Christmas Kisses
Christmas Kisses
Fabian Black
Copyright © Fabian Black 2015
http://www.fabianblackromance.com
Cover design by Carey Abbott
All Rights Reserved
No reproduction of this ebook is allowed in any way or by any means or method without permission from the author and publisher. It may not be shared or passed on. Please respect the work of this independent writer. Thank you.
Fabian Black Fiction
Formatted using UK English
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter One
Books and Coffee ~ No Wi-fi
James Arthur Silver, coffee lover and old-fashioned bibliophile, was the proud owner of ‘The Silver Coffee Lounge & Book Exchange’ on Angel Street in the North Riding town of Old Thursk. People often asked why he hadn’t simply named his business ‘JAS.’ JAS, the sum total of his initials, had a catchy, snappy and modern sound to it, they said, while often flickering their hands in the style of Al Johnson. James patiently explained why he preferred verbosity to conciseness - while he could be snappy upon occasion he wasn’t in the least bit catchy and modern. In fact the very words made him shudder.
James Arthur Silver liked books, real books made from printed-paper, not those soulless ebook things that people read on their horrible plastic encased digital devices. There was no Internet connection in his shop, thank you very much, no wi-fi, and all that jazz. The coffee lounge was a technology free zone. A notice on the door announced this fact without shame. Laptops, Kindles, mobile phones etc and so on, were banned. Patrons of his premises could leave such things at home or switch them off before crossing the threshold.
People who did cross the threshold were welcome to pull a real book off real shelves and then settle down on a comfy chair or sofa, order a good coffee, or other beverage of choice, and get stuck into some good old-fashioned page turning reading. There were plenty of books to choose from. They lined the walls of the coffee lounge in all their glory. Many of them were an overspill from James’s own vast collection, housed in the spacious flat above the shop.
It was his love of books and coffee that spawned the idea for his business venture when voluntary redundancy from the high ranking end of the Civil Service left him with time and money on his hands. He left the city of London and headed home to his Yorkshire roots where he invested in property, a flat with a shop beneath it.
At thirty-seven years old, James wasn’t quite ready to idle his days away and decided to look around for alternative employment, on his own terms of course. He’d had enough of being a desk jockey and office rat. When the man who ran the antique shop beneath his flat jumped on the retirement horse, James decided not to bother to rent out to someone new. Why own commercial premises and not make use of them, so he did. The ex-civil servant turned barista. ‘The Silver Coffee Lounge & Book Exchange’ was born.
The idea was simple. People could bring books and take books. Books could be read inside the shop, there was an alphabetically arranged shelf for books in process of being read. Complimentary bookmarks were provided, so as not to lose one’s place. Eager readers could take books home to finish reading and then return them. People also brought in their own surplus books and popped them on the shelves for others to enjoy. It was a kind of unofficial library with on tap coffee and cakes.
Two years on the business was a success. It proved a little haven in a busy modern world. It didn’t just attract the older patron either. He had a mixed clientele, and a surprising number of them were young people. They loved the old fashioned nature of the shop and seemed to welcome a break from the stress and strains of the modern digital era they had been born into. They relished talking face to face instead of Facebook to Facebook. James welcomed them with open arms, as long as they behaved themselves and kept their gadgets in their pockets and backpacks. Anyone caught trying to access a device on his premises was sharply told to switch off or ship out. Not many people argued with a six foot ex-civil servant who looked like he could handle himself physically as well as verbally.
Along with coffee and other assorted beverages, James sold an array of edible goodies as well as a selection of classy greetings cards and small gifts. Life was good. Mostly. There was one small thorn in James’s side, his assistant, Josh, or rather the lack of him. James glanced at his watch. It was twenty to eight on a Monday morning and still no sign of him.
Two
Christmas Artillery
“A good morning to you, Mr Silver.”
James looked up as the coffee lounge door jangled and Khumbu, the postman, entered in his usual exuberant manner.
“Lots of boxes in the van for you today. Where do you want them?”
“Bring them through to the kitchen, please, Khumbu.”
James winced as Khumbu left the shop again, the door shuddering behind him. Thank heaven for strong hinges. Going over he held the door open while Khumbu clattered in a trolley stacked with four large boxes.
“How’s the wife today, Khumbu?”
“She’s fine again, Mr Silver, her old self. I have never been so happy to be nagged.” He gave one of his melodic laughs. “It’s music to my ears.”
“Glad to hear it.” James clapped Khumbu on the shoulder. Mercy, Khumbu’s wife, was recovering from a post appendectomy infection that had taken her to intensive care. Khumbu had been worried sick about her. Thankfully she was home again and on the mend. “Tell her there’s a caramel latte and a slice of her favourite chocolate cake waiting for her when she feels up to it, gratis. We’ve missed her around here. The Wednesday book club isn’t the same without her, or the Friday knitting circle.”
“She will be happy to hear that, Mr Silver.” Khumbu gave a toothy grin. James followed him through to the back of the shop and helped him unload the boxes onto the worktable in the middle of the big kitchen. They exchanged some more chat and then James followed Khumbu back into the shop, solicitously holding the door open for him as he exited with his empty trolley, anything to save further stress to the door hinges.
