get her life back under her control. Sure, pinning her entire future on a garish Santa wreath was verging on insane, but crisis points were like that. Sometimes the smallest things made the biggest difference. And in this case, it was one very kitsch Kristopher Kringle.

After a fair amount of shoulder-bashing (there would be bruises) she was finally within grabbing distance. There was only the one wreath left. And it had her name on it.

An immaculately manicured hand appeared in her peripheral vision. There were teensy-tiny, ornately decorated Christmas baubles tastefully dotting each nail. All five of which were reaching for Santa.

N-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!

Jess stretched forward, intent on getting her own nibbled-to-the-nub fingernails onto Santa first. The second she gained purchase she felt the other woman’s hand do the same. She looked up and locked eyes with her opponent.

Oh, great.

She looked exactly like a mum from her school. Ex-school? She’d find out next week once the Head had ‘examined the evidence’ with the schools’ board of governors. Ignoring the churning in her gut, she focused on the task at hand. She could do this. In the teacher’s lounge, this type of wife was not-so-quietly referred to as Model Number Two. Model Number One was always a first, and long-term, wife. She was often a judge, hedge-fund manager, or ‘kitchen table’ gazillionaire who regularly held fundraisers for the rainforest or the tribal peoples of Papua New Guinea. Model Number Two was, more often than not, a second and far more indulged wife. She was almost always married to a dot.com mogul or an ageing rock star. She was generally about half his age (check), had long, ash-blond hair in ripply sheets of pre-Raphaelite perfection (check), wore Lululemon and a knee-length Puffa jacket which swaddled her tiny, perfect, personally trained body straight down to her Alexander McQueen Runway Platform trainers or whatever was de rigueur that season (check). This particular variation on Number Two had amazing eyes. Almost unnaturally blue. Azure? Cerulean? Tinted contacts. Had to be. Nothing that perfect was real. The woman’s tropical sea-coloured peepers were semi-hooded. A snake about to strike. Her smile, such as it was, was so insincere that there was little doubt it had been stuck in place by her discreet, but highly recommendable facial-contouring specialist. Her eyeshadow and eyeliner were immaculate. Her skin fresh and dewy like a peach. For a moment Jess faltered. Appearances weren’t everything. Maybe the smile was actually the strain of a beleaguered stepmother trying to put together a perfect Christmas for her newly inherited family of belligerent tweens.

Jess felt the wreath being tugged away from her. The woman had clearly sensed Jess’s momentary lapse in war mode. Right. Screw her and her fictional family. Plastic Santa was hers.

Jess narrowed her eyes. What would she make of this woman if it was parent–teacher conference day?

Number Two looked exactly like the mum who’d insisted Jess be ‘sent a strong message’ about her failure to maintain control in a school environment. Number Two wouldn’t listen to reason. To facts. Number Two didn’t care that teaching was not only Jess’s livelihood, but her vocation, and that being fired would pretty much ruin her life. Jess didn’t like Number Two at all. She ground her heels in. Dug deep. And rejoined the battle.

She dropped her gaze to half-mast, blurring the rest of the shop into a fairy-light, tinsel-laced snow-globe of motion as a core-deep determination gripped her very essence. Kitschy Santa was hers. She deserved him. No way was Number Two going to take yet another thing away from her.

‘Sorry,’ Jess said, grip tightening to white-knuckle level. ‘I think I had this first.’

‘No, I’m sorry,’ the woman said in an adorable Irish accent (because weren’t all Irish accents adorable?). ‘It’s just … it’s for my mum. My elderly mum. In a care home. I was pretty sure I spotted it first … if you don’t mind.’

Likely story. Her mum couldn’t have been older than sixty. Unless she’d given birth when she was fifty. Which meant the likelihood that this woman’s mum was mouldering away in a care home was minimal. Sorry, Number Two. Better luck next time!

‘I do hate to be contrary,’ Jess gave an apologetic shake of the head. ‘It’s just … my little nephew’s in hospital.’ Her cheeks pinked. A show of grief, she hoped, rather than her tell. She always blushed when she lied. She neither had a nephew, nor was the imaginary little soul in hospital.

Something hardened in Number Two’s eyes. ‘What’s his name?’

Uhhh … ‘Tim.’

‘Just Tim?’ Number Two asked, eyes narrowing further.

