Home For Christmas (9 page)

‘Hon, I came as soon as I could.’ The touch morphed into a hug. ‘He’s hurt, but he’s going to be okay.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘His injuries are the least severe. He’s going to be okay.’ She glanced around at the toppled wheelbarrow and spilt mulch. ‘How long have you been sitting here?’

Layla looked around as well. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on inside and we’ll make a cuppa.’ Carise pushed to her feet. ‘Leave that, we’ll worry about that tomorrow.’

Layla blinked. ‘My dad used to say that.’

‘Probably where I heard it.’ She reached out her hand. ‘Come on, it’s getting late, and it’s getting cold. I left Toby in his car seat, so we’d better go rescue him before he chews his way through the restraint.’

‘Okay.’ Layla’s legs were wobbly as she stood and followed her cousin towards the house.

***

Eleven interminable hours after the media had reported the names and location of the soldiers involved in the sniper attacks, she had an email from Tate.

Layla
,

Sorry it has taken me so long to get back to you. I guess you know what’s happened now
.

I’m okay. Single shot to leg
—
they’ve operated and it’s going to be fine. I was trying to save one of the local traders’ donkey and it was hit by the shrapnel. It must have thought I shot it, so it didn’t co-operate. Now I know what people mean when they say they feel like they’ve been kicked by a horse. It’s horrible
.

Russell Kitchener was one of my mates. He was an exceptional soldier. Still can’t believe he’s gone. My best mate Dougie is one of the injured
—
he’s still critical and we’re all praying. I wish I’d taken his bullet. He’s such a great guy
.

I’m gutted. We all are. Can’t believe this has happened and can’t believe Kitch is gone. Ramp ceremony was this morning. I hate this war and I wish I was back home
.

With you
.

Tate

PS: I asked to have your name added to the list of people they contact in the event of, well you know, and the CO said yes. Hope that’s ok. T

Layla slumped in her chair and started to cry.

Layla had read Tate’s email a thousand times in the ten days since it arrived but she hadn’t replied.

She couldn’t.

There were no words.

She couldn’t even go near her computer. She hadn’t lost Tate in the gunfight, but she may as well have. She never wanted to go through that gut-wrenching pain ever again. Even now, sometimes it hurt to breathe. She hated what this was doing to her, and she wasn’t even the one that was injured. How must Tate feel?

She clamped down on that thought before it went any further. It didn’t matter how Tate felt. She was done. Why had she ever thought she could get involved with an army man? Memories of Ben’s loss, the day their lives had changed forever, crowded in on her and with a cry of disgust, she headed across to her workroom.

The remains of a box full of six-inch-high gnomes, once destined to be painted in Santa’s colours, were the first thing she laid her eyes on and she marched over to the grinning terracotta men. Across the room, the sunflowers and riotous spring-loaded flowers smiled at her from their places in the paint bay, with an almost ‘I told you so’ look in their eyes. Layla turned her back on them.

How could she have been so naïve?

She pulled the box of gnomes over and started sorting through. As she set to work, she made a solemn vow — they wouldn’t be smiling at the end of the day.

The shadows were long, and the natural light all but gone before Layla surfaced again. She threw a satisfied grimace over her shoulder at her new works of art, now jostling for position in the paint bay, and returned to tonight’s project.

She positioned the chisel, and then tapped it gently with her hammer. The tiny gnome’s head departed its body with a satisfying ‘chink’. She grabbed her hot glue gun and re-seated the severed head at an unnatural angle, covering the join with a noose, made to measure out of string.

The unfortunate gnome joined his mates, scattered around the base of a set of miniature gallows. Overseeing proceedings was the hangman, another unfortunate soul from the box of gnomes, his once colourful clothes now painted grey, his features obscured by a mask. She turned to the last gnome from the set.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ she admonished it, as she slipped a tiny drawstring bag that had once held a pendant over his head. ‘You wouldn’t be in this situation if you didn’t deserve it.’ She positioned him on the platform, looped the string noose around his neck then fed the trailing end back to the hangman.

She was done.

Layla packed up her tools, then went to get her camera. Hang-Gnome was about to make its debut on eBay, along with the Franken-Gnomes and the Steampunk and Zombie Apocalypse Gnomes, all pieces that had been immensely satisfying to make, but not suitable for her Bonsai Christmas clientele.

