Home For Christmas (13 page)

‘Toast,’ she told the old dog. ‘If you’re good you can have the crusts. And I’ll put some butter on them for you.’ She put a couple of slices in the toaster and opened the fridge.

As she sat with her plate of hot buttered toast with jam, the familiar ping of an email landing in her inbox broke the silence. A shiver of anticipation ripped through her when she realised it was a reply from Tate.

Layla

What are you doing at work so late? It must be nearly midnight (or is my time conversion wrong). Fingers crossed with the ad. Was thinking
—
I don’t expect you to come up and see me every time. I should get some weekends off and I can fly down
.

Or we could drive and meet halfway. On the inland highway that would be Glen Innes. I’d love to sleep under the stars in the back of the ute again, but I don’t mind where we go, so long as we get to spend time together
.

We’re in the hyper-vigilant stage of the tour
—
so close to getting home and no one wants to mess up now. No dates yet and we don’t give them out via email anyway, in case our emails are intercepted. Our liaison back home will provide times and dates for the flight back to the people on our list, and I made sure you’ve been added. They’ll also answer any questions you might have. Looking forward to seeing you
.

Love Tate
.

Layla’s heart melted, a puddle not unlike the melted butter on her toast, as she pictured a cosy nest of blankets and pillows in the back of the ute, and snuggling Tate to keep warm. Loving him.

She hit reply.

Hey Tate
,

I love the idea of us meeting up halfway and a night or two under the stars on a mattress in the back of the ute. We’ll have a sensational time
.

Love and kisses

Layla

Fingers shaking, she sent her reply. She wasn’t comfortable email flirting; she was much more of a face-to-face kind of girl. Hopefully, he’d know what she meant. She wrapped her fingers around her rapidly cooling hot chocolate and sat back to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Twenty minutes later, her hot chocolate was finished, her fingers were frozen and she was still waiting. Disappointment sat heavily in her gut. Damn, he must have logged off right after sending his last email.

She waited another five minutes, to be sure, but there was no reply.

The lump in her throat intensified as she logged off. As she closed her laptop, she realised the toast she’d been drooling over when she slotted it into the toaster was still on her plate, congealed in a soggy mess of butter and jam.

It didn’t matter. Her appetite was gone. She scraped the lot into Whisky’s bowl and put it down for him. Tail wagging under his blanket, he devoured the unexpected midnight snack in an instant. Layla flicked off the light and dragged herself down the hall to bed.

Tate’s reply arrived the next day.

Layla

You’re a very naughty girl. It’s about 45 degrees here today and your last email had me hot under the collar. My blood pressure is about double what it normally is. September seems like such a long time away. If you’re looking forward to a night under the stars, you can only imagine how I feel!

Love

Tate

Tate

There’s a gale blowing in off the snowfields down south and all I can think of right now is a warm snuggly doona and a soft mattress and you in the back of my ute. (How’s your blood pressure now???)

My new nursery trainee keeps glancing at me strangely because I’m grinning every time I load supplies into the tray. I can’t explain!

Not long now! Stay safe
.

Love

Layla

Townsville Airport, September 27, 10:30 a.m
.

Of course, the flight was late. Layla had been fidgeting in the area reserved for family for nearly two hours now. The deafening buzz of conversation that had greeted her on her arrival was now a funeralistic hum, occasionally interrupted by announcements over the PA system. Even they had lessened in frequency as the delay increased.

Suddenly the PA burst into life. ‘Lavarack Barracks welcomes the returning soldiers from Multi-National Base Tarin Kowt. And here they are now.’ The concourse door opened and a whoop went up from the crowd lining the bollarded area. They clapped as the first khaki-clad soldier fairly flew up the red carpet and was instantly engulfed in the arms of his family. In groups of two or three, the soldiers emerged, their joy at being home on Aussie soil plastered all over their faces.

Heart pounding, Layla ran her hands down the floaty midnight blue sundress and prayed she’d be able to recognise Tate.