What was this? Villanelle Does Christmas?

‘Tiny Tim.’

Crap.

‘I mean … that’s his nickname. Because he’s little. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it. We all are. He’s a Green. Like me. Tiny Tim Green.’

‘Your nephew is called Tiny Tim.’ It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

‘That’s right.’ Jess readjusted her stance. This was not going to end nicely.

‘My mum has early onset dementia.’ Number Two countered. ‘Has done since she was ten.’

What? No. Surely not. Number Two was a liar, liar pants on fire.

‘My nephew doesn’t have legs. Or kidneys.’

Number Two’s nose crinkled as if she was trying to figure out if that was a thing. It was, but only if you were dead. A wave of uneasiness crashed through the nutmeg latte sloshing around Jess’s stomach. Lying about dying children was a sure-fire way to get smote by lightning. Not a wise thing to do seeing as, even though her life was pants, she wanted to live. Doubly bad if Number Two’s mum genuinely was grasping at the remains of her memories and a 1950s-style Day-Glo Santa wreath was the only way to relive that one, precious holiday. Again, the scratchy raw tug of tears hit the back of her throat. Oh, dear God, no. She wasn’t actually going to cry, was she? It had been a horrific week. And the weeks to come were bound to be worse, but … she’d found Santa. That meant something, right?

Number Two gave the wreath a tug. She clearly thought she’d won.

Jess tugged back. She didn’t want to lose. Or cry. Santa had winked at her, for heaven’s sake!

Number Two gave it proper yank. So hard Jess lost her footing. Arms windmilling, she slipped on a felt avocado tree decoration and fell backwards crashing straight into the supply of – oh, ouch – Christmas-themed cacti. Had to be. Nothing else would hurt this much. When she eventually stood up, if she ever stood up again, there would be mini cacti attached to her bum, her back, her shoulders. Her not so puffy winter coat was proving to be the perfect cacti pin-cushion. Number Two gave a quick sorry, not sorry shrug then disappeared into the crowd. A security guard was approaching. A couple of shoppers were tsking and not-so-silently discussing greed and where it got you.

Suddenly, more than anything, Jess wanted out. Away from strings of chili-pepper lights and beyond-trend Christmas tree ornaments. Away from the bash bash bash of shoppers’ shoulders as they barrelled down Oxford Street. Away from all of the London-centric hopes and dreams of being the glitterati’s most sought-after prep-school teacher. Clarity came to her as vividly as the unexpected acupuncture session in her posterior. She needed a change. To extract herself from the off-the-barometer expectations of the life she kept telling herself she should be living. There was only one way to do it. She had to remove herself from the whole Darwinian survival thing that existed here. A form of day-to-day life that meant eye contact was dangerous, making new friends was next to impossible and getting a job that paid enough to live in a home where she could hang her knickers out to dry whenever she wanted wasn’t laughable. She wanted to be somewhere more … Somewhere where she could storm out of her home and into the next-door neighbour’s and demand a cup of tea. Then get it. Somewhere, in short, that wasn’t London.

1 December

So this was it. Moving day.

Jess’s nerves ratcheted up a notch. The van carrying all of her worldly possessions had just flicked its indicator on as they approached the roundabout at the top of her new high street. It was hard to tell if her body was zinging with happy nerves or oh-no-I’ve-ruined-everything nerves. She’d been treading a fine line between the two for the past year now. Today she’d find out which would win the battle for supremacy.

The moving van slipped onto the roundabout ahead of her, happily trundling into her new life as if it didn’t have a care in the world. She scanned the roundabout. No traffic. She could cut and run. Double back and … go where? Her only choice was the future she’d laid out for herself. New town, new home, new job. It was that or … Or nothing. She flicked on the indicator and made the turn.

Here it was. The heart of Boughton (pronounced ‘Bow-town’, like a town with a ribbon round it, she was chirpily informed by the estate agent, not ‘Buffton’). Her new forever home. Insofar as forever lasted these days. A few streets further along, a ‘bijou’ semi-detached house was waiting for her, clapping its freshly painted shutters in glee that she was, after extensive dithering, finally going to move in. By herself. To embark on a brand-new life of spinsterhood and woe.

Now, Jess … she heard her mother’s voice caution.

