Merri Christmas By Victoria Chatham

 AVAILABLE HERE

It is the season for snow, but among the books I have written, Brides of Banff Springs is the only one that features a snowstorm, albeit in August. Nevertheless, here we are with only two days until Christmas, so no snow here, but a Christmas story which I hope you enjoy.

 

Merri Christmas

By

Victoria Chatham

 

A passing customer pointed at her name badge, chuckled, and sang out, “Ho, ho, ho.”

From behind her glass-topped jewellery counter, Meredith Christmas gave him a cheeky grin, pointed her finger at him and repeated his greeting.

“Merri, I don’t know how you put up with it,” her colleague, Sandy, moaned. “All that ho-ho-hoing year-round would drive me nuts. How did you get the surname Christmas anyway?”

“From my Dad’s side of the family. It dates back to thirteenth-century England via one Richard Christmas, who settled in Virginia in 1647,” Merri said. She waved at a girl of about seven or eight who looked longingly at the jewellery displays but was hurried along by her mother.

“Wow, it’s a pretty old name then,” Sandy mused.

“Yes, it is. Mom and Dad have a framed certificate showing the family crest and history.”

“That sounds positively baronial.” Sandy narrowed her eyes and looked thoughtful. “I can see an oak-beamed hall with a log-filled open fireplace and flames leaping up a stone chimney.”

Merri laughed. “You and your imagination. But wouldn’t that be lovely? It would be decorated with holly, ivy, and real lanterns, and there would be room for everyone.”

Sandy nodded. “Family and friends and all the peasants, of course.”

“Naturally,” Merri agreed, then sighed. “Christmas is such a special time of year.”

“Merri, of everyone I know who loves Christmas, you’re the hands-down winner.”

“You love Christmas, too, Sandy, and don’t pretend otherwise. Ooh, look out, a customer is checking out the gold counter. Your turn.”

Merri picked up a polishing cloth and moved aside to let Sandy approach the counter. They both started working on the same day at Boyle’s Emporium, the town’s historic corner store. It had been a family-owned business since it opened, but none of the staff knew anything about the current Boyle family. Another mystery was that, at the end of September, when Boyle’s began hiring for the Christmas season, they had not asked for resumes but for 500-word essays on why the applicants liked Christmas and wanted to work at Boyle’s.

Meredith looked around the beautifully decorated store. Who could dislike Christmas here? She had loved it ever since sitting on Father Christmas’s knee in the Winter Wonderland when she was four and asking for a baby brother. Her innocent request now made her smile, but hadn’t Father Christmas delivered? The following summer, her baby brother was born, wrapped in a pale blue crocheted shawl, not in pretty snowflake-patterned paper as she had imagined.

The sound of the till opening and closing broke into her reverie.

“Good sale?” Merri asked as Sandy rearranged the jewellery display to fill the gap made by the removal of several pieces.

“Four-hundred and ninety-four dollars and change,” Sandy replied. “I can’t believe how much cash we’ve taken today. I’m glad I’m not closing tonight, so I won’t have to count it.”

Merri glanced at her watch. “Goodness, we’ve only got another half an hour to the end of our shift. The day has flown by.”

“We can’t claim to be bored, that’s for sure,” Sandy agreed. “Especially when there’s a gorgeous-looking man on the horizon.”

She tilted her head, signalling a six-foot-plus, dark-haired person approaching their counter. “This one’s yours,” she whispered, placing a steady hand in the middle of Merri’s back and guiding her towards the counter.

Merri faltered as she recognised the child gripping the man’s hand. Right, she thought, recalling how the mother had hurried her daughter past the jewellery counter. So, there’s mom, dad, the kid, and possibly more than one, but she smiled at the child and said, “Hello again.” Then she turned her gaze to the man she took to be the girl’s father and swallowed at the twinkle in his warm brown eyes. She pulled herself together. Be professional. “May I help you?”

“Yes, you may,” he replied. “My sister was in a hurry earlier and didn’t give Amanda time to buy a gift for her grandmother.”

Sister? Merri hadn’t considered that, and if she smiled more brightly at the child, who could blame her? “Would you like to look at silver or gold earrings?”

Amanda shook her head. “I want to see Christmas earrings. Grandma loves them.”

“Got it.” Merri pulled a chair from behind the counter. “If you would like to sit here, I’ll bring you a selection for you to view.”

