After Christmas, he told himself, starting the eight ear scratch again. After Christmas he’d get those barricades up again, but with Sarah . . . With Sarah, those barricades had to go up now.
Chapter Six
‡
Christmas Eve.
Even though he’d gone to bed late—really late—Max was up early, taking feed supplements to the cattle, clearing his head. When he got back, the house was stirring. Doug had the kids out on the veranda. They were sharing toast with the dogs.
The kids informed him Sarah was the toast maker so he went to find out.
She was wearing jeans and an oversized shirt. She had two tea towels knotted together and tied round her waist. She’d tied her hair up in some sort of bun, not very successfully. Wisps were wafting everywhere.
Gerome and Bing were sitting by the firestove in Bing’s basket, watching her every move. She had a pile of toast sitting in the oven and was making more.
She looked . . . happy.
She looked beautiful.
She looked up from the stove as he entered and she beamed. All the tensions of the night before had clearly been put aside.
“I got the fire lit. So cool—you have a stove with knobs on for recipes and the firestove for toast. I hope you didn’t mind me lighting it. Toast made this way tastes better than anything.”
He did. He remembered the first time he’d seen this farm. He’d arrived early-ish and Harold had invited him in for tea and toast. Max had seen the beach, seen the land, seen the cattle soaking up the sun on the undulating paddocks and by the time Harold had made toast, using the toasting fork before the open door of the firestove, Harold could have named his asking price.
And now . . . Sarah was sitting before the fire, toasting her toast, and he thought yep, she could name her price, he was buying.
Except he was sensible, and he’d made life decisions and . . . and . . .
And Sarah was pushing her chair sideways and tugging another up to join hers and a man was only human . . .
“Isn’t that a pile already made?” he demanded, looking at the open oven door where a plate was laden.
“Yeah, I can’t resist cooking. There’s heaps of bread, and I’ll buy more in town. It’s more fun to make your own.”
It was. He sat and cooked his toast, and Sarah got up and made two mugs of steaming tea and he sat feeling like Ma and Pa Kettle only Sarah didn’t look like any version of Ma Kettle he’d ever seen.
“I took some up to Katie,” she told him. “She’s having a lie in. Did you know this last pregnancy was a mistake? Three’s enough, they decided, but this little one snuck up when they weren’t looking. But this is it, Doug’s in for the chop.”
“She told you that?” How? The thought of asking such questions of his sister horrified him. Though he’d worried . . . Four kids would be straining their limited income—and energy—and he’d had visions of his mother . . .
*
“She’s not like your Mum,” Sarah said, as if she could read his mind. “She’s lovely. Maternal, but not dumb. But oh, this pregnancy’s got to her, and she and Doug hate the city so much. I’m determined she’ll have a rest for the next few days. Now I’ve been making a list.”
She reached back to the table for her laptop. “I’ve found this awesome website. It has recipes even I can make. Look, doesn’t it look fabulous?” She pointed to a picture of a laden Christmas table, groaning with every conceivable Christmas food. “The recipes are all here. I just need ingredients. I’ll do a shop before I pick Harold up.”
He looked, dubiously. “It seems a lot of work.”
“It’s just recipes. How hard can that be?” She raised her toasting fork and grinned. “So far I’ve conquered toast and mince pies and spaghetti. Is there no end to my talents?”
He wouldn’t know. She took his breath away.
She was so darn close. He finished his toast, rose and headed to the far side of the table to butter it. Trying to collect himself. “You’ll need help bringing Harold home.”
“I can manage.”
“And if he falls?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t mind,” he told her. She looked crestfallen that she had to agree to his assistance.
“Okay.” She compressed her lips. “But I’ll go in now and do the shopping. You meet me later at the hospital. It might be easier getting him into your higher truck.”
“They’ll lend us a wheelchair. That’ll make things easier.”
“Really? How do you . . . ”
“I phoned earlier, just to check he was still okay to come.”