And that he’d recognise her. The strappy silver sandals and dress she’d donned were so far removed from her usual farm gear, she wasn’t sure she recognised herself. She’d wanted something that complemented the earrings that she always wore, so she’d worked her way through the boutiques in Sydney until she’d found it.

The perfect dress.

For the perfect day.

Tate was coming home.

She shifted from foot to foot as the sea of khaki flooded through the crowded airport. Whoops of joy, hugs, tears and laughter greeted each of the men and women as they came through the gate. Layla bit her lip as she surveyed the pandemonium. The more soldiers that came through, the more of a madhouse it was. She craned her neck, trying to keep the arriving soldiers in sight, but the crowd ebbed and flowed. She had to keep shifting and stretching and she resisted the urge to scream.

Three soldiers entered the terminal together, laughing and joking as they walked the red carpet. From their buzz cuts to their khaki uniforms and kit bags, they were identical. The knot in Layla’s stomach doubled in size.

Everyone else here knew who they were looking for.

She was the only one here with only a fuzzy memory of her soldier.

She fumbled with the clasp on her bag. Why hadn’t she insisted she’d meet Tate somewhere a bit quieter, like the coffee shop? Somewhere where she’d have a chance of recognising him? Thank God she’d thought to bring his photo. She shifted, trying to keep the red carpet in view, her heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears.

The clasp on the silver clutch remained stubbornly closed.

God, why was this going wrong now? They’d grown closer and closer as the year unfolded, shared everything from their memories of growing up to their dreams for the future. Tate was definitely the one for her.

If only she could remember what he looked like.

Her nerveless fingers finally managed the clasp and her phone, lipstick and room key spewed out onto the floor. Layla swallowed the curse that sprung to her lips and dropped onto her haunches.

As she rose to her feet, she wrestled the photo from the pocket of her clutch. Of course she hadn’t forgotten what he looked like. It was his smile that set him apart. She’d know that smile anywhere.

‘Looking for someone?’

Her heart jumped at the gravelly tone so close to her ear. She looked into his warm brown eyes and knew him instantly. ‘Tate.’

‘Layla.’ He dropped his kit, crushed her in his embrace and held her tight. ‘Oh, Layla.’

Eyes closed, heart pounding, she dropped her clutch and hugged him back, savouring the strength in his chest and the fresh, clean smell of him. ‘Welcome home Tate,’ she whispered against his neck.

His arms tightened around her and the warmth of his breath feathered across the skin on the back of her neck. ‘It’s great to be home,’ Tate whispered into her hair. ‘Especially now I have you.’

Layla lifted her head from his chest and pressed a kiss against Tate’s lips. ‘I’m so happy to have you home.’

‘Well, isn’t that sweet.’ The acidic voice came from behind her.

Tate froze in her arms and she turned. An older woman, with a frizzy blonde perm, wearing a black spandex mini-dress and three-inch red heels was standing right behind them.

Tate tightened his grip on Layla’s arm and pushed her behind him.

His voice was dripping with ice when he finally spoke.

‘Hello, Mother.’

The hum of the airport lounge disappeared and all Layla could hear was her own heartbeat, loud in her ears. She didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. She took Tate’s hand in hers and gripped hard. As bad as this was for her, it had to be a thousand times worse for him. She gave his hand a squeeze and stepped around beside him. ‘Hi, I’m Layla.’

Tate’s mother ignored her. ‘I didn’t get notified you were coming home. I had to contact the base myself, and make my own arrangements. That’s not the way the government should be treating mothers who’ve made the sacrifice and sent their sons off to a war.’

Layla tried not to let her mouth drop open. She wasn’t sure she succeeded, so she snapped her teeth together and glanced up at Tate. His eyes had narrowed but other than that his face was unreadable.

She tried again. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Mrs McAuliffe. Let’s head over to the coffee shop and we’ll sit down…’ These were his workmates, his friends. The last thing he needed was some sort of scene in front of his team, and his mother probably knew it. She tugged Tate’s arm but the mountain didn’t move.

‘No.’ When he finally spoke, the word was soft but firm. ‘You weren’t notified because I removed you from the list. The last thing I wanted was for you to turn up here, drunk.’ His smile was sad. ‘I won’t let you ruin this day.’

