Home For Christmas (5 page)

‘I let it go.’ Layla finished Carise’s thought as Toby’s screams grew louder. ‘Okay, talk tonight. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

Layla shoved her phone in her pocket and stomped off along the old service road that used to be the highway, trying to remember if anything Tate had written suggested he was single. She couldn’t remember anything from their email conversation. ‘Mental note to self,’ she muttered, ‘always find out marital status before investing your energies in random men you meet via email.’

She kicked at a weed, then swung around and headed back towards the ute. Sweat ran down between her shoulder blades as she marched back along the tarmac. She was going to make contact with Tate McAuliffe one more time.

She’d check he was single, and if he was, she was going to fight.

***

Forty minutes in the air-conditioned comfort of the ute with heavy metal blasting from the speakers had cooled her ire by the time she reached Bonsai Christmas. She was close to feeling reasonable again when she entered the office, until she saw Ian Creswick poring over her delivery schedule. She dropped her bag on the desk and flexed her fingers. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Hi Layla. Everything’s fine.’ The puppy dog eyes were back.

‘Anything in particular you were looking for there?’

‘Um, no. Not really.’

Why wouldn’t he come out and say it? Her blood boiled. ‘Were you checking my schedule?’

‘Your father always let me know if he was going out.’

The icy cola in her office fridge would have to wait. ‘Ian, we need to talk. Do you have time now?’

He flushed red, then stuttered, ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Good. Sit down.’ Mentally she counted to ten before she continued. ‘Two things.’

He nodded, big brown puppy dog eyes watching her every move.

‘First thing. I know when Dad was alive, he had this dream that one day you and I would end up dating, and maybe married or something.’ Layla rubbed the back of her neck. God this was awkward. ‘You know that’s not going to happen, right?’ It was like beating a puppy with a pipe. ‘We’ve got nothing in common except the trees.’ A puppy that refused to blink. ‘There’s no possibility we’ll have a relationship outside of the work relationship. You have to stop with the shadowing.’ And then shooting it through its non-blinking eyes to make sure it was dead.

She had to look away. ‘I want to get this clear between us.’

Ian said nothing. His head was down and he seemed to be inspecting a stain on one of his knees.

After about thirty seconds Layla plowed on. ‘Second thing. You know the trees were always Dad’s passion. Before he died, I was more involved with the decorations and the value adding. He had the science and I had the art.’

His head came up and he nodded.

‘I’ve revised the business plan. We’re taking Bonsai in a different direction, starting now.’

He nodded again.

Layla could see blotches developing on his neck. ‘The Christmas trees remain. I want to diversify with sales for Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and Halloween. Those are markets we’re not even touching.’

He shifted in his seat. ‘Live plants?’

‘More hand-made gift lines, but companion selling live plants.’

‘Why not focus on the Christmas lines? They’re selling.’

‘Like I said, the trees were Dad’s babies. We’ve done well from them. If there’s a hailstorm and the nets come down, we’ve got no trees to sell for two to three years. Or fire comes through and wipes out all of our stock and equipment. What then?’

‘It’s never happened yet.’

Layla stifled an involuntary shiver as Ian quoted her dad’s catchphrase verbatim. ‘But it might. I’m not my father and I’m not going to do business the way he did. From here on in my focus will be on the artwork and marketing. Your focus will be the trees and live plants.’

Ian’s face blanched and he opened and closed his mouth a few times. Eventually he spoke. ‘When were you thinking of starting?’

‘I’ll craft some wire-work flowers and some wind catchers and we’ll offer them with flowering plants for Valentine’s Day. I’ll work out a schedule for the next few weeks and that will give us an idea on how many will be ready for February first. We’ll order the plants and re-pot into coloured pots — red, white and pink for our first foray.’

Ian pulled a worn spiral notebook and pencil from his breast pocket and made some notes. ‘Right you are then.’ He pushed to his feet. ‘I’d need to order by January twenty-fifth to guarantee delivery by the first.’

She circled the date on her desk blotter. ‘Okay then. I’ll work towards that. Any questions?’