“He’s okay?”
“Just.” He hesitated. “He’s dying, Sarah.” There was no way he should sugar coat the truth.
“But not today.” She said it evenly, determinedly, and he knew that underneath the light xterior she knew what she was facing. “I can do this,” she said and her words were like steel.
“We can do this.”
“You really want to help?”
“Yes,” he said, and poured himself another mug of tea. “I’m not sure how he’ll go out of hospital. I couldn’t stop you promising it, though, so the thing’s done. And now it’s done . . . let’s make the best of it.”
“Together?”
“For better or worse, you’ve committed us. We’re in this together.”
*
She drove into town feeling guilty. And sad. And sort of . . . disoriented. Gerome lay on the seat beside her. She’d booked him a vet-check first thing. Not that there seemed anything wrong with him, but she needed to be sure, and besides, she also needed to figure out inoculations or whatever for taking the little guy home.
Home. New York?
Not home.
“But home’s not here, either,” she told Gerome. They were driving along the beachfront. Where else in the world did you get such lush grazing land right on the sea? Waratah was stunning.
Waratah Bay Homestead was stunning.
Max Ramsey was stunning?
“And that’s what I don’t need to think,” she told Gerome. “He makes me so discombobulated I can’t think straight, and for the next two days there are no deviations allowed.”
Right. So if her mind kept wandering . . .
She wouldn’t let it. Gerome. Shopping. Harold.
Christmas.
That was her course and she needed to stick to it. She had to stick with it.
And she wasn’t allowed to think of Max Ramsey.
And one magic kiss . . .
*
His timing was perfect. Max pulled into the hospital car park and Sarah was parking just ahead of him. Wow, he thought, thinking of his sisters and how their time for shopping always expanded.
“Well done,” he said, as he climbed out of his truck and she raised one beautifully groomed eyebrow.
“What do you mean, well done?”
“You said eleven. I didn’t think you meant eleven.’
“I told Harold eleven,” she retorted, heading for the hospital entrance with speed—like thirty seconds too late was far too late to be acceptable.
He fell in beside her, bemused. “How did the vet visit go?”
“Good. He’s severely malnourished but we knew that, and his leg is scraped from the fall but there’s nothing else wrong. He’s now had his baby injections and the vet’s given me online forms to fill in. He’s been terrific really, telling me how to get round some of the bureaucracy to get him home. He’s snoozing now. I’ve left the window open and the car’s in the shade. He should be fine as long as no one steals him.”
“No one will steal him.”
She stopped and glared. “Max Ramsey, are you saying my puppy isn’t adorable?”
He couldn’t. For the life of him he couldn’t. Puppy and mistress . . . “You really are taking him home?” he managed.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Okay, he’s adorable, but are you serious?’
�
�I don’t say what I don’t mean, and your adorable was trite. An empty compliment. I know insincerity when I hear it. It’s just as well he has me to love him.”
And what was there in that statement to make a guy’s heart kick in his chest? Nothing, he told himself as they headed for Harold’s ward. Nothing, nothing and nothing.
But still . . .
“Did you get your shopping done?” he asked weakly and she grinned.
“Every single thing, including the very last turkey in Waratah. You should see him—what a monster. Gerome’s guarding him as we speak.” She pushed open the ward door and stopped.
Harold was out of bed. He was perched on the visitor’s chair. He still had the oxygen cannula fitted, but that was the only sign that something was wrong. He was nattily dressed in his sports coat and good pants—had he persuaded someone to go to his house and collect them? He was beaming, and when he saw them his beam widened to practically split his face.
“You came.” And there was all the satisfaction in the world in that statement. “Both of you.”
“We’re taking the wheelchair in case you want to do a boundary check of the property or go to the beach,” Sarah said, heading to hug him. “And we have a surprise for you. We’re going to the big house rather than yours. We hope you agree. And can you cope with a bit of company?”
