Read Online Christmas at Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop by Jenny Colgan - Free Book Online Page A

Stephen’s alternate amusement and slight annoyance. He kept banging on about how their dogs were bred to work. But every time Rosie turned her back, if she whipped around quickly enough, she would catch Stephen skritching the puppy behind his ears or secretly telling him he was the best fellow in the world, yes, he was, yes, he was.
    â€œHe likes you,” said Rosie to Anton.
    â€œHe likes fish and chips,” said Anton.
    â€œAnton!”
    â€œA small! I had a small!’
    â€œWhat’ll it be? I feel like a drug dealer.”
    Anton smiled dreamily, his face slack as he perused the shelves.
    â€œWe’re pushers,” said Tina. “I think we just need to deal with that fact.”
    â€œNever,” said Rosie.
    â€œHow’s that young boy of yours?” said Anton without taking his eyes off the shelves he must have known by heart.
    â€œNot so young,” said Rosie, still going pink even now, nearly a year after they’d started dating. “Actually, he’s really well.”
    â€œI still can’t believe he loves teaching school,” said Tina. “Who’d have thought?”
    â€œI know,” said Rosie, thinking back to the bitter, empty shell of the man she’d met when she first arrived. “It’s healed him, I think. Inside, really. You should have seen him this morning, off with their Christmas song. It’s about bells. Edison keeps reciting it to me to show me how fast he can do it. I’m quite fed up with it, and the concert isn’t for another three weeks.”
    â€œRaspberry creams!” shouted Anton, his lips practically smacking in satisfaction.
    â€œYou may have four,” said Rosie.
    â€œEleven,” said Anton.
    â€œFour plus one for good behavior,” said Rosie.
    â€œI make that nine,” said Anton.
    O UTSIDE , THE VILLAGE was quiet. The snow was falling, still falling, the sky a gray blanket that made it feel as if day had barely come at all. Jake was laboring down at Isitt’s farm, trying to work out what he could buy that would be special enough for a girl as special as Tina. Stephen was leading his children in another rousing chorus of “Carol of the Bells” in the open-­play Portakabin by the side door of the school. Anton and Rosie were bickering in their familiar way. Lilian was dozing by the window, remembering a curly-­haired lad who threw snowballs at her way past the age when lads throw snowballs at girls.
    Edward Boyd had hit the outskirts of town and glanced anxiously at his father who, thank goodness, appeared to have fallen asleep. He felt his wallet for the card that nice young doctor had given him. Maybe, after all, it was time. Maybe it was. But his dad . . . he was his dad. Years of summer holidays down at Scarborough, and practicing his spin bowl and . . . he wasn’t sure quite when he’d noticed his dad wasn’t well. He’d always been a quiet man, injured in the war, a good father—­there had been holidays and pocket money and fixing up a motorbike and rugby league matches, but sometimes James was so introverted it had been hard to notice at first that something was wrong.
    Lost in thought, he didn’t realize that his father had abruptly awoken and was eyeing the bag of chocolate caramels that was sitting on the dashboard. Suddenly, as Edward took a tricky bend in the gloom, a massive flare of headlights half-­blinded him. At exactly the same moment, his father made a grab for the sweets, startling Edward into a half jump. The car jackknifed on the road, and the truck was suddenly on them, honking with all its might as it skidded and slid for purchase across the white ground.
    â€œJESUS CHRIST,” screeched Edward as the enormous headlights hit him straight in the face, dazzling him. He pulled the wheel sharply to the left with what he presumed to be his last wish, just that his father should feel nothing, that it would be