She regrouped. Of course the rest of her life wouldn’t be mired in solitude and despair. It would be filled with joy and discovery. The delight of reclaiming the Jess she once was and prayed she could be again. At least that’s what she’d told her parents as they, too, had packed up their bags and set off for their own voyage of discovery. In hindsight, it had been a really dumb thing to say. She should’ve been honest. She should’ve told them she was bricking it, and wanted them to be with her as she unpacked her old life into her new one. It had all seemed so achievable a week ago, but now that they were gone? The thought of opening the door to her new house was beginning to develop its own soundtrack and it had lots of minor chords in it.

Her lungs strained against a need for more oxygen. She was going to have a panic attack. No she wasn’t. Yes she was. Tennineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone … annnnnnnd breathe. It was fine. She was fine. She would grow to love her new life exactly the way women grew to love their husbands in an arranged marriage. Especially if the guy was hot.

She forced herself to look around. There was an old-fashioned butcher’s, a lovely little bakery, a small cinema that served wine instead of popcorn. What wasn’t to love? Three perfect places amid the usual jolly jumble of charity shops, restaurants and newsagents topping and tailing the street. All of which looked … different. She squinted, trying to figure out why. It was definitely more twinkly here in Boughton than she remembered. Yes. Something had definitely changed. It was almost seven-thirty which meant it had been pitch black for hours now. Which suggested everything should be shut and shuttered unless … Did they have late-night shopping in places that weren’t London?

She pulled on her brake as the moving van and a Hovis truck played a delicate slow-motion game of inching past one another.

Wait a minute. She got it now. Boughton looked like it had been set-dressed for one of those cheesy Christmas movies.

Though part of her bristled at all the festive, carefree joy, there was another part that softened, loving the twinkly lights and promise of delights yet to come.

The bakery (which had ridiculously moreish cinnamon rolls) had augmented its window display with a huge gingerbread house. The Chinese takeaway (number four on her list of requirements for a new town) had garlanded its steamed-up window with some well-loved tinsel (read: old, but serviceable) and the butcher’s had an Order Now! sign complete with a row of turkeys doing the cancan. Strung overhead was an abundance of seasonal lights. They weren’t as flashy as the ones in London, but something about the understated strands of multicoloured bulbs and long swags of holly-sprigged garlands spoke of a gentler time when Christmas was more about family and less about climbing over complete strangers to get a Black Friday deal at Urban Outfitters.

It should’ve made her heart sing. To know she was moving to a place that valued the true spirit of the holiday over Day-Glo Santa wreaths. But the simple truth was, she hadn’t really got into the Christmas vibe yet. Most years she was all ‘Bring on the mistletoe!’ This year? Not so much. This year the mistletoe could suck it.

The cinema came into view after she too inched her way past the Hovis truck and its huge picture of an old-fashioned Santa eating a piece of toast. She glanced up at the marquee. It was playing It’s A Wonderful Life.

Of course it was.

Was it though? Really? Was this her wonderful life?

New house, new job, new haircut, even. They should all be reasons to be absolutely giddy with excitement, but …

She simply didn’t know any more. Having had her confidence bodily ripped out of her 367 days ago (yes, she was counting), she wasn’t sure whether her favourite holiday was wonderful any more, let alone her entire life. Christmas wasn’t about joy and generosity and welcoming people into your heart. Not in London anyway. There it felt like a competition. A time to out-decorate, out-shop, out-photocopy her bum at the best Christmas staff party ever. If she’d been invited to one. Which she hadn’t.

She could still try and like the month, she supposed. It wasn’t December’s fault it was Christmas. December meant winter clothes, which were genuinely her favourite. Her carefully chosen Making A Good First Impression On Moving Day ensemble comprised a jumper with a fox on it, its ears cheekily peeking out from beneath her thick corduroy dungarees, the rolled-up hems of which skidded the tops of her very practical Chelsea boots (complete with white faux-fur lining), a scarlet knit hat with a huge fluffy snowball of a pompom on top, and a brand-new set of house keys in the pocket of her I-Practically-Live-In-The-Countryside-But-Not-Really waxed jacket her parents had given her as an early Christmas present because they wouldn’t be here for the day itself. Their first apart.

The reality was, this Christmas was one to get through rather than one to be excited for. She had loads of cleaning and organising and unpacking to do and before she knew it, the month would be over, the new year would begin and then she could officially begin to love all the months every bit as much as she knew she was going to love living on Christmas Street.