“Well . . . ” And to Max’s astonishment, when Sarah pulled away to let him greet his neighbor, the old man was looking a bit abashed. “I might have already organized that,” he said, sheepishly.
“You’ve what?” The change in Harold was extraordinary. Max hadn’t seen him so lit up . . . ever.
“Bert Harvey and Pete Duggan came in to see me last night,” Harold said. “Bert’s Martha died last month and Pete’s daughter’s gone overseas. They were both going to the pub for Christmas and you know the pub food. So I said . . . I hope you don’t mind, Sarah, love, but I said my Sarah’s putting on Christmas at my place and two more can hardly hurt. Can it, love?” And he was pleading. Pleading!
Max turned to watch Sarah’s face. This Christmas was getting out of hand—but she showed not the slightest sign of perturbation.
“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s . . .Ten!”
“Ten?” Harold was puzzled.
“That’s our surprise, or part of it. Max has invited you—us—to stay at the homestead for Christmas. You can have your old bedroom. I’m in the little room you let me have. It’s awesome, Harold. Just gorgeous. Only Max’s sister and her husband and her kids are there, too, and Katie’s really, really pregnant, and we have six dogs there now, your two, Katie’s two, Max’s Bing and my new puppy. But you should see my turkey—I think he’s vaguely related to triceratops or whatever those huge birds were that used to cover more sky than a parachute. Only, he’s fatter. And I’ve found this terrific web site that tells me how to make a last minute pudding and if I double the recipe . . . Well, I’ve bought enough ingredients to feed a small army. All I need to do if your mates are coming is stop and buy another box of bonbons and party hats because I only have eight.”
“We can do without bonbons and party hats,” Harold said faintly. “My word . . . Max . . . ”
“No bonbons and party hats?” Sarah was incredulous. “Are you out of your mind? This Christmas is going to be the best Christmas of our lives. What do you say, Harold? Do you want to go home for Christmas?”
And the old man’s eyes filled with tears.
“Yes, please,” he muttered and then groped blindly in his pocket for a handkerchief – another real one, what was it with this place? He blew his nose fiercely and then started struggling to his feet. “Yes, please.”
*
Max drove Harold home in his truck. It was higher, easier for Harold to get in and out of and the oxygen cylinder fitted at his feet. Sarah followed behind in her little hire car.
Harold beamed all the way, and kept glancing at the rear view mirror to check on Sarah.
“She’s following,” Max confirmed. “You needn’t worry. She’s like a dog with a bone—no one’s getting in the way of this Christmas.”
“She’s a great kid,” Harold wheezed, but he was obviously pushing through his breathing issues to talk of what was important. And then, suddenly he looked like he’d had a brainwave. He swiveled so he was watching Max. Intently. “Isn’t she a great kid?”
“She’s doing the right thing by Christmas,” he conceded.
“She always does the right thing.”
“You mean she wrote to you.”
“She did what she could. She’s been dealt a rotten hand with that family of hers.”
It was the first time Max had ever heard Harold overtly criticize his wife or his step-daughters. He glanced at Harold and thought maybe he could probe more.
But then they rounded the side of the hill on the far side of town. Before them was Pacific Ocean, a vast sweep of sparking sapphire stretching all the way to Hawaii. And below them was Waratah Bay.
“Home,” Harold breathed. “I never thought I’d see it again. Thank you, boy. You and Sarah . . . I’ll be grateful to you as long as I live.”
Which won’t be much longer, Max thought grimly as the old man stared mistily out to sea and wheezed and struggled to fill his lungs with air.
He’d very much like to ask about Sarah’s family, but Harold’s breath was important, and it was rationed. After the effort of getting into the truck, even that tiny amount of speaking had exhausted him.
Breathing was for the really important things, Max thought.
Breathing was for Christmas.
*
She’d done it. She was taking him home.
Sarah followed the truck and she had to hang back further than normal because she was feeling a bit blurry again and she didn’t have one of those gorgeous handkerchiefs.
