Christmas at Waratah Bay (12 page)

It was pretty much as rock hard as it had been twelve hours ago.

She tapped it. Ice.

It was a warm night. Maybe . . .

Or maybe not. This was one solid mother.

Uh oh. Uh oh, uh oh, uh oh.

What did you do with a dozen people to feed and a frozen turkey?

Maybe she could use the axe, she thought. She could dismember it and defrost it bit by bit in the microwave.

She headed out to the kitchen and found a cleaver. She took a deep breath and hit.

The cleaver bounced. A chip flew out of the metal edge.

Would an axe be better? Maybe not.

Okay. Do not panic. Do not panic, do not panic, do not panic. Back to the oracle.

Laptop. Website. How to defrost a turkey fast?

Nothing about axes. Nothing about microwaves either; why didn’t they make microwaves bigger?

One option and one option only.

She sighed. It was going to be a very long night.

“But we can do this,” she told the turkey. “I think you need a name. What was the name of that scary iceman that came down from the mountains and scared the villagers stupid? Bigfoot,” she recalled, weirdly satisfied. “Okay, Bigfoot, despite you not actually having any feet at all, I’m sure we can bond. I’ve not trained as a nurse for nothing. I can do nightshift.”

And function tomorrow?

“Of course I can function tomorrow,” she told Bigfoot. “After all this trouble, one turkey’s not standing between me and Christmas.”

*

The water was
running in the bathroom. Running out. He could hear the gurgle of the pipes as bathwater was released.

He checked his bedside clock. Two a.m. What? Who was having a bath at this hour?

Katie? The baby? She’d been quiet. “Just backache,” she’d said, but was that wishful thinking?

She was his sister. He loved her.

He hauled on jeans and t-shirt—if he’d expected company maybe he would have bought pajamas but he hadn’t owned them for years—and headed for the bathroom.

Closed.

He knocked, lightly. “Katie, are you okay? Katie?’

There was a sigh from inside the door. “It’s not Katie,” Sarah said. “It’s just me and Bigfoot. Go back to bed.”

“You and Bigfoot?”

“Fine, come in and see,” she snapped, sounding goaded. “But don’t you dare laugh.”

He didn’t laugh. He was too . . . discombobulated. He stood in the doorway and stared down in amazement.

Sarah was sitting on the bathroom floor on a pile of cushions. She was wearing jeans, big white socks and an oversized white sweater. She had a couple of farming magazines on the floor beside her.

The bath was full to the brim—with turkey.

“What the . . . ”

“It’s frozen solid,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I didn’t figure it out. I was so pleased I got the last one and didn’t realize it was left because no one could defrost a turkey this size fast enough. But, I can. The website says it needs to be dunked in a cool bath and the water changed every half an hour, so that’s what I’m doing. But let me tell you, Max Ramsey, that your choice of reading matter leaves a lot to be desired. I’m reading advertisements for bulls right now. Artificial insemination. It’s obviously gripping reading because the pages turn automatically to that section, but for the life of me I can’t find a plot.”

He choked.

“I’m warning you.” She glowered. “One laugh and the turkey gets it”

“Gets what?”

“To stay frozen. I had a nice little turkey breast to fry for me and Harold. I still have it. You guys can fend for yourselves.”

And, there it was again. He stood and stared down at the turkey and the girl looking defiantly up at him and all he thought was . . .

Trapped.

Disaster. Christmas chaos. Disappointment piled on disappointment and it was always up to him to pull something from the chaos.

He remembered the worst. Christmas Eve when he was sixteen. One of his mother’s horses was sick. His siblings were bouncing round the house hanging stockings, full of hope, and his mother had looked at him helplessly.

“You know I’ve been caught up with Blaze’s colic. What do they expect?”

They’d expected Christmas. At four in the afternoon, he’d swallowed his pride and hiked the two miles into town. The ladies at the welfare store had been about to close.

They’d taken pity on him. One of the women had even driven him home so he could sneak the big box of donated stuff into the stables.

At three in the morning, he’d bee ham-fistedly trying to sew an ear back onto a torn teddy. By the time the kids woke he’d had stuff in every stocking. It wasn’t what the kids wanted. He could feel their disappointment, but at least he’d salvaged something.

There hadn’t been turkey that Christmas, either.

Sarah had her laptop open on the floor beside her. He squatted and read through the instructions—what she was trying to do. Emergency defrost of turkey. Yep, half hourly changes of water.

Sewing ears on teddies had been harder.

“Go to bed,” he said, resigned. He knew how this played out. Siblings in distress. Sad, resigned, distressed, just-lost-girlfriend, just-failed-to-make-football-team, need a note for school, need help with homework, need money for school camp, need hug, need a feed, need . . . him.

She dunked the turkey some more. “I can’t go to bed,” she said. “Can’t you see I’m dunking?”

“I’ll do it.”

