Our Broken Love (Angels of war series #4)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

PENELOPE

Beatrice is on full form this morning. I got the sweetest text message from her, thanking me for my gifts, telling me how much she appreciates what I do. Then she called a few hours later to let me know Robert turned up unannounced with his Christmas present.

"A bloody keyboard. Does the man know I'm riddled with arthritis?" she cackles, making me laugh because she's finding it so funny.

I clear my throat. "I think it's nice of him. Very thoughtful."

She scoffs. "I suppose. We had a play before he left and a drink of sherry."

"Ooh, drinking at this hour?" I respond and she cackles harder. Is she tipsy?

When she lets out a snort, we both fall into hysterics. "If you can't drink on Christmas Day, then when can you?" she asks.

"As long as it doesn't stop at one," I say with a smile.

Beatrice makes some long noises of agreement, telling me she's most definitely not stopping at one, asking me about my Christmas Day morning. I tell her it's been lovely, apart from removing the giblets out of the turkey bit and she lets me know her secret recipe to make the perfect gravy using them.

"We threw them out."

"Scaredey-cats," she grumbles, paper rustling down the line. "I have already eaten half of the fudges you bought me. I like the raisns in them."

My smile is so natural around her. "I thought they looked yummy. And you can't resist fudge. I got showered and dressed back into the pyjamas you got me. They're like soft clouds."

"Oh, Max—!" She stops herself and awkward silence follows. "Sorry, Penny. It's just instinct to mention him around you."

The tissue in my hand is ripped to shreds. "I know it is. You don't have to apologise."

"I'm so mad at him. I almost threw away his Christmas presents," she says, god love her.

The tissue particles are dust at this point. "You don't need to do that, Beatrice."

She huffs. "I told him he would lose you if he didn't sort his head out. Do you know when he was younger, he would spend everyday with me? In fact, he was here more than his own home, then he joined the army and my open boy who shared everything with me was suddenly withdrawn and moody. It shocked me. I felt like he was hiding things... the alcohol and grief, but then you came along and I saw a light, the old him coming back. I have no idea why he's sabotaged it. I can only imagine it's his way of not getting hurt, but now he's lost everything and he has to learn to work through it because only he can."

...

I pull the cracker with Vivienne, shutting my eyes when it pops. I win, stuffing my hand inside to retrieve my party hat, joke and toy. I turn the bottle opener over in my hand, thinking it looks pretty flimsy to work, putting the paper hat on my head and reading out the joke.

"That's so bad, it's good," Fraser chuckles, reading out his joke next.

It takes us a while, and when he says the punch line we all 'oh' at the same time. It's one of those jokes that's obvious once you know.

"Do you want to carve the turkey, Fray?" Dad asks, putting his prized bird down on the table.

It looks magnificent with its crispy brown skin, decorated with roast potatoes and parsnips around the edges. Cooking has always been a tradition in our household at Christmastime, we go big on everything and probably gain a stone with it. 

Fraser jumps up, grabbing the carving knife. "Sure dad. How many slices do you want, Viv?"

Vivienne goes for three, grabbing all the trimmings while Fraser begins to load my plate up.