At ten minutes to seven she put the fish pie in the oven to heat and then returned to the living room. She reached in her handbag for a lipstick and, using the little mirror in her compact, applied it carefully, smacking her lips together and giving them a little rub. She patted down her skirt and, after a quick glance around the room, sat down on the sofa and idly thumbed through the Christmas issue of The Lady. A few moments later she tossed the magazine aside.
Seven o’clock. He should be here any minute now, she thought, aching with delicious anticipation.
Fifteen minutes later, as the aroma of fish pie began to seep out from the kitchen, Mrs. Lloyd picked up her mobile phone and rang Harry. There was no answer. Had he forgotten? Had she been clear about the day and that she was expecting him tonight?
Mildly anxious, she fiddled with the dial on the radio until she heard a voice.
“That was Mary Hopkins and her wonderfully appropriate ‘Snowed Under,’ which is what we’re going to be tonight with a low front moving in, bringing with it heavy snow for much of the northwest,” said the radio announcer. The voice continued, “Police are advising motorists to take to the roads only if their journey is essential, as between four and eight inches of snow are expected to accumulate overnight.” A whiteout in South Wales led to a twenty-six-mile tailback on the M4 during rush hour, the voice added.
Oh damn, thought Mrs. Lloyd, switching off the radio. That’ll be what’s keeping him. Of course, if he can just get here, he’ll have to stay the night.
She strode over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out into the empty street. Large flakes of snow were falling, swirling, and catching the sodium orange light from the streetlamp as they tumbled to earth. The snow was beginning to pile up on the window ledge and Mrs. Lloyd found the whole notion of being snowed in with Harry for a day or two unbearably romantic.
It had been so many years since the town, or the country for that matter, had experienced a really severe winter that she could barely remember the last one. Sometime in the 1980s, would be her best guess. Of course, back when she was a girl the winters had been much worse, but somehow everyone survived. Was there a possibility with a severe snowstorm that the electricity might go off, she wondered.
Or might it be better if the power did stay on so she and Harry could listen to the radio and dance? But, on the other hand, if the electricity did go off, that might not be so bad either, having to cuddle up together by candlelight…
Two hours later, the dripping candle wax had set into hard, pink puddles and their formerly cheerfully romantic appearance now seemed sad and pathetic. Over the past hour Mrs. Lloyd had reluctantly and gradually realized that Harry would not be coming. She had pulled the fish pie from the oven and, after taking one look at its charred, dry edges, had scraped it into the rubbish bin and left the pan to soak in the sink. After one last monitoring of the snow piling up outside, she yawned, accepted defeat, and plodded upstairs to bed. As she settled under the covers, she ran her hand longingly over the empty half of her bed. With a heavy sigh, she rolled over onto her side, turning her back on the spot where she had imagined Harry, arms outstretched and eager to hold her and smother her with tender kisses. She turned off the bedside lamp, pulled the duvet up around her ears, and closed her eyes.
I hope nothing bad’s happened to him, she thought. Still, he could have telephoned me. I hope he’s all right. Why didn’t he ring me? He might have known I’d be worried. As anxious little thoughts nibbled away at the edge of her consciousness, she pushed them away and slipped into an uneasy, restless sleep.
A few streets away, bundled up against the snow, Penny Brannigan said good night to Victoria and stepped out into the pathway that led to the road. Framed in the doorway, Victoria peered out into the shadowy night. She could just make out the River Conwy, its dark waters shifting like moving slate.
“I guess we should have paid more attention to the weather,” Victoria said, “and not worked so late so you could have been away earlier.”
“Well, there’s lots to do and it needed doing,” Penny replied. “Anyway, I don’t have far to go and I’m going to enjoy this.” She gestured at the snow and then, picking up a handful, threw it at Victoria who squealed, ducked for cover, and then with one last good night and a little flap of her hand, shut the door behind her.
Penny knew snow.
Growing up in Nova Scotia she had seen plenty of it during long, white winters filled with blinding storms. And, of course, according to elderly relatives, it had been even worse in their day. She recalled an aunt describing winters so severe the snow reached the top of the telephone poles and hardy folk who took the weather in their stride would cheerfully ski to church. Penny had left Canada behind decades ago and had made a good life for herself in this small Welsh town, safe and happy among its warm, welcoming people. Until recently, she’d thought that her life was in a pretty good place but now gratefully recognized it was in a much better one.
She was letting herself become increasingly attached to Detective Chief Inspector Davies and she knew he cared deeply for her. Unsure of just where she wanted the relationship to go, she was secure enough in herself to let it become what it was meant to be. She was smart enough to appreciate what she had while she was lucky enough to have it, and the thought of her warm, peaceful cottage waiting for her cheered her on.
The snow was blowing across the street and it was becoming increasingly difficult to see through the cascading flakes. She clutched her collar tightly and pressed on toward the cobbled town square. There was no traffic and the streets were eerily quiet. Lights glowed behind curtained windows, and for a moment she envied the people who lived there, snug and warm in their homes. But just a few more streets to plow through and she, too, would be home.
As she passed the churchyard, a small movement caught her eye and she stopped. Edging along the side of the rectory, she recognized the dim outline of two figures in the doorway of the church, caught in a tight embrace. She smiled to herself and prepared to move on, but something about the pair held her attention. She placed a hand against the rectory wall to steady herself and watched as the couple stepped back a few inches from each other. They were too far away and it was too dark to make out who they were, but something about them seemed familiar.
She watched as they held hands, looking at each other. As the smaller figure, whom she assumed to be a woman, turned to leave, the larger one pulled her back. They embraced again, obviously reluctant to part. The woman reached up and brushed a few flakes of snow off the man’s jacket. Penny watched for a few more moments, and then, starting to feel the cold seeping through her gloves and beginning to shiver, she turned and slipped silently into the night.
She arrived home a few minutes later, and after taking off her boots and hanging her coat and wet gloves to dry in the hall, she turned on the light in her sitting room and then passed through the dining area to her kitchen. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk. If there was ever a night for a comforting mug of cocoa, this was it. She placed a small saucepan on the cooker, poured some milk into it, and turned on the element. While the milk heated, she took down a large mug, put in some cocoa powder, sugar, and a little milk, and stirred it all up to make a smooth brown paste.
When the milk was almost at the boiling point, she added it to the mug, gave it a good stir, and took her mug back to the living room. She settled on the sofa, tucked her legs under her, picked up her telephone, and dialed the code to listen to her voice mail messages.