Christmas at Waratah Bay

by Marion Lennox

  He’d had his nap but he’d emerged for lunch. Sarah has brought back a heap of deli goods from town—loaves of fresh bread and everything she could get her hands on that went with them.

  Plus there’d been mince pies. She was pretty happy with her mince pies.

  Her website was doing her proud.

  After lunch, Max had put Harold in the truck and taken him for a gentle tour of the farm. The dogs—all five of them—only Gerome had stayed behind—had sat in the tray. Harold had come home looking at peace with the world.

  Doug had gone into town and brought back fish and chips for dinner. Masses of fish and chips, for which Sarah was exceedingly grateful.

  Meals. She had her website full of advice. She had her ingredients, but tomorrow was going to be a challenge.

  She’d sort of hoped Katie might help a little, at least giving her advice, but Katie had backache and had grown increasingly quiet as the day went on. Doug had taken over the kids, plus he’d provided fish and chips. Max was caring for Harold, plus he had his cattle to tend.

  It was up to Sarah to do the Christmas cooking.

  She could do this. She had it almost sorted.

  Almost.

  The turkey had been the last one in Waratah. It was truly enormous. She’d been very pleased with herself when she’d bought it, but now doubts were creeping in.

  She’d brought it home and popped it into the pantry to defrost. She’d just made an excellent stuffing, her last job before going to bed. The stockings were hung, the kids were asleep, Harold seemed peaceful and content—the whole house was settled. She thought she’d just admire her defrosting turkey one more time before she went to bed herself.

  But . . . problem. It didn’t seem to be defrosting. It sat, vast and white and imposing, taking up the whole pantry bench.

  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.

  Of the need to hold this woman as he’d never held another?

  To hold her with love?

  Love . . . There was an alien concept. Or not. His life had been full of . . .love. “Max, love your baby sister. Max, if you loved me you’d keep these kids out of my hair. Max, it’s up to you to love them, your mother can’t . . . ”

  He’d had relationships before this. Of course, he had. They’d been fun, superficial links where he’d spelled out the boundaries from the start.

  But there were no boundaries here. He was kissing her and she was kissing him back. She was holding his face in her gentle—if cold—hands. She was returning his kisses with a fierceness that matched his own.

  Their needs matched. Their desire matched.

  He wanted her. He wanted to be close, close, closer, and if it weren’t for this dammed turkey, and if they hadn’t been in the house’s communal bathroom and this house hadn’t been full of kids and Harold and his sister and her husband . . .

  If it weren’t for all those things . . . But all those things were there and they should make him pull away.

  They didn’t. He held and he kissed, and her body spooned against his. Their clothes were their only barrier—and heaven help him if they hadn’t been there. If he could feel her naked skin . . . how could a man stop then? He couldn’t.

  He couldn’t go further and yet, in some strange way, it was enough. The warmth her body exuded . . . The sweetness of her mouth . . . The way her arms held him, fierce, possessive, loving . . . Things were shifting inside him, changing, settling into a new order.

  He held her and he thought she was the most beautiful . . . the most precious . . .

  “Um . . .Max . . . ”

  “Mmm?” It was all he could do to get a sound out.

  “The turkey.”

  “Bigfoot can take care of himself,” he said, in a voice he scarcely recognized. “For now . . . For now, one turkey has to take a backseat to you.”

  *

  She’d come all the way to Australia to see Harold before he died.

  She hadn’t come here to fall in love with Max Ramsey.

  This was complication upon complication. Falling in love with a puppy was going to tie her life in knots. Falling in love with Max was impossible.

  How could she be melting into this man’s arms and thinking this was where she wanted to be for the rest of her life.

  She couldn’t be. She had to be back in New York by New Year.

  But . . . Don’t think forward. Max wasn’t thinking forward. He was plundering her mouth. He was making her melt and he was s
urely only thinking of right here, right now.

  Right here, right now was surely all that could matter. Oh, but he made her feel . . .

  And that was the trouble. He made her feel like she’d never felt before in her life. Like he was the other half of her whole.

  Like she’d found her home.

  She couldn’t stop. She was kissing and being kissed. She was falling deeper and deeper and deeper . . .

  Manhattan. New York. In less than a week she had to be on that plane. Do not let yourself . . .

  How could she not? The strength, the heat, the gentleness, the pure, arrant masculinity . . .

  The way he’d cradled her puppy. The way he’d cared for Harold.

  The way his family loved him.

  Max . . .

  Impossible, impossible, impossible, but he was kissing her still and in that kiss, anything was possible. Anything at all.

  For this moment, nothing else could matter. For this moment, the turkey wallowed beside them and neither of them cared.

  For this moment, Christmas was on the backburner. For now, everything was on the backburner.

  There was only now. There was only each other.

  “Uncle Max? Uncle Max?”

  Yeah, okay, other things did matter. Somehow, they broke apart as five-year-old Vicki knocked—and entered. They were at least three inches apart by the time she saw them.

  “Wow!” She stared at them in wide-eyed astonishment. Luckily, the bird was more astonishing than they were. “What’s that?”

  “The turkey,” Max managed. He’d drawn back from Sarah, but he was still loosely holding.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re defrosting it for Christmas dinner,” Sarah added.

  “Has Santa come yet?”

  “No, and we’ve been looking all the time,” Max told her. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  “I heard noises. I thought Santa might be in the bathroom.”

  “He’ll be waiting until everyone’s asleep.”

  “Then you ought to go to sleep,” Vicki said severely. “You’re keeping him away.”

  “Right,” Max said, hugging Sarah closer. “But you go first.”

  “Stop making noises.”

  “We will.”

  “Okay.” She glared at them. “I don’t want Santa not coming because you’re cuddling Sarah.”