Ian shook his head and pushed the chair back. He stopped at the door and Layla’s heart jumped into her throat.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

She met his stare full-on. ‘I definitely do.’

***

Layla was sitting out on the deck, Whisky at her feet, enjoying the evening breeze when Carise rang her back. She cut in on her best friend before she’d finished saying hello. ‘I’ve decided to fight.’

‘After checking he’s single?’ Carise paused. ‘What’s his name, by the way?’

‘Tate.’

‘Single Tate you fight for. Married Tate you run away from as fast as your little legs will carry you.’

‘That’s the plan.’ Layla rubbed Whisky’s back with her foot. ‘And, you’ll be proud of me. I confronted Ian today.’

‘Holy cow. How did that go?’

‘I’d been out on a job in forty degree heat and when I got back I found him in my office checking the schedule, and I lost my temper. I think he’s got it now. I’m not waiting patiently to fall into his arms, thereby gifting him half share in Bonsai Christmas and all of its profits. Then I laid the change of direction for the business onto him.’

Carise whistled through her teeth. ‘Geez, you must have been fired up. How’d he take it?’

‘Quietly and unblinkingly. If unblinkingly is a word. I swear the man didn’t blink for a full five minutes.’

‘If you were that blunt he was probably frozen with shock.’

‘I made it very clear I am not interested. I want more from life than the crap I’ve been putting up with. I’m never going to settle for Ian Creswick and he needed to know that. From here on in, I’m going to live my life the way I want to, and not be worried what everyone else thinks is right for me.’

Carise laughed. ‘You go girl.’

***

Acid ate away inside Tate’s chest as he read the subject line of Layla’s latest email.

Please Read This Tate McAuliffe — It’s Important
.

An abusive rant was no more than he deserved after what he’d said in his last email. He rubbed his breastbone to ease the pain and considered his options. He desperately wanted to delete it unread, but a recent lecture from the CO about actions and consequences made him stop. The pain in his chest got worse. He hovered the mouse over the email, but he didn’t click. His fingers were frozen.

‘Open it.’ His voice was unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn quiet of the computer room. He couldn’t delete it unread, so he had to get opening it over and done with. He clicked his mouse.

Hi Tate
,

I received your email
.

I read it
.

And I disagree that we should stop emailing
.

I love Christmas and I’m proud to say it. Despite the fact it’s the anniversary of my brother’s death and that now I find myself visiting three graves every Christmas morning
.

I love my family and I love spending time with them. I love celebrating with my friends and relations, developing family traditions, giving to those less fortunate than myself and the opportunity to give thanks for the year gone, and to look forward to the year ahead. None of that has anything to do with trees, lights, decorations or tinsel, which are all parts of my business, not my reason for celebrating Christmas
.

If you’re not loving Christmas, then you’re not doing it right!

I don’t know why that is but I’d love the opportunity to share this special time of year with you. I’ve felt a connection with you from that first email. If you let me, I’d like to keep in touch and be part of your life. Let’s start as friends and see where it takes us. We could talk about cricket?

Layla
.

PS: Are you married? Because if you are, please ignore this email and we’ll go back to not emailing. I don’t want to upset your wife. (I’m single, BTW)

PPS: A girl doesn’t send an impromptu photo of herself halfway across the world unless she 1. Likes you a lot and 2. Wants you to send one back
.

PPPS: I didn’t get the forms to rejoin the local RSL last week for the bingo, the line dancing or the Tuesday night curry buffet. I wanted to sign up so you and I can go out for dinner there when you get home
.

PPPPS: Stay safe!

As he read Layla’s email, the pressure in Tate’s chest eased. It all but disappeared after he read the postscripts. She was going to rejoin the RSL? For him? He reached down into the long thigh pocket of his fatigues, and emptied it. First the WSC cards, then Layla’s postcard and business card, and lastly, a black and white print of her photo that had cost him six chocolate bars and the cricket magazine. It was worth it. The print was grainy, but her infectious smile shone out at him.