That’s what she’d tell herself anyway.

As she drove past the shop owners turning their open signs to closed, she ran through her Moving Day Plan. Jess loved a plan.

Once she and the movers found her new house, she’d help them carry in her hodgepodge of possessions (half pillaged from her parents, half Ikea.) Helping would not only fill her with endorphins, it would reduce the hourly rate the movers were charging and, with no proper pay cheque coming in until end of January, she was keen to make savings wherever she could. Once the van was unpacked, she would pour the moving lads a celebratory mug of hot chocolate (already in a Thermos on the front passenger seat alongside a cardboard box with three mugs and a few other provisions), after which, she’d give them a jaunty salute and wave them on their merry way, at which juncture – hair freshly tousled, cheeks flushed with exertion – she’d close the door, lean against it and gaze at her new home in delight. The front doorbell would ring. She’d open it only to discover a deeply gorgeous (but not too gorgeous) neighbour standing there. His lightly distressed handyman coveralls would give glimpses of his lean, Diet-Coke-break body as his tool belt shifted sexily along his hips. He’d announce he was a builder by trade (or an artisan craftsman, she dithered on this point). He’d offer to help her put together any Ikea furniture she might have – a desk, a drinks trolley and a bed, which they would save for last. When they finished (merrily sharing life stories minus all of her humiliations of the previous year), the grandmotherly neighbour she imagined living on the other side of her terraced house would appear with a welcome basket filled with baked goods still warm from the oven.

On second thought, she’d scrap Diet-Coke-break neighbour and settle for granny neighbour and her basket of buns. She was woman enough to put her own rivets into her own sockets, or however it was you assembled a bed by numbers. She was a primary schoolteacher, for heaven’s sake. She’d once built an entire nativity out of loo rolls and glitter. Surely she could stick a few bits of wood and metal together. Had her self-confidence dropped that low?

Ooo! An Ocado van. Not so ‘out in the middle of nowhere’ after all. She made a quick mental note to text Amanda, her one remaining teacher friend from London. She could happily assure her she would still have ready access to samphire, golden beetroots and charcoal ginger shots despite the move out of London. Not that she ever bought any of those things when she’d been there, but Amanda had drunkenly insisted, as they’d shared their final farewell bottle of Pinot just under a year ago, that life outside of London would be horrid. Where, she’d asked, would Jess find a cosmo that didn’t come in an M&S can? Good friend that she was, Amanda was still hoping Jess would return. Make a fresh start at another elite school. But … she couldn’t. Too much damage had been done.

Besides, Amanda had been wrong about the cosmos. She’d made plenty at her parents’ where she’d retreated after her ignominious firing. It had been quite pleasant, in fact. Licking her wounds in close proximity to their drinks cabinet right up until they refused to replace the empty vodka and Cointreau bottles. And then her parents had unexpectedly sold their house after two years of it being on the market and were given their first assignment with Dentists Sans Frontiers (#NotItsRealName). Right about now, they would be slapping on the factor 90, pulling molars and excavating root canals on the Marshall Islands. Which were, if anyone was curious, about as far away from civilisation as could be. Hence the need for free dental care.

They’d said they’d change their plans. Or bring her with them, if she wanted. They were loving and wonderful like that, but in all honesty Jess wanted to be alone. She had wounds that needed tending to. Aspirations to recentre. Her first Christmas alone to get through without wanting to garrotte herself.

She pulled the packet of biscuits she’d been eyeing from the box in the front seat and tore it open. Whoever said a Wagon Wheel didn’t make life better hadn’t lived.

Jess frowned at her still slightly unfamiliar reflection in the wing mirror. Her last (and only?) act of London daring had been to visit Amanda’s stylist and ask for a Claudia Winkleman/Audrey Hepburn-esque fringe. Neither effect had been achieved, but the new fringe gave her something to do with the GHDs her mother had given her when they’d moved to the land of no electricity. Getting the new coif was her way of saying thank you to Amanda for landing her a month’s freelance work that would tide her over until her new job began. The gig was for an office supplies company that needed lively blurbs describing the new products in their spring catalogue. There’d be more work if she proved her mettle, and, as her evenings would be free of girlfriend duties now that she was single, fifty shades of paperclips was her destiny.