At least working on them made her feel a bit better. For a while. She threw one last glance over her shoulder at her now cluttered workspace and tried to smile. The gnomes were as miserable as she was.

***

Layla decided to keep the Hang-Gnomes for herself. The following morning she spent fifteen minutes working out the best way to display them on the patch of lawn next to her front steps. Once she was happy with the arrangement, she put on her overalls and her battered straw hat and headed across to the business garden. Shovelling was still her least favourite activity, but she couldn’t leave the pile of mulch sitting in the driveway forever. The wheelbarrow was still reclining drunkenly, exactly where she’d left it. She couldn’t see the shovel anywhere.

Fifteen minutes later, after scouring the house, yard, workroom and nursery, Layla was steaming and the shovel was officially missing. She yanked down the pitchfork and a rusty old spade and headed back to the driveway.

It was impossible.

Either her father had once employed a four-foot-high nurseryman, or the spade’s handle had suffered a permanent injury at some stage in its life. After half an hour her lower back was screaming from her stooped posture and what little mulch had ended up in the wheelbarrow was now dropped in messy heaps around the plants. Sweat ran down her back as she surveyed the disaster her garden was becoming.

Layla stepped into the shade of an overhanging maple to catch her breath. Should she go into town and buy another shovel? The distinctive chink of the gate being closed broke her concentration. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she fumed. ‘Isn’t the closed sign enough anymore?’

She spun around at the sound of measured footsteps crunching along the drive and bit back a curse. A tall young man, in dark trousers and a navy checked shirt, was making his way slowly down the gravel path. His eyes were hidden behind aviator sunnies.

Layla leaned the spade on the wheelbarrow, rearranged her features into a business-like smile and brushed a limp strand of hair off her forehead. ‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Layla Preston. Of Bonsai Christmas.’

Layla’s brow crinkled. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’t place it. ‘I’m Layla. What can I do for you?’

He stepped forward, his movements stiff and unnatural, then pushed up his sunnies. ‘I’m Tate McAuliffe. We need to talk.’

‘Tate?’ Layla’s mouth opened and closed. His eyes, shadowed with pain, captured hers and wouldn’t let go. She had an impression of a strong jaw and lanky frame but couldn’t look away from the depth of his gaze.
Tate? Here?
Finally, her addled brains came together enough to make her vocal cords work. ‘Aren’t you in hospital? Overseas?’

‘I requested some leave.’

‘They sent you home?’ Her heart jumped. His injury had to be worse than he’d told her. She looked him over. The short back and sides and his stance screamed army, but even though she knew he’d been badly hurt, it didn’t look like it. This man wore his strength with ease. Her mouth went dry just looking at him.

‘For now. Only because I was injured.’ Tate shifted his weight. ‘Any chance we could sit somewhere? I can’t stand for long periods yet.’

Layla’s brain snapped into gear. She scrubbed her hands down her overalls and said, ‘Of course. The house is closest. This way.’ She fell into step alongside him, matching his careful pace. She hovered at his elbow as he climbed the stairs to the veranda. ‘Do you want to sit out here?’

‘Love to. We don’t get much outside time.’ He glanced around. ‘This is nice. Is that one of your pieces?’

Layla nodded, now regretting the impulse that had seen her displaying the hanging of the gnomes on her front lawn.

‘It wasn’t what I was expecting.’

‘It’s one of my Halloween pieces.’ She made a mental note to pack it up as soon as he left. ‘I’ll get us a drink.’ She almost flew through the screen door, bypassing the kitchen altogether and heading straight for her bedroom.

Tate McAuliffe was sitting on her front veranda
.

Heart pounding, she shucked the overalls and dived into the shower, scrubbing the grime from her face and hands. Five minutes later, she’d thrown on the only thing she had ironed, some three quarter pants and a loose shirt, ran a brush through her hair and was heading back to the kitchen.

She grabbed some glasses and juice and headed back out onto the veranda. Tate was leaning back in his chair, relaxed. He’d taken his sunnies off and she realised he wasn’t looking at the view. His eyes were closed, his posture relaxed.