She took a black velvet pad from under the counter and carefully examined the earrings on display. She frowned as she realised how few Christmas earrings they had in the silver and gold sections, so she moved to the carousel stands and carefully turned them, relieved to see a wider selection. There were tiny green trees studded with different-coloured stones, a pair of wreaths decorated with red bows, a fun pair resembling red-and-white striped candies, and another pair in the shape of a snowflake. Merri placed them all on the pad and took them back to her young customer, but then had a thought.

“Amanda, while you look at these, I’m going to check something. I’ll be right back.”

Merri raced to the main floor storeroom. She and Sandy had checked a delivery the day before, but hadn’t they left one box for this morning? Merri keyed in her code and entered the storeroom, scanning the area where they had worked the previous day. Yes, there it was, tucked in the corner of a shelf.

She hauled the cardboard container onto the worktable, reached for a box cutter and slit the tape. She removed the invoice and checked it, but nothing was specifically Christmas earrings. She would have to empty the whole box. She tipped the contents onto the tabletop and checked each packet, breathing a sigh of relief when she found three pairs of Christmas earrings. She ticked the removed items off the invoice, replaced everything else in the box and hurried back to her counter.

“I’m sorry I took so long, Amanda,” she said, catching her breath. “Here are three more pairs.” She removed them from the packets and laid them on the pad. “What do you think?”

“Oh, I like these.” Amanda pointed at a pair of enamelled snowmen. “But I like these better.”

She picked up a pair of shiny red globes trimmed with gold. They looked like miniature tree baubles.

“These are the ones, Dad. Grandma will love them. They will go with her white hair.”

Merri looked up at the child’s father, who nodded. “Could you gift wrap them, please?”

“Of course.” Merri turned to Amanda. “Shall I put them in a box?”

“Yes, please.”

Merri opened a drawer and took out a small black box, wrapping paper and ribbons. Amanda chose plain blue paper and gold ribbon and watched Merri measure and cut the paper.

“Can you wrap a parcel that small?”

Merri grinned at the child and whispered, “Watch me.”

In a few deft moves, she creased and folded the paper, quickly wrapped the ribbon around the small box, and asked Amanda to hold it with her finger while she looped the bow.

“There, how about that?” She handed the small gift to Amanda. “Do you think your grandma will like it?”

“She’ll love it,” Amanda said. “Grandma says simple things are classy, whatever that means.”

“She sounds like a smart lady,” Merri said. She shifted her gaze to Amanda’s father. “And I’m sure your dad will explain what your grandma means.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Christmas,” he said, removing a credit card from his wallet.

Unsure whether he was being sarcastic at her suggestion or thanking her for helping his daughter, Merri barely glanced at the card as she entered the sale into the processing machine and handed it to him.

“Would you like a receipt, Mr.–” Merri stopped, suddenly flustered because she didn’t know the man’s name.

“Yes, I would, please, and the name is Boyle. Josh Boyle.”

Merri looked up at him. “Boyle?” she stammered. “As in Boyle’s Emporium Boyle?”

“That’s the one. We prefer to keep it quiet if you don’t mind.”

“Um, yes, yes, of course.” Merri’s head whirled. With her name in plain view so that everyone knew who she was, she still couldn’t quite accept that she was talking to one of the renowned but reclusive Boyles.

“And thank you again for helping Amanda.” The smile he gave her warmed Merri right down to her toes. “My mother said you were a good salesperson. She was right.”

Merri’s brow wrinkled. She didn’t know any Boyles until now.

Josh Boyle whispered, “You know her as Mrs. Winter, in Human Resources. She told me to come and see you. I’m glad I did.”

“Dad,” Amanda tugged his hand impatiently. “We have to go. Aunty Caroline said not to be late. If you want to talk to,” she squinted at Merri’s name badge, “Merri, she should come too.”

“What a splendid idea,” Josh said. His eyes twinkled even more as he smiled at Merri. “How about it, Miss Christmas? If you are free, would you accompany Amanda and me to my mother’s Christmas party?”

“Please come, Merri,” Amanda said. “Grandma is lovely, and so is Aunty Caroline when she’s not in a rush.”

“But what about your…” Merri began, not sure how to ask the question uppermost in her mind.

“Wife? Amanda’s mom?” Josh softly supplied for her.

Merri bit her lip and nodded.

“No longer with us, I’m afraid.”

“She died,” Amanda said with all the candour of childhood.

“Well, then,” Merri took a deep breath. “Yes, I should like that very much.”

“The party starts at eight this evening. We’ll come and collect you at about seven-thirty, if that works for you. Perhaps you’d put your phone number into my phone?”

