She’d have to see him again sometime. Her overnight bag was still at his place and in it was her gift to him. It seemed farcical to give it to him now but also weird and churlish not to. It was a small stone sculpture from a gallery in Cambridge, a couple twined about one another, not quite touching but shaped so that if only you could just push them together they’d fit perfectly. You couldn’t push them together, though, because the stone wasn’t sculpted that way. Now, that seemed an analogy of the way things were between them.

She reached to take her coat from Daisy, heart shrinking from what she had to do, when her pain was still so raw that she’d failed to live up to their hopes. For a moment she wavered, considering asking Terri to take Daisy after all.

Then she thought of the notice in Rea’s office. The most difficult step is at your own door. She pushed her arms into her sleeves.

All the way to Mac’s house, Daisy chattered about her Christmas gifts. For Laurel it was a journey that passed too fast. The village was in the grip of an iron frost that kept snow on rooftops and made everything glitter as brightly as every fairy light and Christmas tree the village could conjure up. But Mistletoe Cottage. That was in darkness.

Laurel’s nerve shattered.

It was ludicrous to thank Grady now, when he was with Mac. What had made her think that was a good idea? She’d see him tomorrow. Or write him a note. Yes! He’d put the necklace through her letterbox so she could post a ‘Thank you’ through his.

When they’d reached Mac’s house Laurel hugged Daisy and said, ‘See you later.’ She hung back down the path, ready to wave and depart as soon as the door opened to let Daisy in. But the person who opened the door wasn’t anyone Laurel had seen before. He was an older man wearing a new-looking cardigan and an orange paper Christmas hat.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he bellowed boozily, clutching a glass of something amber. He was unsteady on his feet. ‘Helloo, dear, you’re one of Niall’s friends, aren’t you?’

Laurel stilled, unprepared to abandon Daisy to some unknown drunken man.

Daisy just grinned. ‘I’m Daisy.’ She turned round to Laurel. ‘This is Niall’s granddad, Tonya’s dad.’ She made to go in through a front door decorated with one of her own wreaths.

‘And who is this?’ Niall’s granddad demanded of Daisy, waving his glass in Laurel’s direction.

‘Laurel,’ Daisy said obligingly, slipping past.

The man carried on at the top of his considerable voice. ‘Laurel! Lovely Laurel! Laurel’s here, everyone. Come in, dear, have a drink.’