Home For Christmas

Home for Christmas

Fiona Greene

www.escapepublishing.com.au

What began as an impersonal-but-cheerful holiday gift for a soldier far from home becomes so much more
…

Sergeant Tate McAuliffe, stationed in Afghanistan, opens his Christmas care package from Australia and is stunned by both its contents and the sender. Fun-loving Christmas tree designer Layla Preston is a breath of fresh air for loner Tate. Although they’ve never met, their email friendship quickly develops and their feelings for each other deepen.

But Layla knows the heartache that loving a soldier can bring and when Tate is injured, her deep-seated fear drives them apart. With their relationship in tatters, can Layla and Tate work through their differences, so Layla can welcome Tate home for Christmas?

Fiona Greene loves romance — reading it, and now writing it. Her works range from contemporary stories with strong heroines and even stronger heroes, to journeys across time and space, exploring the infinite possibilities of romance across the universe. Fiona’s motto: What’s not to love about a futuristic military leader with a spacecraft? Unless it’s a sexy farmer driving a ute?

Fiona lives in Brisbane, Australia, with her husband and two incredibly spoilt dogs. You can find her online at
http://www.fionagreene.weebly.com

Thank you to Kate Cuthbert and the Escape Publishing Team for this opportunity.

This book is about the importance of family, so I’d like to acknowledge my other family — my writing family — who provided friendship, support and encouragement during my journey towards publication. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Finally, I’d like to acknowledge the members of the Australian Defence Force serving overseas (past and present) and the families who know the pain of not having their loved ones home for Christmas.

For Jason, who always believed the dream would become a reality
.

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

Multi-National Base Command, Tarin Kowt, Afghanistan

Sergeant Tate McAuliffe slid down in his chair as the Commanding Officer, dressed as Santa, visited each of the soldiers in the mess. The older man stopped in front of Tate and waited for him to look up. ‘Merry Christmas Tate. This one’s for you.
To An Exceptional Aussie Defence Force Member (who loves cricket!)
. Sounds like you. Here you go.’

Tate made no attempt to take the care package. ‘No. I…’

He didn’t get a chance to finish. The CO adjusted Santa’s beer gut, leaned across the table, and stared him down. ‘No nothing, Macca. This is for you. I know you like cricket.’

Tate knew when to call it quits. He’d seen that shade of steel in Santa’s eyes before. He reached for the parcel. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s
Thank you Santa
.’

‘Thank you, Santa,’ Tate parroted back, giving the CO a grin.

‘You’re welcome. Enjoy.’

Tate stared down at the festive Australia Post package. The address line was designed to capture the attention and the rest of the address panel was just as unusual. The unfamiliar handwriting was green. He tipped the box and peered a little closer. Every letter was a tiny Christmas tree with hand-drawn decorations. Off to one side, cricket stumps festooned in a gold garland were inked in, and on the other side a towering gum spread its branches in a shady canopy.

Oh, man
.

He put the box down as if it were a bomb, and backed up. This sender had gone to a lot of trouble. If he opened his parcel, he wasn’t going to find the standard tinned tuna and lollies of previous years. He brushed at the bead of sweat that trickled down from his hairline, searching for a way out.

‘McAuliffe.’ The CO’s bellow reached him from across the mess.

‘Yes, Santa.’

‘Open the present, McAuliffe.’ The CO rang Santa’s bell. ‘Santa’s orders.’

‘Yes, Santa.’ He glanced around the mess. Stevo and Doug, his two mates, had organised to Skype their families and had disappeared from the unit get-together almost before it started. They’d be back for lunch, but until then, he was pretty much on his own.

Just him and the box.

Tate hefted it with one hand, feeling the weight, then lowered it onto a table worn from the trays of thousands of men over the last few years. Scratches marred its surface and he traced a deep gouge with his fingertip, trying to decide which was better, no Christmas gift or a bad Christmas gift? He shuddered. As a kid he’d had both, and this parcel was starting to bring back memories he’d thought were long buried.

The noise and laughter of the troops crowded in on him. He had to get this over with. Then he’d be able to escape to his bunk, away from the Santa hats, the Christmas T-shirts and corny carols. Return to the sanity of a world filled with khaki. At least for a little while.

A blaze of red and white entered his peripheral vision. ‘McAuliffe, it’s not a Valentine’s Day gift. Just open the bloody thing.’

‘Yes, Santa.’ His gut was churning as he pulled his multi-tool from his pocket and slit the tape around the edge of the carton with the razor-sharp blade. Methodically, he folded the knife and returned it to its case, then the case to his pocket. Santa was still hovering off to his left so he eased the lid up. A strangled groan escaped before he could stop it.

There was more to unwrap. Five smaller presents, all wrapped in camouflage paper and tied with a thin red ribbon, were tucked inside a sea of bubble wrap. Where on earth had they found cammo wrapping?

A postcard, typical of so many Aussie towns, with a strip of white sandy beach, the foreshore dotted with towering bunya pines, and a red brick pub opposite the beach, caught his eye.
Greetings from Gibbs Bay
. He pulled it out and flipped it over.