Merri nodded, speechless because her mouth was suddenly dry. He gave her his cell phone, she entered her number, then returned it to him.

He slipped it into his coat pocket. “Later, then.”

“Wow,” Sandy whispered in her ear. “Cinderella shall go to the ball. I can hear the uproar when this news gets out.”

“Don’t,” Merri said. “Please don’t say a word to anyone.”

Sandy chuckled. “Alright, I promise. But you must also promise to tell me more about Mr. Dark and Delicious and his daughter after that party. And if the look on your face is anything to go by, you will have a very merry Christmas.”

Merri groaned. “Not if I don’t get a move on.” She glanced anxiously at her watch. “Where’s Dora and Sue? If they are late–”

Sandy gave her a push. “Just sign out and go. I can manage until they get here.”

“You are–”

“Your best friend, Merri Christmas, and don’t you forget it. Go and have fun.”

Merri quickly hugged Sandy, grabbed her coat and rushed out of the store into a cold, crisp evening. She still couldn’t quite believe that she had accepted Josh’s invitation, but there was no going back now. She couldn’t contact him, because although she provided him with her phone number, she hadn’t taken his.

But, she told herself, you don’t want to go back. Amanda and Josh had charmed her, and she tried to get to know them much, much better. Sandy was right, and Merri smiled at the thought that, yes, she would have a very merry Christmas indeed.

 

THE END

Victoria Chatham

AT BWL PUBLISHING INC

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A Merry Christmas by Jeff Tribe

                                                 www.bookswelove.com/authors

I caught Nat King Cole’s version of The Christmas Song on the radio this morning, the one also known as Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire due to its opening line.

Written in 1945 by Robert Wells and Mel Torme, it doesn’t have the bouncy jingle of Maria Carey’s All I Want For Christmas or the strong underbeat of Wham’s Last Christmas.

Less production, more background orchestra, Cole’s warmly-distinctive voice bringing simple yet impactful lyrics to life in a calming, almost hypnotic ballad. 

Full disclosure, our cousins’ property had a massive horse chestnut on its southwest lawn. We climbed its branches, played for hours in the tree fort our uncle built and threw its nuts at one another. 

Pretty hard and unappetizing when one hit you, if memory serves.

Both our families heated our homes with wood, we enjoyed frequent birthday cookouts and their house even had an old-school fireplace. But not once do I recall any of us trying a chestnut, roasted over an open fire or otherwise.

I think I’ve seen them for sale by street vendors in Toronto. Does one eat them with salt? Maple glaze? Maybe a little popcorn flavouring? 

Of course, like any good song, Cole’s classic isn’t necessarily a literal representation, moreso a musical device to evoke emotion. For me, it’s a pensive, slightly mournful homage to simpler times.

At least one dated reference warns against idealizing every aspect of the so-called good old days. But as Christmas approaches, it seems some parts of 2025 will be happily viewed in a rear-view mirror.

Do we have more political turmoil than we used to? More active global conflict? A more polarized, angrier and less tolerant society? Or does constant information overload from clickbait-seeking media, 24/7 real-time Internet access, and traffic-driving algorithms on social media just make it seem that way?

I suspect the answer is yes. In other words, beyond the fact there’s a lot going on, we are constantly being bombarded with negativity those of us addicted to our phones find it hard to hide from.

Hopefully, each of us is able to make time for quiet reflection this holiday season, put aside the cares of a complicated world, thoughts of a challenging new year - including credit card bills and well-intentioned resolutions involving eating healthier and exercising. 

Enjoy the season, be that with family and friends, at a Christmas eve service or listening to a favourite song. Those without an open fire to roast chestnuts over might wish to consider curling up in a comfortable spot with a good book.

And though it’s been said many ways and many times, Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas to you.

Can your setting be a character?

 While I was a panelist at a mystery convention, the moderator asked the panelists if their settings were ever characters. It was an interesting question and really made me think about the settings I've chosen. For the Doug Fletcher series, each book is set in a different US National Park Service property (national park, national monument, national seashore, etc.) and the setting is an essential element in the book, and also in the plot.

Anchor murder is set in Voyageurs National Park, on the Minnesota/Ontario border. The nearest town is Internation Falls, Minnesota. It's an incredible location and it offered so many intriguing aspects that impact the plot. 

Even before the investigators get to the park, they experience the first true north country natives, the mosquitoes. Yes, they even get inside of the plane when the door is opened. My son's friend is a commercial pilot. He said International Falls is literally the only airport he's ever flown to where they have a 30-minute ground stop after the cabin door is closed so the pilot and co-pilot can swat mosquitoes in the cockpit to prevent take-off distractions.