He re-read the handwritten cards, then fanned the cricket cards out and looked through them. What would her father think of this long distance relationship, if he were still alive? Her brother? They’d both been in the military, and yet despite the fact she’d grown up with army men, Layla wasn’t running scared. Instead she was extending the hand of friendship. Maybe more?

He put the WSC cards aside, turned back to the screen and skimmed Layla’s words again. He smiled at ‘
Likes you a lot
’, but the smile faded as he read farther down.

She was right.

He wasn’t doing Christmas properly. He wasn’t ‘doing’ Christmas at all. Or family. He’d opted out of Christmas, and his family, the day he’d left for his initial training. And even when he’d visited his mother when he was back home, he’d never really been there for her.

Tate stared down at his boots. When he looked at it like that, how different was he to the man who’d fathered him and hit the road not long after? None of the men in his mother’s life were there for her, so she drifted from no-hoper to no-hoper, and found love and acceptance in the only place she knew she was guaranteed to find it. A bottle. Bile soured his throat and he swallowed it down. He could do better. He
would
do better.

He hit reply and changed the subject heading.
Single male seeks companion for dinner at the RSL
. Then he saved the email to the draft folder. He would email Layla in a minute. There was something he had to do first. He clicked ‘new email’ and tabbed to the subject line.

Happy New Year Mum
.

***

Layla pushed her stool back and reached her arms towards the ceiling, enjoying the stretch along her spine. Soldering was hot, fiddly work but at last, her prototype was ready to paint. She checked the clock on the far wall and wrote down the time. Nineteen minutes wasn’t bad for a first attempt. Once she had her process down pat, the cutting and construction time would halve, and she’d make more efficiencies when she started batch processing.

A thick metal stake anchored her creation in the soil of her crafting pot. Five hand-made flowers were attached to the stake by varying lengths of coiled wire. When painted, it would be a riot of smiley-faced blooms designed to jiggle in the breeze. Perfect to slide in front of shrubbery or an evergreen houseplant. She’d have pinks and reds for Valentine’s Day, expand out into yellow and orange tones for Mother’s Day and by Halloween she’d be doing them as skulls and pumpkins. She pulled her notepad over and jotted ‘cut-outs on skulls with fairy lights behind’. Way spookier that way.

Layla picked up the crafting pot and headed over to her painting station, humming as she went. Behind her, her phone pinged and she resisted the urge to dump the pot, and run across to her bag to answer it.

‘Stop it right now, Layla Preston. You are acting like a lovesick schoolgirl waiting for a boy to ring.’

Not any boy though.

Tate.

She hadn’t heard a peep from him in the forty-eight hours since she’d sent her email. Her confidence, once sky-high, was now cowering in the basement. She slid the half-finished work onto the table, walked to the sink with a measured pace, washed her hands and only then did she turn back to her bag. With trembling fingers she took her phone out and opened her emails.

Single male seeks companion for dinner at the RSL
.

Layla felt behind her for her stool and slid onto it, heart pounding. She closed her eyes, then opened them and looked at her phone again. No, her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. She opened the message.

Hi Layla
,

Your last email really had me thinking. My mother and I always moved around a lot when I was little, and our Christmas was the complete opposite of yours. Our family was different to yours. There wasn’t much to celebrate and no money for extras. I still remember my first Christmas roast
—
the year I joined up. I hadn’t realised how much anger I was still carrying around until your latest email
.

You were right to say what you said. You lost your brother at Christmas, and yet you can still celebrate. I have no excuse to hold onto my bitterness. I’m sorry if what I said in my last email upset you. The last thing I wanted if we kept in contact was to be the wet blanket hanging over your special celebrations
.

I’ve kept the tree you sent
—
it’s the first Christmas tree that I’ve owned (and the only green tree around this place). It’s hanging from the bunk above mine. Makes me smile every time I see it
.

Tuesday night curry buffet at the RSL sounds like my kind of place. I’d like to catch up with you when I get back home. I’m definitely single. The only problem, I’m stationed at Lavarack, so it might have to be the Saturday night bistro and I might have to fly down to make it. But we’ll figure that out once I’m back in Aus
.