All of a sudden, as if the journey hadn’t been more than the blink of an eye, the moving van pulled over, an arm came out of its window gesturing that she should go ahead, and then, for the first time ever, Jess turned onto Christmas Street as a resident.

A huge white splat crashed against her windscreen.

What the hell?

She yanked the emergency brake because, if she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just driven from a clear starry-nighted Britain into a very intense suburban blizzard. She leapt out of the car only to be hit straight in the face with a … was that a snowball?

‘Sorry!’ A male voice called as she blinked away icy fractals of snow. Snow that seemed determined to cling to her hastily applied mascara just in case a freak event occurred and an actual, genuine neighbour popped by to welcome her to the street.

A man came into view as she continued to blink away the snow, failing to slow her hammering heart. She saw his shoes first, trendy trousers second, a very nice quilted jacket third and … hmmm … He was quite clearly trying not to laugh. ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ he said in a lovely, sing-songy voice that instantly made this peculiar form of welcome not so awful after all. ‘We’re just …’ He swivelled round and put his arms out as if he had just flung open the doors to a magic kingdom and … in a way he had.

It was snowing on Christmas Street. Big huge fluffy flakes of snow floating down from the starry sky above. Ermmm … starry sky? Could it snow when—

Another man ran up – slight, Asian and very beautiful. He slipped his arm round man number one’s waist. ‘Oh my God, we’re so totally sorry.’ His eyes flicked to the moving van now idling behind her car. ‘Are you the newcomer for number fourteen?’

‘Yes?’

Jess actually knew the answer to that, so why had it come out as a question?

‘We’re Kai and Rex,’ the Asian man explained, complete with hand gestures. ‘Rex can’t throw for toffee. I hope you’re all right. We’ll send flowers. We own a florist’s so don’t even try to stop us. Can you get your car down the street? It’s all a bit …’ He fluttered his hand down the cul-de-sac, which was well lit enough to show the street was entirely covered in snow. Except for the roofs. And some of the gardens. In fact, most of the gardens were bare. Why was it only snowing on the street?

‘Hi! Hi, doll. You must be Jess … Green was it?’

A very attractively put-together Australian woman joined their small group. Shiny black hair, evergreen-coloured eyes, and an immaculate Snow White complexion, she looked as though she’d just stepped out of a winter-wear catalogue. The type that made snowball fights look fun rather than the cold, slightly assault-y experience Jess had just had.

The woman put out her hand. ‘Drea. Drea Zamboni. I’m at number one.’ She pointed at the large brick semi-detached house across the street from where Jess had pulled her car to a halt. A huge snow machine was parked on the pavement in front of the postage-stamp-sized front garden. Enormous plumes of glittering snow were arcing up and over them. Drea put a seasonally manicured hand on Jess’s arm. ‘I bribed the estate agent to give me your name.’ She winked, then gave Jess a smile that some might have interpreted as sinister.

Jess’s stomach lurched. This was all a mistake. She should turn around now before discovering the residents of Christmas Street were all vampires or zombies or whatever was worse than vampires or zombies. Wombats? Could wombats be evil? Maybe watching Game of Thrones before she’d packed up her laptop hadn’t been the best of ideas.

‘Kidding.’ Drea laughed. ‘I didn’t bribe him with anything. The man’s as loose-lipped as a nun’s knickers on Boxing Day.’

Jess opened her mouth to say she was pretty sure that wasn’t a saying but Drea was on a roll.

‘Sorry about all of the hoo-hah. You’re more than welcome to join in. In fact,’ she held up a bottle of Australian Chenin blanc and grinned, ‘we insist upon it.’

Jess shook her head, not entirely comprehending what was happening on the ‘quiet, peaceful cul-de-sac’ she’d been promised when she’d signed on the dotted line.

A snow machine, Drea the Australian, Rex and Kai the florists … and, further down the street, what appeared to be full-on snowball warfare.

Oh, no. Winter was coming.

‘C’mon.’ Drea’s bright green eyes were on Jess as she flicked her hand in a way that indicated the men should turn round and go back to the battleground. Which they did. Who was this woman and what power did she wield over the neighbourhood? ‘I know it seems a bit mad now, but it’s all good fun really.’

‘Ermm … if you don’t mind my asking,. . .