Home For Christmas (4 page)

But it was the creative side she loved, sitting in the workroom, developing and producing miniaturised versions of Christmas decorations to dress the trees. This year’s collections had been all about the Aussie summer. Surfboards and cricket balls, beach umbrellas and thongs.

Next year would be all about colour — orange and teal and tan. Colours you didn’t normally associate with Christmas. She was even considering hiring more staff for the nursery so she could focus more on the decorations and less on the trees.

She checked her face in the side mirror of the ute, then holding the phone as far away as she could, took a photo of herself.

Hi Tate
,

Great to hear from you. At Bonsai Christmas, we have at least three Christmas celebrations each year
—
25 Dec, Orthodox and Christmas in July. Photo attached of me with the trees for a big Orthodox celebration in Sydney. Driving down today to deliver and decorate them. I own the business and I work full-time
—
about fifty percent of the time on the trees, thirty on the decorations and about twenty percent on paperwork
—
not my favourite. Aussies embracing Christmas in July has been a real bonus for us, it lets me keep my nurseryman on all year round, and gives me the extra push to get new designs for the decorations finished
.

I get a lot of satisfaction from knowing my designs are the centrepieces of people’s celebrations. I love knowing I was part of bringing families together at Christmas. Family is everything, and Christmas is the pinnacle of family celebrations, in my opinion. As frantic as the festive season gets, there’s a magic that gets my endorphins racing
.

I miss not having my immediate family around, but I try and make up for it as much as possible by getting the extended family together every chance I get
.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot and wondering what you are doing. I know you aren’t allowed to say. Stay safe
.

Layla
.

***

‘Come on, Macca,’ Stevo yelled from the doorway. ‘They’re pulling up now and I don’t want to miss out.’

Tate grabbed his helmet and vest. ‘Keep your pants on. They’re bound to have plenty of stock. The base is probably his only customer. Who else in this hellhole has money?’

‘Everyone who works here.’ Stevo marched towards the gate where the travelling salesman was parked. Every time the old man came around, his donkey pulling the old-fashioned covered caravan, the bomb detection team went out first and scoured the thing from head to foot. A perimeter watch was deployed and the men had to be fully kitted to approach. They shopped in pairs. One shopping, one watching.

‘Sapphires? Rubies?’

‘Ruby.’ Stevo wanted a gift for Valentine’s Day.

The trader opened a box of unset polished stones and proffered it forward.

Stevo shook his head and gestured to his neck. ‘Necklaces?’

‘Yes, pendant.’ The old man grinned and selected another box. ‘Very nice.’

Tate scanned the horizon, then threw a quick glance over his shoulder towards the seller and his wares. The box he proffered was alight with colour, ranging from light red translucent stones through to dense, deep crimson, in all different shapes and sizes. He scanned their surroundings again.

Stevo spent a few minutes browsing then asked, ‘Macca, what do you think?’

‘Hang on.’ Tate knew they were most vulnerable if they were distracted. ‘You take the watch and I’ll have a look.’

Like a well-oiled machine, they changed roles. Tate inspected the vibrant red stone, now nestled on the seller’s satiny pillow. ‘I think Annette would like it.’

Stevo’s head didn’t move as he muttered out the side of his mouth. ‘Me too. Swap back.’

‘Roger.’ Tate had one last glimpse of the jeweller’s wares before he resumed the watch. No wonder the caravan was so popular with the forces. Quality merchandise, and not overpriced, if Stevo’s negotiation was anything to go by.

They marched back into the compound as one. Once they were inside the walls, Stevo unravelled the necklace and dangled it from his fingers, bouncing on his toes. ‘Annette is going to love this. Thanks buddy, I owe you.’ He punched Tate lightly on the shoulder and without another word jogged off towards the barracks.

Tate shoved his hands in his pockets and watched him go.

Until Layla’s cheery emails had started landing in his inbox, he hadn’t ever seriously considered a girlfriend. Now, as he watched Stevo almost dancing across the quadrangle, he wondered if there was any chance.

He stared down at his boots.

Unlikely.

Even if he played his cards right, what woman would want him?

***

Three o’clock in the morning was a lonely time, no matter where in the world you were. Tate slipped into the dimly lit computer room and signed in. At least at this time of night there’d be no one around to give him shit about him checking his emails.

What the hell was happening to him?

He couldn’t sleep.

Layla Preston had reached out from her computer and completely invaded his life, and worst of all, she was completely unaware she’d done it. He thought about what Walt had said. Try being friends first, then go from there. It sounded reasonable until he was sitting here bathed in the dim light from the screen, his heart hammering because there was a new email from Layla.

Seconds later, his stomach dropped.

Family is everything
.

His breath started coming in short, fast gasps.

Christmas is the pinnacle of family celebrations
.

He gripped the arm of the chair.

There’s a magic that gets my endorphins racing
.

‘No.’ He slumped in his chair. ‘No, no, no.’

All of his misgivings about staying in contact with Layla came flooding back. He’d read and re-read those Christmas Day emails and decided he identified more with the cousins she’d mentioned than her. Not everyone loved a Christmas celebration. Not everyone enjoyed spending time with their family.

Why had he even sent his last email? All he knew was he’d been lying wide awake, staring at the tiny paper tree still hanging from the bottom of the bunk above. Next thing he knew he’d been writing an email wondering if this wasn’t the start of something.

It wasn’t.

He tried to swallow past the cement block in his stomach. She was definitely interested in keeping in touch, and he wanted to keep in contact with her. It was the dreaded F word that kept popping into his head, making him doubt they had any type of future together.

Family
.