Returning to the kitchen he surveyed the boxes. One of them contained his Christmas campaign artillery - china cups with matching saucers to serve his new, as yet un-named festive drink in. It wasn’t something he’d usually consider doing. It was a way of responding to a certain well-known coffee shop chain setting up not one, but two new branches in Old Thursk in the last six months. They seemed intent on dominating the world with their coffee brand. The new shops hadn’t affected his business as such, but still, a little festive frivolity would please loyal customers and perhaps even entice new ones. You couldn’t afford to rest on your laurels in this competitive day and age.
He smiled, as he unpacked the contents of the ‘artillery’ box. The cups, picked from a trade catalogue, had been a good choice on Josh’s part. They were prettily shaped, not too large and not too small, a kind of hybrid between a cup and a mug. They were also delicate, which was more than could be said for the thick workman’s mugs that the certain well-known brand served its coffee in.
The lounge’s new cups were decorated with a red tartan stag whose antlers were hung with Christmas baubles, fanciful, but attractive. In fact he might order a few extra to put on sale. They would make pretty little Christmas gifts filled with handmade truffles and wrapped in cellophane and silver ribbon. It would be a job for Josh, if he turned up.
James frowned again as he examined his watch. Where was the kid? He should h
ave been here by now, helping set things up ready for opening at nine. It was part of his job. He put the cup and saucer back into the box, his pleasure at its novelty tarnished by worry about Josh, along with a good measure of annoyance. The kid was pushing his luck.
The remaining boxes contained more general everyday stock, coffee beans, tea bags, flavoured syrups and such like. There were no pre-made, factory-produced confectionary items in the boxes, barring the mini marshmallows used for decorating hot chocolate drinks. James Arthur Silver prided himself on serving only homemade food in his coffee lounge. Not that he made it all himself of course, though he was a dab hand at sandwiches and soups and he could toast teacakes like a pro.
His long-time friend Beatrice was the establishment baker lady and a fine one, though to be honest, with her close cropped grey hair and solid build she looked more like a seasoned squaddie than a maker of sweet fancies. She also favoured wearing double denim, treble denim on occasion, quadruple if you counted the cap she often wore, but she baked like a dream. Her scones were light enough to rival clouds to a floating contest and she made cakes to die for.
As if on cue, the back door flew open and Bea breezed in, already unbuttoning her denim jacket.
“Morning, Jims.” She gave him the name only she was allowed to use. “Bit nippy out there today. I reckon we’ll have snow before long.” She slipped the jacket off and hurled it at the peg behind the door. It missed, as it always did, landing on the floor.
James picked the jacket up, hanging it on the peg in a more conservative manner, as he always did.
“Morning, Bea.” He kissed the cheek she offered and then looked at her, cocking his right brow in amusement.
She was wearing a white shirt and a denim waistcoat over denim flares. Her beloved denim cap studded with Pride badges topped the outfit, sitting astride her grey crew cut at a jaunty angle.
“Jeez, Bea, if you sewed a few mother of pearl buttons on that lot you’d pass for a London pearly king. You could busk for loose change in your lunch hour, make a bit extra for Christmas.”
Bea immediately hooked her thumbs into the sides of her waistcoat, stuck out her elbows and began kicking her feet up, singing loudly - “’knees up Mother Brown, knees up Mother Brown’” in a terrible cockney accent.
James responded, singing, “’oh my, what a rotten song, and what a rotten singer too-oo-ooh.’”
“Blooming cheek,” said Bea, once she’d stopped laughing. “I’ll have you know my voice was trained.”
“By what, a hyena?” James laughed and dodged the tea towel she flung at him.
“Thanks to you I’ll have that ruddy ditty in my head all day now.” Bea complained.
“Easy remedy. Sing another song to drive it out. And you look gorgeous, in your own inimitable way.” Whisking the cap off her head he stuck in on top of her coat peg. “How was your weekend?”
“Bloody murder.” Bea plucked a clean apron out of the worktable drawer and hooked it over her head, tying it behind her ample waist. “We had Gina’s brother over for Sunday lunch. He sat there doing an impression of a miserable trout while his wife subtly trashed everything from the food to our new sofa cushions.”
James pulled a face. “Sounds stressful.”
“Not really,” Bea grinned, her hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “I loved every minute of it. No one puts my Gina down, least of all her sister-in-law. I gave bitchy Teresa a run for her money. She might have won a set or two, but I won the match.”
“Good for you. Why do you bother inviting them? It’s always the same.”
“Well, Luke is Gina’s only brother and you need some contact with your family. He’s okay when Teresa isn’t with him, a bit of a sweetie on the quiet. It’s her that has the problem with having loved up lezzies as relatives.”
“Thank heavens I don’t have any family to plague me.”
“They can be a blessing and a curse all right. And you do have family.”
“None that acknowledge me.”