The woman drew herself up on her teetering heels and stepped into their space. ‘I’m your mother.’

Even Layla could smell the alcohol and she inched backwards, all the while clutching Tate’s hand, trying to support him.

‘Are you?’ he asked in a conversational tone. ‘Are you really? Because I don’t remember you ever doing any of the things that mothers usually do. Like keeping me safe, and making sure I was happy. Or even making sure I had food to eat. I don’t remember any of that. And what, exactly, was the sacrifice you had to make?’

‘If I hadn’t had to carry you for nine months…’

‘Stop. We’re done.’ He gave Layla’s hand a squeeze. ‘It was great you made the effort to come and welcome me home, but I don’t want you in my life if you’re drinking. It’s not negotiable.’ He dug around in his pocket, pulled out a leaflet and tore one corner off and scribbled on it. ‘Here’s a phone number. These people can help you. Unless you’re clean, and by that I mean free of the booze, I don’t want to see you.’

She started to argue but Tate shouldered his kit and swung around and headed for the exit, tugging Layla along behind him. He didn’t speak until they’d cleared the terminal and were on the way to the car park. ‘I’m sorry about that. Never in a hundred years did I think she’d pull something like that.’

Layla squeezed his hand. ‘It’s okay. I understand.’ And suddenly, after all her questions about Tate’s relationship with his mother, she did. She steered him over to the rental car she’d hired and popped the hatch.

He dumped his duffel bag in and closed the back. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Not so fast. Come here.’ Layla wound her arms around his neck. ‘The angry soldier of six months ago would have blown a gasket over what happened back there, but you didn’t. You handled that really well.’ She pressed her lips to his, the softest of kisses. ‘I’m so proud of you, Tate McAuliffe.’

***

Now that the Halloween and Melbourne Cup celebrations were over, Layla was planning Christmas the same way she imagined Tate’s unit had deployed home.

With military precision.

It was her first Christmas celebration to be held here at the house and she was turning the traditional Preston family Christmas on its head. Tate was flying in Christmas morning and hiring a car. They’d share brunch together out on the shaded veranda and exchange presents, then together they’d host the extended family for a late afternoon meal. Her own Bonsai Christmas tree, better than anything she’d ever done before, was down in the nursery and every day now she checked it over.

The kitchen table was covered in lists, each one with its own set of check boxes so she could keep everything under control. She glanced down at the page in front of her and put a question mark next to the last name on the family afternoon invite list.

Deidre?

Layla gnawed on her lip as she filled in a whole row of question marks next to the name.

At least now she had a name, instead of calling her ‘Tate’s mother’. A surname would have been helpful, but she hadn’t wanted to push too hard. Getting a first name had taken six months. Tate didn’t talk about his mother.

Other than the brief glimpse she’d had of her that day at the airport, all she had to go on was that his mother was ‘somewhere up north’ and her name was Deidre. An internet search hadn’t uncovered any Deidre McAuliffes listed in the phone book, although there’d been hundreds of D. McAuliffes across Queensland and the Northern Territory. Layla pressed her fingers to her temples and rubbed. She didn’t even know if her surname was actually McAuliffe.

She checked her timeline and made a decision. She’d avoided this long enough. She was going to have to ask Tate straight up. She wasn’t planning a surprise reunion or anything but she wanted her first family celebration to be inclusive of the whole family, including Tate’s. If that’s what he wanted.

She grabbed her phone and composed a text.

Hi Gorgeous, putting together the family Xmas invite list and will include your mother on the list if you want this. Have a think. Let me know. I’ll call you tonight. Layla

She gnawed on her lip some more. Enough words? Right tone?

She went back and erased ‘your mother’, changing it to ‘Deidre’.

Then she changed it back. She wasn’t asking about inviting some stranger called Deidre. She was inviting Tate’s mother.

She sat there so long staring at the unsent message, praying it was right, that her phone screen faded to black. She typed in the code to unlock it. ‘Just do it. The worst outcome you can get is he gets angry and says no.’

She hit send.