There is a chorus in return—“Merry Christmas!”—and as Clemmie crosses to join the gang, she feels that glorious sense of belonging.
The Staffords must have arrived late last night or early this morning. Ashleigh’s in a floor-length fur coat, and unless she’s hiding a bikini underneath, she’s not planning on joining in. Bobby, on the other hand, is prancing about the deck in a pair of boxers covered with sprigs of holly and drinking a Bloody Mary, celery poking him in the eye every time he takes a sip.
“Stand there a sec,” Ashleigh says.
Bobby puts down his glass. “Not today, yeah?”
“With the drink.” She lifts her phone, flapping her free hand to get him to move across the deck. “There. Lean against the railing and—”
“Can we have one day without thinking about bloody Instagram?” Bobby snaps, and there’s an awkward silence as Ashleigh stalks back toward their lodge.
“I thought you were going to film the swim.”
“What’s the point if we’re not going to put it online?” Ashleigh yells over her shoulder.
The Lloyds are all in dressing gowns. Clemmie catches Caleb checking out the twins and suppresses a smile. Boys, eh? She can’t imagine Caleb is quite what Rhys had in mind for his little princesses, but you never know. Clemmie allows herself a moment to imagine the invitations for the Northcote-Lloyd wedding—or would it be Lloyd-Northcote?
Yasmin is deep in conversation with her husband, and she doesn’t look happy. “No, I can’t move on!” Neither of them has realized Clemmie’s right behind them.
“This is such an overreaction, Yasmin.”
“You could have killed her!” she hisses, then her eyes widen in horror as she notices Clemmie. She breaks into a wide smile. “Happy Christmas, Clemmie darling. Isn’t this wonderful?”
“Wonderful.” Clemmie’s heart is racing. She pulls herself together. Caleb’s brush with the criminal underworld tends to make her leap to worst-case scenarios.
Jonty Charlton has shrugged off his robe and is talking loudly about how it isn’t cold at all really. Rhys’s mother, Glynis, has been saddled with young Woody and Hester Charlton, who would launch themselves fearlessly into the water given half a chance. Clemmie seizes the opportunity to use the festive vocabulary she has specifically learned for today. “Nadolig Llawen, Mrs. Lloyd!”
The older woman is gazing out to the lake, her eyes shining. “I spent my first Christmas as a married woman in this very spot, you know.”
“At The Shore?”
Glynis tuts. “At Ty’r Lan. My husband’s cabin was right here.” She looks down, as though it might have slipped between the deck’s wooden planks.
“Imagine,” Clemmie says; she has run out of Welsh now they’ve moved beyond small talk. “If he could see it now, eh?”
“Indeed,” Glynis says tightly.
“Is everyone ready?” Dee Huxley—who, very wisely, is staying on dry land—waves her camera and shoos all the swimmers into a group for a photograph. One by one, they climb down the ladder to the pontoon, the supporters leaning on the balustrade above, ready for the off.
Rhys is down first, then Bobby. Clemmie waits on the top rung for a moment as Dee takes a photograph.
“Sorry, dear, you blinked. Let’s try again.”
Below her, Clemmie is certain she hears angry words, but everyone is urging Dee toHurry up, it’s freezing!And by the time Clemmie is down the ladder, neither Bobby nor Rhys is saying anything. She pushes it from her mind. It’s Christmas Day, and she refuses to be anxious. Not this year.
Caleb takes a running jump, bombing into the icy water, and Clemmie’s heart freezes until he bursts through the surface again, his mouth an O of shock. He’s showing off to the girls, who dip their toes off the edge of the pontoon and squeal. Clemmie slides in, used to the temperature, and swims in circles, all the time wiggling her fingers and toes.
“You’re all mad!” shouts Blythe from above.
“Marvelous!” Dee says. She takes a photograph. Everyone’s in the water now, and Clemmie’s eyes are shining. What an incredible place. What an amazing Christmas.
Afterward, when the turkey’s in the oven and Caleb is setting up the new-to-him phone Clemmie bought him for Christmas, Clemmie goes outside to bring in more wood. She’s replacing the tarpaulin when Rhys walks across his own deck, jumps onto the Staffords’ deck, then crosses to hers. She wonders if he wants to talk to her about what she overheard this morning—if she’s about to be brought into the Lloyd circle of trust—and feels a frisson of fear and excitement.
“I need you to pay the full balance on the lodge.”
Clemmie blinks. “I can’t.”
“Things are a bit tight financially. Sorry about that.”