He could survive an annual dunking in the festive spirit. After all, he’d just done it, and survived pretty much unscathed. But from what she wrote, Layla was family all day every day. He wouldn’t survive that.

He opened the photo attached to the email and his heart dropped even further.

She was beautiful.

She’d taken a ‘selfie’. Her dark brown eyes sparkled, full of fun and mischief. And her smile. It spelled mischief with a capital M. A pale pink Akubra was perched on her head at a jaunty angle, and her dark hair flowed loose around her shoulders. A hot pink singlet showed off an athletic figure and a gorgeous tan. In the background he could make out a deep green ute, the tray full of trees.

He stared at the image, imagining those luscious lips speaking her words.

Family is everything
.

Tate slumped farther down in his chair. His fantasy had to end. He wasn’t the right man for someone who loved family with such passion. Layla deserved better than him and his broken-down excuse for a family, who drowned every get together in cheap wine and arguments. Stomach churning, he closed Layla’s email, wishing for the millionth time he had a father he could ask for advice, or a mother whose sole focus wasn’t feeding her alcohol habit. Asking someone like Walt wasn’t the same. He pulled the WSC cards from his pocket and fanned through them, all the while the familiar refrain echoing through his thoughts.

Who would want someone like you?

Not someone who was as well-centred as Layla seemed to be. Tate put his fists to his eyes and tried to ignore the burn deep in his core. It wasn’t his fault he’d started life the way he did, yet it kept coming back to haunt him. No matter what he did to try to overcome it.

He sucked the chill air deep into his lungs and tried to still the erratic beating of his heart. He knew what he had to do. And as they’d taught him in the military, he didn’t have to like it, he just had to do it. He opened Layla’s email again, hit reply and started typing.

Dear Layla
,

Thanks so much for your email and the photo. You’re beautiful. Makes me wish I was back in Aus so I could see you in person. Tell you this in person
.

I can see how much enjoyment you get out of your job, and your family and Christmas. I’m not into family get-togethers, especially Christmas
—
I’m probably a bit like your cousin. The ones you don’t get. I thought when I got home we might have been able to catch up, but now I’m thinking perhaps not. I don’t think it would work out for us
.

I don’t want to send the wrong message by keeping in contact, so I think it would be for the best if we stop emailing
.

I’ve really enjoyed talking to you
.

Tate
.

The searing pain in his chest had dulled to a deep ache as he read, and re-read the words he’d agonised over. Praying they were the right ones.

Hands shaking, he hit send.

Layla’s eyes filled with tears as she flicked the indicator and pulled the ute into a truck stop. She killed the engine then wrestled her phone from her bag. Grabbing her water bottle, she flung herself out into the oppressive heat and stalked to a nearby picnic table. Hands shaking, she pulled up Tate’s email and read it again.

Yep, it was exactly the same as the first four times she’d pulled over.

Nausea bubbled in her throat and she took a sip of water.

What to do?

Hit delete? Then hit the nearest fast food restaurant for an upsized burger combo meal. And a chocolate fudge sundae. And a thickshake.

No.

Even though they were over ten thousand kilometres apart, and they’d only emailed a handful of times, there’d been a connection with Tate. A tiny spark that had her heart racing every time she checked her emails. She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

‘If only I could talk to him, face to face,’ she muttered as she re-read the email. Then she’d be able to look into his eyes to see if he truly meant what he was saying. His email wasn’t ‘I’m not interested’, and Lord knows he could have given her that brush-off by not replying to any of her emails. No, he’d taken the time to try to explain the problem. That had to be good, right?

Maybe.

His tone was regretful, sad. It seemed the problem was with family, or Christmas, or both. What did he think her job entailed? Dressing up as Santa’s helper and singing cheesy Christmas carols as she layered garlands and lights around perfectly formed trees? Or did he think she spent all her time surrounded by family, bathed in a perpetual glow of happiness, while the trees grew and watered themselves?

Layla snorted. Obviously he had no concept of what happened when the family patriarch died, leaving his only surviving child both the business and a minefield of loose ends spread across his extended family. She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Of course he didn’t know about the ongoing train wreck of her immediate family. How could he? They were strangers.

Layla put her head into her hands. Her brain was going to explode if she didn’t figure this out soon. She checked for signal then did what she always did when her world was imploding.

Carise answered on the fourth ring. ‘Hello.’

‘Hey Carise. You got a minute?’

‘Yeah, hon. You okay? You sound upset.’

Layla squeezed her eyes shut. ‘I am,’ she choked out.

‘What’s happened? It’s not Whisky is it?’

‘No, it’s really dumb. You’re going to think I’m an idiot. But I need some advice.’

‘Sure.’

‘You remember the soldier and the care package?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I decided to keep in contact with him and he’s blown me off. Big time. For no reason.’

‘There must be a reason.’

‘It seems he’s a bit worried about my attachment to family and the resultant celebrations. Like Christmas. He’s probably thinking I’m the reincarnation of Mrs Claus.’

‘Really?’ Carise paused. ‘Really?’ There was ten seconds of silence. ‘Silly question, but I need to know. You’re not talking keeping in contact as two cricket followers who met through a set of cricket cards? You’re talking met on the internet, planning to date, aren’t you?’

Layla’s cheeks burned. ‘Maybe?’

‘Did you check if he’s single?’

The heat graduated up and across to her ears. ‘Um, no.’

‘Ok, so maybe he’s married?’

‘Wouldn’t he come out and say that?’

‘Men can be funny, and who knows what goes on when they’re away fighting wars.’ She paused. ‘Crap, Toby’s woken up. I’m going to have to go. But I’ll call you tonight and we’ll talk. My gut feeling is if he’s not married, and you think he’s worth fighting for, you fight. If not…’