“He’s a dick, your brother, always was. Your parents would be ashamed of him. They were darlings, mad, but lovely.”
“They were, god rest them.”
“No sign of our errant waiter then?” Bea began opening the cupboards beneath the worktable, withdrawing the equipment she would need to begin the day’s bakes.
“No,” said James, more shortly than he intended.
“I thought he would be waiting on the doorstep, like a quivering kitten after the ear bashing you gave him over the phone on Saturday morning when you finally got hold of him.”
“Same here,” said James. “Obviously the job isn’t as important to him as I thought it was. He seems to have outgrown us.” He changed the subject. “The new cups and saucers have arrived.”
“Oooh! Let’s have a gander then. Are they as nice as they looked in the catalogue?”
“Nicer and absolutely perfect for the new Christmas chocolate drink.”
“When it comes to perfect,” Bea raised a hand. “I’ll be the judge. Make me one and I’ll tell you if it’s perfect or not.”
“Any excuse for a free chocolate fix.”
“Too true. Gina’s idea of a hot chocolate is one of those nasty forty-calorie concoctions that taste like a Beechams powder. You make me a real hot chocolate and I’ll whip up a batch of your favourite cinnamon and raisin scones.”
“It’s a deal.”
James unpacked a cup and saucer, washed and dried them and then began to assemble the drink. First into the cup went a portion of bespoke buttons made from pure rich chocolate, then he heated some full cream milk and slowly poured it over the buttons, using a mini frothy coffee whisk to aid the melting and merging process. The smell was glorious, enough to melt a chocolate lover’s heart. He placed one of the mini candy canes he’d bought from a local confectioner on the saucer and carried the drink over to the worktable where Bea was already kneading her first batch of scone dough. She could make scones with her eyes shut and one hand tied behind her back.
He set the cup and saucer before her. “There. What do you think?”
“Looks good, very festive and winter warm.”
“Ah,” said James, waxing the ends of an imaginary moustache, “but that’s not all, my dear. Wait. There is a piece de résistance.”
“Is there indeed? Bring it on then.”
James produced a large glass jar with a flourish. “Ta-dah!”
“What are they?”
“Marshmallows.”
“What’s so special about putting marshmallows on hot chocolate? We always do it.”
“These are handmade mallows. While you were busy battling your sister-in-law yesterday, I was busy in the kitchen knocking up a batch of bespoke marshmallows.”
“You made marshmallows from scratch?”
“From icing sugar and gelatine actually, among other things.”
“Oh very droll. You kept that project quiet.”
“I only thought of it yesterday. I needed something to occupy me.” Unscrewing the jar, James took out a white marshmallow shaped like a snowflake and dropped it on top of the creamy hot chocolate.
“Now that,” said Bea, admiring the effect, “is picture perfect. Add a sprinkle of edible white glitter to the snowflake and you’re onto a festive winner.”
“Good idea. The mallows were a bit of a faff to make, but worth it I think. I might make more in different colours, flavours and shapes. They could become a lounge signature.” He pointed at the drink. “The question is - is it style over substance?”
“Only one way to find out, Jims my boy.”
After wiping her floury hands on a damp cloth, Bea picked up the little peppermint candy cane and carefully stirred the hot chocolate milk with it, infusing it with mild minty delight. The snowflake swirled, adding its own sweetness to the creamy mix. She picked up the cup, took one, two, three sips and then set it back on its saucer with a sigh of sheer bliss, licking marshmallow fluff from her upper lip.
“Hmm, I’m not sure.” James crinkled his Roman nose, and then brightened. “How about Christmas Kisses? The snowflake mallow is a bit like a kiss sign and who isn’t partial to a kiss at Christmas?”
“You? I mean how long is it since you kissed anyone but Gina or me? I’m talking romance kisses here.”
“My kissing days are done. I’m too old for romance.”
“Cobblers,” said Bea stoutly. “No one is ever too old for romance, or sex.”
“Who said anything about sex? I get plenty of that.”
“With whom?”
“None of you beeswax, nosey lady.” James tapped the side of his prominent nose. I have contacts.”
“Ha!” Bea snorted. “Bobby Hand and his five cousins I bet.”
“Get on with those scones or I’ll sack you.”
“I’d like to see you try, mister. I will hurt you.”
“I believe you would. Do my Christmas Kisses have your butch and brutal seal of approval or not?”
“I suppose so. Though I think Angel Kisses has a certain ring to it, and we do trade on Angel Street.”
“Exactly,” said James. “It’s much too obvious.”
“If you say so,” said Bea. She began pressing out rounds of scone dough while singing, “’Hey there, Georgy girl, la-la-la-la…’”
James groaned. He’d be stuck with ‘Georgy Girl’ all day now. He wouldn’t mind so much, but Bea could never remember more than one or two lines of a song, the rest she filled in with la-la’s and whistling. Still, it was better than ‘Knees up Mother Brown.’ Damn! Why had he brought that wretched music hall ditty up again? He scowled. Now he’d have it in his head all day long. There was only one thing for it. Pursing his lips he began whistling Georgy Girl.