The book opens with the announcement that a disembodied foot had been found at the bottom of Rainy Lake. Although it's apparent the foot has been there a long time, it's now officially a murder and the clock is not ticking when it's turned over to my investigators, Doug and Jill Fletcher. To examine and search the site, the team scuba dives on the site where the discovery was made. Imagine being in a wet suit that covers your body with the exception of the area around your wrists and scuba mask. When you hit the nearly freezing water, it feels like icy pins are prickling your exposed skin. As the cold seeps through the neoprene wetsuit, your muscles stiffen, and it becomes difficult to grasp with your numb fingers. Yeah. That really happens on a 30-minute dive in icy water. Hmm, how might that affect the plot?

Abutting the Canadian border adds another aspect to the setting because there are a host of cross-border issues to consider from fishermen straying across the border, to smuggling, to illegal aliens, and more.

I get into the "northern Minnesota resort experience" and talk about renting cabins and staying at lodges. There are fishermen, fishing guides, resort owners, and cabin owners, each with their own set of issues and possible murder motives.

The plot was suggested by Osten Berg, a retired law enforcement officer, who bought me a cup of coffee before giving me pages of plot to weave into a narrative. He's forgiven me for chopping up his suggestions while making his actual northern Minnesota missing person case into a piece of fiction.

Check it out on my publisher's website after the January 1, 2026 release.

Dean Hovey - Books We Love Publishing Inc.

Or at your favorite bookstore or Amazon.

An Englishwoman Braves the Wilds of New Brunswick, by Diane Scott Lewis

 

In 1784, a woman braves the wilds of a burgeoning Canada, in the province soon to be named New Brunswick. Will Amelia Latimer marry the callus soldier her father has chosen for her, or start a romance with the handsome Acadian trader, Gilbert? A man forbidden to her.

To purchase, click HERE

I had so much fun writing this story, learning about the formation of New Brunswick. I even traveled there to visit the sites I wrote about. I hope you enjoy it, too.

In this excerpt, Gilbert is teaching Amelia how to fire a pistol.

Mademoiselle Latimer and her maid waited in the once tall grass, now matted down by frost. Both of them were wrapped in capes, their hoods pulled up. The girl held the wooden box the pistol came in.

Gilbert dismounted and approached them. “Bonjour, ladies.” He tipped his hat.

“Good day to you, Mr. Arsenault.” Mademoiselle Latimer smiled and pulled the pistol from her muff. “I thought I’d put the Muff Pistol to its original purpose.”

Flintlock Pistol

He chuckled, happy to be in her company, though disturbed that she had this tug on him. He took and examined the small gun, then got right to business. “First, let me show you the trigger mechanism. This lever is called the sear and the trigger lowers from here. Engage the sear to keep the trigger in half-cock. That will keep the pistol from going off unexpectedly.” He caught her eager face, then stared at the weapon again. “When you’re ready to shoot, you pull to full cock and the hammer forces the trigger down. The sear and trigger are locked together, and pulling the trigger releases the sear. Now the pistol will fire.” 

He fingered the metal pieces gently as he glanced up. “No one has loaded this, have they?” At her head shake, he pointed the barrel at the woods and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He handed the pistol to her. “You try it, and always treat the pistol with caution.”

She didn’t hesitate, which impressed him. Arm extended, she pulled the trigger.

“Bon. Now we’ll load it. Observe closely.” Gilbert went to the maid, and took the box, which contained balls, flints, a powder flask, and cleaning rod. The girl smiled, as if relieved to be rid of her burden.

                                       Laverty Falls in New Brunswick

Setting the box on the ground, he crouched, unscrewed the pistol barrel, and inserted only seven grains of the acrid powder into a chamber behind the threads. He placed a ball over the powder. “Now I very gently re-screw the barrel. If any powder residue is left on the threads, the stuff could ignite and the gun may explode. So clean these threads with a cloth after each use.”

“Oh, my, that does sound dangerous. But pistols aren’t toys, are they?” Mademoiselle Latimer rubbed her gloved hands together. The cold pinked her cheeks attractively. “I don’t know how many people or beasts I’ll have the need to shoot, yet.”

“Be aware, this little gun won’t stop a large animal, though the noise might.” Gilbert hid his amusement, half-cocked the weapon and stood. “Please make certain you clean this pistol, care for it diligently, so you don’t get hurt.” This time instead of handing her the gun, he stepped behind her, put his arms around her and pressed her finger on the trigger. She felt warm against his body. Her hair smelled flowery. “Use both hands and be prepared for a slight kick-back.”