If she didn’t know he was badly injured, she wouldn’t have guessed. The only clue was the shadowed hollows under his eyes. While she’d been gone, Whisky had found Tate sitting on the veranda and was now watching him through half-closed eyes as he lay on his hammock bed.

‘Juice?’ She slid the glasses onto the table and poured.

‘Yes, please.’ Tate took the glass she offered and sipped. ‘This is what you miss out on being in the army. Fresh juice.’

Layla put her glass to her lips but she couldn’t drink. Tate wasn’t here to talk about Defence Force catering. She abandoned all pretence of drinking, putting her glass on the table and then dropping her hands to her lap. She didn’t have to wait long.

‘You didn’t email me back.’

‘I know.’ Layla couldn’t meet his eyes. She traced her finger around the rim of her glass. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re sorry?’

The pain in his voice was almost too much to bear. Layla bit her lip and studied the stitching on her cargos.

‘Layla, look at me.’

Her head inched up until her eyes met his. Tate’s brow was furrowed.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know.’ Layla swallowed against the thickening in her throat. ‘All I know is everything was good, then when I heard about the soldier dying I was so scared for you. When I didn’t hear from you, I thought you were dead.’ Her voice wavered. ‘I don’t want to ever think that again.’

Tate reached over and put his hand over hers. ‘I don’t want you to either.’

‘I don’t think I can do this.’

‘This what? Having juice on the veranda?’ She could hear the smile in his voice as he rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.

‘This.’ Tears burned her eyes. ‘Whatever this is.’

‘This is just us. We’re getting to know each other. You don’t have to be afraid.’

Layla swallowed down on a sob. ‘I’m not afraid.’

‘I think you are.’ His voice was gentle. ‘You’re running away.’

‘I’m not.’ She almost choked on her own words.

‘You are.’ His thumb stopped. ‘Family and friends are really important to you. Every day, I tell myself how lucky I am that you accepted me as one of yours. When you thought I was gone, you were scared. I understand that. You’ve already lost a brother that way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know how scared you were. We were pinned down out there for a long time. My mate Dougie, he’s like a brother to me. He was the first one shot and I thought he was going to die. I was so scared I couldn’t even think.’

Layla raised her eyes to his. ‘That’s horrible.’

Tate nodded. ‘Yeah, it was. But we pulled together and we both got through.’ Tate took her hand in his. ‘I don’t know what I can do to fix this, but that’s what I want us to do. To pull together and move past this.’

‘I don’t know. I’m so confused,’ Layla whispered.

‘Me too.’ Tate started as a horn sounded out on the road. ‘Damn. That’s for me. The RSL organised a volunteer to drive me out here, and he’s worried we’re going to get stuck in the peak and miss the flight.’

‘You’re going back?’

‘I have to. I’ll be on desk duties for a while, but they need me back in explosives. Every bomb we disarm is keeping those people and their families safe.’

‘I don’t want you to go back. They can’t send you yet. You’re still sore, right?’

‘I have to go back.’ Tate rubbed his thigh. ‘I’m recovered. More stiff than sore now. Can’t sit for long, can’t stand for long. It’s improving. A few more weeks and I’ll be right as rain.’

The horn blared again. She reached out for his arm. ‘Don’t go.’ Her voice was thick with tears.

Tate groaned. ‘I have to.’

‘Don’t go yet.’ A single tear snaked its way down her cheek and she dashed it away.

‘I shouldn’t have come.’ He pushed to his feet. ‘It’s upset you more.’

‘I don’t want you to get hurt again,’ she choked out. She couldn’t lose someone else. She just couldn’t.

The hum of the engine came closer and she heard the car door open. ‘Tate, we have to get going.’

Layla ran her hand through her hair and stood on shaky legs. ‘You’d better go.’

Tate stood and captured her hand. ‘I don’t want to go but I have to. I’m sorry. We’ll still stay in contact?’

Layla shook her head.

‘At least think about it.’ He leaned forward and brushed a kiss on her brow, the softest of touches, whispering across her skin. ‘Please?’

Layla stared at him. She didn’t know what to say. From the driveway, the horn blared again. ‘He’s getting antsy. You’d better go.’

Tate jammed his sunnies on, but not before she caught the glimmer of tears in his eyes. ‘Goodbye, Layla.’