All these years . . . all these hopes . . .
She’d come so late. She was hating herself that she hadn’t come until now, but it hadn’t been possible. At least she had now.
She had Max and Max’s gorgeous homestead, so Harold was truly going home. And, she had the world’s biggest turkey. She swiveled and to check the huge parcel on the backseat of her car.
“I’ve got a turkey,” she told Gerome. “And a puppy and I’ve got Harold for Christmas and . . . ”
And Max? He was right in there, but she wasn’t sure where to place him. He kept kind of drifting through her thoughts . . .
That kiss . . .
“It was just a kiss,” she told Gerome, but Gerome had gone to sleep and was no longer listening.
And Sarah wasn’t all that sure she was listening either. Just a kiss? What sort of fib was that?
*
Max pulled up by the veranda and helped Harold out. The old guy was so weak. It’d be easier if he could pick him up and carry him up the steps, but there was Harold’s pride to consider. He stood by his side, carried the oxygen canister and gripped Harold’s elbow while Harold gripped the veranda rail for dear life and slowly dragged himself up the steps.
Sarah stood behind them, ready to spring into action, watchful but letting them be.
She understood what the old man needed, Max thought, and not for the first time he wondered what her story was. How did she get to be so empathetic? He needed to pump Harold, but Harold was in no mood or in no state to be pumped.
He reached the top step and turned to gaze out over the farmland to the sea beyond. Someone inside—Doug?—had obviously been watching and as soon as the old man’s hands were safely on the rail, as soon as he was steady, the screen door swung wide and the dogs were released.
Harold’s dogs went nuts—there was no other word for it. They were usually beautifully behaved dogs, they didn’t jump up or bark—but now they almost turned themselves inside out with joy.
Harold bent to pat them and then, because it was easier, he sat down hard on the veranda boards and hugged the pair of them—and then Bing joined in and Katie’s two decided this w
as fun and Harold was under five dogs and if Sarah put Gerome down it would have been six.
But Sarah wasn’t putting Gerome down. Max glanced back at her and saw she was hugging her puppy for dear life and tears were coursing unchecked down her face. So much for never crying, he thought, but in fairness he admitted he was pretty close to it himself.
“Welcome home, Harold,” she whispered. “Oh, Harold, Merry Christmas.”
She was just . . . beautiful. Standing in the morning sun, gazing down in awe at her adoptive father, her eyes brimming with tears, he thought he’d never seen such a woman. He wanted . . . he wanted . . .
To what? Take her into his arms? Make some sort of public declaration? This woman was from the same family that had destroyed Harold’s life. And besides, how long had he known her? Two days? And in that time she’d turned his well-ordered life upside down.
He liked his well-ordered life. He’d had enough chaos to last a lifetime.
Sarah could smile or cry all she liked, he thought. He wasn’t moved.
Liar.
“I’ll show you to your bedroom,” he said, dragging his attention back to Harold, but to his astonishment Harold was pulling himself up on the veranda rail, standing erect, proud, and suddenly fiercely independent.
“I’ll show myself to my bedroom, young man,” he said, and then he eyed his oxygen canister with dislike. Wherever he went, he needed this.
“I’ll cart if for you,” Sarah said cheerfully, swiping her tears away with fierce determination. “I don’t know what’s got into me – I must have hayfever. No matter, you lead the way. Let’s go, Harold. A wee nap, maybe, and then, Christmas proper gets under way.”
Chapter Seven
‡
The turkey was big. The turkey was very big.
The turkey was frozen.
Christmas Eve had been very satisfactory, Sarah conceded, as she stood in the pantry at midnight and looked at her bird. It had been very satisfactory indeed. Harold had walked into his old bedroom which seemed to be pretty much how he remembered it—thanks maybe to Max who’d done a fast trip to Harold’s cottage early this morning and brought back the old man’s bedcover, pillows and favourite chair.
Christmas at Waratah Bay Page 7