She quivered under his touch. “All right. I’m ready.” Her voice trembled, then she straightened her arms and pulled the trigger. Smoke puffed out and the bang echoed around them.

The maid had crushed her hands over her ears. Mademoiselle Latimer gasped and slipped back, deeper into his arms. Gilbert released her as a heated thrill wriggled through him. He shouldn’t have held her, but he’d meant it for support—hadn’t he? Or was it much more?

Find out more about me and my books

                              

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her naughty dachshund.

Serendipity 2...by Sheila Claydon

 

Find my books here

A finished manuscript had been sent off to BWL for editing prior to publication and, subconsciously, I was casting around for the next story. So what will I write about next, I asked myself. Most writers will identify with this sentiment even if they don't intend to start writing another book any time soon.

Then, on my daily dog walk, I happened upon a friend who asked me if I had visited the newly opened local Heritage Centre yet. I hadn't, but because he had been instrumental in helping to set it up, I promised to visit. When I did...I was BLOWN AWAY! There, in front of me, were stories galore just waiting to be discovered. 

I live in a small coastal town in the north west of England. Although nowadays the population is approximately 22,000, locals still refer to it as a village because that is what it has been for most of its existence. As  recently as 1900 there were still only around 5,500 inhabitants and before that the population could be counted in the hundreds. So as a southern city incomer (35 years and counting!) I had never taken much notice of its history, somewhat arrogantly assuming that there wouldn't be much of interest compared to the seafaring port where I grew up. 

Of course I couldn't help but hear some things so I knew about the elusive footprints that can still sometimes be seen on the beach at low tide. What I  didn't know was that some of them are 9,000 years old! Baked and hardened in the sun and then covered by sediment, these ancient prints of adults and children, red deer, roe deer, wolves, aurochs, cranes, dogs and horses have been extensively photographed and documented since erosion caused them to reappear in the 1980s. This is an important piece of work as, eventually, incoming tides will wash them all away. All this was explained at the Heritage Centre.

I knew the name of the town had Viking roots but I didn't know it was a derivation of a personal name, Forni's village, from a time when the area was settled by Norsemen. It was also news to me that many other local place names derive from either Norwegian or Danish settlers who mixed with the local Anglo-Saxon community and worked as farmers, fishermen and traders for hundreds of years.

I discovered how things changed slightly after the Norman Conquest of 1066 when the village became part of the Manor of Formby, owned by the de Formby family who were descendants of the original Norse settlers. It was then, as now, a coastal area of dunes and marshland, and for the next 700 years its inhabitants mainly led a rural life that continued to rely on coastal fishing and agriculture.

It was only when Liverpool, its nearest city, began to expand, that Formby's scattered farms became more entrepreneurial, providing food for city dwellers. This was when its most prosperous crop, asparagus, became celebrated nationally, with supplies regularly sent to London as well as Liverpool. The remnants of this historical asparagus farming can still be seen in the landscape today, and the one asparagus farm that remains attracts many customers for the six week asparagus season in April/May/June depending on the weather. I am lucky enough to live opposite the farm so its delicious crop is a regular part of our diet during its short harvest.

It was also, in this part of the late eighteenth century, that Formby Lifeboat Station was built. Although Formby has a wonderful wild beach backed by sand dunes, it is in fact situated in Liverpool Bay, so the Liverpool Dock Master of the time, supported by the Dock Trustees, arranged for Britain's first ever lifeboat station to be established in Formby, as quoted below: 

On the strand about a mile below Formby Lower Land Mark there is a boathouse, and a boat kept ready to save lives from vessels forced on shore on that coast, and a guinea, or more, reward is paid by the Corporation for every human life that is saved by means of this boat, etc.’

The remains of the lifeboat station can still be seen today and this year is its 250 anniversary when there will be many celebrations. The remains of wrecked ships can also be seen at low tide!

By now thoroughly hooked, I kept looking and reading, and that was when I discovered that the local beach was one of the most active flying centres in the country in the early twentieth century, a testing place for five of Britain's pioneer aviators. Reports from that time state that crashes were frequent but injuries rare. With a beach stretching for 20 miles through neighbouring towns and districts, the area provided a long flat unpopulated area for these brave men who built the forerunners of the planes we fly in today.

A single visit to this wonderful Heritage Centre is definitely not enough. There are photos and memories of WW1 and WW2, including the tale of how the old lighthouse was demolished in WW2 once it was realised that its light was acting as a beacon for incoming German aircraft. 