And, he knew what would happen next. Cue wide-eyed astonishment. Cue stammering thanks and hugs. Cue leave it to good ole Max, and get on with your life.

But: “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “My turkey is my problem.”

“It’s feeding my family.”

“I organized this Christmas. Butt out.”

“Sarah . . . ”

“I made a mistake,” she said simply. “I’m fixing it. I’m sorry I disturbed you. Your plug sucks like there’s a monster down there when the water runs out.”

“I’m sorry about the plug,” he said faintly, and she grinned.

“I’m not holding it against you. Honestly, Max, I’m fine. Go back to bed.”

“You’re going to turkey-dunk all night.”

“His name’s Bigfoot, and we’re bonding already. By morning, I may not be able to eat him but the rest of you will be fine. Goodnight.”

And she turned to roll her turkey over.

He stared at her, nonplussed. He was being dismissed. He was being told this disaster had nothing to do with him.

“What will you do all night?” he managed.

“Figure out my list,” she said, without looking up. “Christmas dinner is complicated. The website I’m using has a recipe for fast pudding. I might need to multiply it a bit, but given time, I can do the math. The stuffing’s organized. The veggies look a bit complicated but I have backup—I got frozen ones from the supermarket and I managed to find pre-made brandy sauce. I’ll spend the next couple of hours making a time plan. I think I have it covered.”

And there was a whole lot in that statement to take his breath away as well.
I think I have it covered.

This slip of a girl. This model from New York. This woman from a family he’d been cursing for years as unfeeling, uncaring, avaricious and absent.

An ex-nurse. A woman who’d come from half a world away to give an old man Christmas.

I think I have it covered.

He sat down. He couldn’t help himself. There was no way he could walk out now.

She shifted a little, looking at him in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“You do your time line. I’ll do the dunking.”

“Are you kidding? It’ll take all night.”

“Did you ever sleep the night before Christmas as a kid?”

“I . . . no,” she admitted.

“So are we too old?”

“Um . . . you’ll get cold hands.”

“Cold hands, warm heart.”

“That’s ridiculous. Besides, my heart’s getting a bit cold, too. Icy water does that.”

“I’ll fetch a heater. The turkey might need to stay cold, but not us.”

“You don’t need . . . ”

“I know I don’t need,” he said softly. “That’s what’s so astonishing. That’s why, despite everything, I figure tonight is all about turkey.”

*

Only, of course
it wasn’t all about turkey. It was about . . . ridiculous.

She had cushions already but he brought in more, as well as a couple of rugs and a heater. They settled back on the floor, the turkey wallowing beside them. Every few minutes one of them would wash the water over the breast, dunk, roll, and every half hour they changed the water.

The rest of the time . . .

They read the Christmas blog and discussed more and more elaborate things they could do tomorrow. They finessed Sarah’s to-do list and time line, and then created a might-do list that was long enough to make Santa nod in approval.

They read blogs of the Christmases put on by the rich and famous. “Do you think we have time to fly in some snow from Aspen?” Sarah asked wistfully and Max grinned and put it on the list.

•    Check e-bay for Aspen Snow.

•    Book refrigerated jet plane. Organize shovellers.

•    Make run-way in top paddock.

•    Warn cows not to stand in front of incoming jets.

“It’d be safer to move them,” Sarah said cautiously, but Max shook his head.

“Why should the cows miss out on all the fun? My girls are clever. I’m sure dodging jets is in their DNA.”

“You have amazing cows.”

“I do, don’t I?” he said, without a hint of modesty, and she chuckled.

And there was something about her chuckle . . .

No, there was . . . something about Sarah.

“Tell me about your Christmases,” he said as the night wore on. “You’ve figured mine. Chaos, chaos and chaos. What about yours?”

“Nope,” she said.

“That’s it? Just nope?”

“Nothing exciting. Nothing.”

“Just nothing?” And he got it, the bleakness behind the words, the emptiness.

“Sarah?”

“Leave it.”

“I don’t think I can,” he told her. “I don’t think . . . ”

“Then don’t think.”

“Okay,” he said obediently. “No thinking allowed.” And what was a man to do when thinking wasn’t allowed?

The girl beside him was looking like she was lost, like she was remembering ghosts of Christmases past and none of them were good.

She was looking nothing like the family he thought he despised. Her face was bleak. She looked alone and vulnerable and . . . lost.

She was giving her all to give Harold and his family a good Christmas.

*

What was a
man to do? The only thing possible.

He took her into his arms and he kissed her.

Of course, he kissed her, and when she kissed him back . . . Wow. Santa and stockings and mistletoe didn’t cut it. Who needed Christmas magic when he had Sarah?

This was a weird night, a night out of frame. Their little room was warm and as cozy as a bathroom could possibly be. The turkey wallowed beside them, a strange, silent witness to the growing sense of . . .

Of what?

Of intimacy.

Of desire.