Hello and Merry Christmas fellow cricket lover
,

I’ve been following Australia’s mission in Afghanistan. I want you to know we’re all thinking of you every day and we know you are doing a truly special job. I salute you. I can’t imagine spending Christmas in such a cold, inhospitable land, away from your family and friends. I know you are working hard to ensure freedom and safety for the Afghan people (for us all). Enjoy this gift, a small token of appreciation for the great work you are doing. I hope you get to see some of the Boxing Day Test. Stay safe
.

Layla Preston

Bonsai Christmas

What on earth was Bonsai Christmas?

Tate eyed the bundles, gnawing at his lower lip. Wasn’t bonsai some sort of miniature garden thing? Surely the detection dogs hadn’t let a live plant come through the screening process?

Only one way to find out. He chose the biggest of the parcels and tore away the wrapping.

A cricket magazine. He flipped through the glossy pages. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He tossed it onto the table and fished out the next package. No real surprise there — a tennis ball, although it was coloured like a cricket ball. He checked what the CO was doing and quickly bounced it on the floor. Nice and springy, exactly how he liked them. It’d be perfect for a quick game of handball after a hard day of patrols.

The next parcel crinkled inside its festive wrapping and his mouth watered in anticipation. Lollies. Seconds later, the wrapping was a shredded mess and he was holding something he’d never seen before — cricket bat lollies. He ripped the packet open and tried one. They tasted a bit like the old-fashioned milk bottle lollies. Not bad.

There were two parcels left. Neither of them looked like a plant, or a seed, but the bonsai thing still had him worried. He tossed another tiny cricket bat into his mouth, savouring the taste, and pulled the bigger one out of the box, tearing at the paper. As the last of the wrap fell to the table, his breath caught in his chest and he nearly choked on his lolly.

World Series Cricket Collector Cards
.

Actual, real WSC cards. From that first season, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Hands shaking, he fanned the cards out. These men were the legends of cricket. The men who’d changed the game forever. He couldn’t be sure without counting them, but this looked like the full set of the ones he’d begged his mother to buy him when he was a boy.

Only she never had.

Almost reverentially, he shuffled through the familiar faces, restacked them and put them on the table.

Then he picked them up again. How could he be touching actual original WSC collector cards? It didn’t seem possible. A lump formed in his throat as he returned them to the box, then pulled the last gift towards him.

The cammo paper fell away to reveal a multi-dimensional fold-out cardboard Christmas tree, with tiny cricket balls as decorations, and a set of stumps drawn on the trunk. A business card fell onto the table.

Bonsai Christmas
—
Miniature live Christmas trees and handmade decorations, custom made for your celebration. Layla Preston (owner)
. He flipped it over and saw a note.

Sorry it’s not a live tree. Hope this brightens your day. Merry Christmas. Layla
.

Tate sat back in his chair and stared at the package’s contents strewn across the table.

‘Everything OK here?’ Santa’s white glove rested on his shoulder.

‘Yes,’ Tate choked out. ‘This,’ he pointed to the stack of cards, ‘is the best gift I’ve ever received. Ever.’

The CO gripped his shoulder briefly. ‘Good to hear.’

Tate picked the collector cards up again and the chaos of the mess disappeared as he fanned through them, stopping every so often to read the statistics of his favourite players. Then he rewrapped them in the biggest piece of the cammo paper and checked his watch. It was still two hours until lunch. If he hung around the common room, surely a computer would come free and he’d be able to send a quick email.

He wanted to thank Layla Preston.

***

Layla poured herself a juice and wandered over to the kitchen window to watch the daily migration of next door’s cows across the slope and into the scrub, the fat black one in the lead, the scrawny brown one bringing up the rear. A smile twisted her lips. You could set your watch by them.

She put her glass down and drew a deep breath, immersing herself in the view. ‘I feel the joy of nature’s beautiful gifts. Big sky. Towering gums. Lush grass.’ She spoke the words aloud, her daily centring so much a part of her now that they usually rolled off the tongue without any conscious thought on her part. ‘There is no place in my life for negative energy.’ Today, though, the words caught in her throat.

The click of nails on the floorboards preceded Whisky’s arrival, his whole rear end alive, his tail a blur of wagging.

‘How on earth do you always know?’ She crouched down and cupped his greying face, scratching the spot behind his ear he loved so much. She’d read about animals having a sixth sense, and Whisky was the closest she’d ever come to experiencing it. No matter how bad things got, his big goofy grin and mile-a-minute tail wag always made her smile.

‘We’d better get busy,’ she told him. ‘We’ll check the emails, do any deliveries and then we’re off to Carise’s.’ Whisky’s tail thumped on the floor. He was pretty easy to please. His idea of Christmas was a trip in the back of the ute, a big meaty bone, and somewhere cool under a tree to sleep. Today he was getting all three.

Layla flipped open her laptop and logged into the Bonsai Christmas email account.