I also discovered that in 1939 The First Battalion King's Own Liverpool Regiment 's barracks was established close to the beach to train the soldiers who later fought in places like Burma and Normandy, taking part in the D Day Landings.  What is now a conservation area of sand dunes and unspoiled beach was once a hutted camp with training grounds, rifle ranges and accommodation. Everything that was left of the abandoned barracks once the war was over is now the crushed and compressed base of a beach carpark.

I learned, too, that once there was a working windmill, a power station, a Cold War monitoring post and bunker, a magistrate's court and council offices. These have all gone the way of the barracks, the lighthouse and the lifeguard station. Nowadays our small town is a cross between a retirement village and a dormitory town for commuters, except in the summer when  visitors arrive to enjoy the beach and the hundreds of acres of what is now a protected conservation area of woods, fields and sand dunes. 

We consider ourselves very lucky to live here. We found Formby by chance when jobs moved us north in the 1990s. We spent two weeks holidaying in the area when we knew the move was coming, looking at schools, journey times, and everything else we deemed important if we had to move several hundred miles away from where we had lived for more than 25 years. Fed up with driving around different towns and villages, we took a day off and went to what looked like a wide beach on the ordnance survey map (this was before GPS and iPhones). We parked outside the house that is now our home. Talk about serendipity. And I think my recent visit to the Heritage Centre might just be a case of serendipity too. 

Although some of my books are partially set locally, they are too well camouflaged for this to be noticed. However, Reluctant Date is different. While a large part of the story is set in Florida, some of it is local because the protagonists work to protect nature, and today Formby has some of Europe's most important dune systems. These support unique plants and insects. Its pinewoods are also home to the iconic red squirrel, while its heathland and dunes are inhabited by endangered natterjack toads, sand lizards, rare butterflies and wading birds.

 

It's a lovely place to live but for me, now, it has an added attraction. It's very own Heritage Centre, a small museum with so many artefacts, photos and stories that I will be able to research to my heart's content while I look for my next story.

Extract from Reluctant Date

    Claire's spirits lifted slightly when he returned carrying scuffed hiking boots in one hand and a thick weatherproof jacket in the other. If he came equipped for walking each time he travelled across the Atlantic, then he must be serious about wildlife. Maybe her decision to spend more time with him before she made up her mind about his job was the right one after all. A day fighting the elements would not only clear her head, it would show her exactly what Daniel Marchant was made of.

* * *

    An hour later, protected from the wind by a thick padded jacket, and with her hair bundled into an old woollen hat, Claire led the way across the open heath. In the distance were the miles of undulating sand dunes that provide a wind and sea defence between the land and the beach. Daniel, similarly clad, followed her, a pair of powerful binoculars swinging from a leather strap around his neck.

    They had barely exchanged half a dozen words since leaving the house but somehow it didn't seem to matter. For the first time since their original meeting Claire felt at ease with him again. She could see from the expression on his face that he was as focussed as she was, his eyes alert for any sign of wildlife, his interested excited by the unusual terrain.

    Over breakfast she had given him a potted history of the area. Now she was eager to show it to him.

    The morning passed quickly as they trekked through pinewoods busy with red squirrels, and across uneven scrub where flocks of grazing birds rose in noisy protest as they disturbed them. Time and again Daniel raised his binoculars to his eyes with an exclamation of delight, and time and again Claire had to force her fast beating heart into submission as she responded to his enthusiasm and tried to answer his questions.

    Eventually they moved shoreward, clambering across the sand dunes until they had an uninterrupted view of the sea. It was black and wild under scudding clouds that occasionally parted to reveal unexpected patches of pale blue sky. The beach below them, deserted except for an occasional dog walker, stretch for miles in both directions.

    Daniel was silent for several long minutes as he slowly took in the panoramic view. Then he turned to Claire, his face full of barely repressed excitement.

    "Look at those dunes! They go on forever. It's amazing."

    Claire stared at him, startled by his over-the-top enthusiasm for what, to her, was just a familiar hike, somewhere she enjoyed for its peace and wild, windswept beauty.

    When he saw the surprised expression on her face, he chuckled. "You have absolutely no idea that this dunescape is one of the most important nature conservation areas in Europe, do you?" he teased. "To you it's just home, but I've read all about it, and to me it's a conservationists's dream. Don't worry though. I'll get over it. I tend to forget that most people aren't turned on by coastal erosion. Now how about lunch? I think you mentioned a local pub.