A Tale of Three Christmases Read online

  A feel-good Christmas novella from Australian author Eva Scott.

  Turning her small farm into a B&B seems the perfect way for Lexie to make ends meet after the death of her husband. Not having to face Christmas alone is a bonus. But when attractive businessman Geoff arrives, everything she thought she needed changes. Can strangers from different worlds find lasting love? Or does fate have surprising plans?

  A Tale of Three Christmases

  EVA SCOTT

  www.romance.com.au

  To the ‘real’ Geoff and Lexie

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Eva comes from a family of storytellers and has been writing her own stories since she could hold a pencil. Growing up in a multicultural neighbourhood in Melbourne, Eva developed her wanderlust and a passion for culture and language. She travelled the world, living in Britain before coming home to Australia to study anthropology. Wanderlust got the better of her again, so Eva packed up and headed to Papua New Guinea to live and work where she was completely in her element. Eva’s passion for the Australian country is born of her large extended family, which is spread out across the land. She volunteers at the local primary schools, teaching writing and working with children to incite a love of books and reading. Eva’s books explore relationships, culture, our roles in changing society, love and loss. She loves finding connections with readers over shared experiences.

  Chapter 1

  Christmas 2016

  ‘He’s here.’ Lexie Hamilton clutched her phone to her ear with one hand while parting the lace curtain with the other. ‘What do I do?’ she hissed.

  ‘It’s traditional to say hello. I find it usually works for me.’

  ‘You are no help at all, Bea. I rang you for some sisterly support and this is what I get.’ Lexie watched the black Toyota rental car for signs of life. It had rolled up her driveway moments before and now sat in front of the farmhouse, refusing to disgorge its occupant.

  ‘Wasn’t it my idea to open a bed and breakfast in the first place? Wasn’t it me who encouraged you to step out of your comfort zone and diversify?’ Bea asked.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ Lexie conceded, ‘but you’re not here to make small talk with the guest, or cook for him, or clean up after him and run the farm.’ It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Opening a farm-stay bed and breakfast to supplement her income would keep her so busy she’d have no time to think about how lonely she was.

  ‘Who are you kidding? Those avocados practically grow themselves,’ Bea said. ‘More importantly, is your very first guest good-looking?’

  Lexie held her breath while the car door finally swung open. ‘He’s tall.’

  ‘Good start,’ said Bea. ‘Hair? Hairless? Or hipster?’

  ‘Hair. Can’t tell if he’s a hipster yet … turn around, turn around,’ she muttered. ‘Oh my God!’ She let the curtain fall as she ducked down beneath the windowsill.

  ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’ Bea’s anxiety only added to her own.

  ‘He saw me spying on him.’ Lexie crawled awkwardly over to the couch on one hand, the other gripping her phone. ‘He’s going to think I’m some kind of maniac.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s going to think of you as a curious widow taking a peek at her first house guest. Does he know he’s your first?’

  ‘Bea! You make it sound like high school sex. And no, he doesn’t know he’s my first.’

  ‘Does he know you’re a widow?’

  ‘It didn’t come up during the booking, which, by the way, was made by a woman.’

  ‘Maybe it’s best he doesn’t know. I don’t want him taking advantage of my little sister.’

  ‘God, Bea, this is not some Jane Austen novel. I’m a grown woman running a business and he’s a grown man who needs a little R&R, simple as that.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m hanging up now.’ Lexie could see the outline of her guest’s broad shoulders through the pane of frosted glass next to the front door.

  ‘Call me when you can. Take a photo of him and send it to me …’

  Lexie hung up before Bea could finish. She’d do neither of those things. Bea could wait until he’d left for the details.

  The doorbell rang, its tinny chime echoing through the house. She’d always hated that sound. She needed to get something classy like a brass doorknocker instead of something that sounded like an ice-cream truck on a Sunday afternoon.

  Taking a deep breath, Lexie stood up and shoved her phone in her back pocket, straightened her button-down shirt, and brushed off her jeans. She noticed a stain on her thigh. Goat dribble from this morning’s feed. Too late to change. Her breath turned into a sigh and she steeled herself to open the door.

  What kind of person was on the other side of that door? He could be a weirdo loner, the mass-murdering kind, the kind who books into a bed and breakfast for Christmas.

  She flung open the door with full force.

  Her guest filled the doorframe, blocking out the light. Broad shoulders, kind eyes set in a strong, handsome face. A slightly crooked nose spoke of a possible sporting accident. He looked like the sort who might have played rugby. Her husband, Malcolm, had had that same faintly battered look about him, one she’d always found appealing.

  Lexie blinked, confused by an unsettling sensation in her legs, as if her blood had stopped circulating and her knees might give way. She needed more sleep and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken her vitamins.

  ‘Hello, I’m Lexie,’ she said, recalling Bea’s advice.

  ‘Hello.’ The stranger held out his hand. ‘I’m Geoff.’

  Lexie took his hand reluctantly. Touching him felt like crossing a boundary of some kind. The skin of his hand was smooth and cool, his grip reassuringly firm. He held her hand for a second longer than necessary, and he looked at her as if he remembered her from somewhere but couldn’t place her.

  ‘Come in.’ Lexie broke contact first and stepped aside as he entered, his case bumping over the lintel. Another boundary broken.

  The door closed with finality. This was happening. Small talk, that’s what she needed. What on earth do you say in a situation like this? She racked her brains for distant memories of the few times she and Malcolm had stayed at a B & B. What had they spoken to their host about?

  ‘Ah, how was your trip?’ Might as well start there.

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ He turned with a smile like melted chocolate, sending a blush skipping over her cheeks.

  ‘Shall I show you to your room?’ God, this is so awkward. She had no idea what to do with her hands, or where to look.

  He shrugged. ‘Sounds good.’

  He seemed all easy-going and loose-limbed yet underneath she sensed a kind of raw maleness, unpredictable and compelling. Something woke and stirred inside her in response, something deeply female.

  Hyper aware of her guest, Lexie turned and led him down the hallway to his room. She sensed his eyes on her, probably assessing her, and she wished she’d changed into something cleaner. No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than it annoyed her. He could take her as she came.

  Her defiance didn’t stop the niggling notion that she was somehow betraying Malcolm by letting this man into their home. Not any man, but this particular man.

  Reaching the guest room, she turned quickly to usher him in, spotting what looked like a flicker of guilt cross his face, like a naughty schoolboy caught in the act, his eyes
darting away to a poorly framed rip-off of a Melvin Duffy landscape hanging off-kilter on the wall.

  Had he been checking her out? Why would someone like Geoff, an apparently sophisticated businessman from Sydney, be interested in someone like her—a nearly middle-aged farmer covered in goat dribble and who knew what else? Her hands moved instinctively to her back pockets, checking for evidence of something stuck to her backside.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said as she threw the door to the room open wide, her back firmly against the wall. ‘I hope you like it.’

  He did like it. All of it.

  He shut the door behind his host and dropped his bag on the floor. An odd sense of coming home settled on him.

  The room hadn’t been styled within an inch of its life like every room he’d entered in the past ten years. The quaint touches looked organic, as if Lexie had simply tossed the crochet rug on the bed, and the blue Moorcroft vase was full of daisies because they were the only flowers available in the garden that morning.

  He hoped all that was true.

  Geoff sighed with relief, finally convinced he couldn’t be any further from his city life short of hightailing it to the outback.

  Slipping off his shoes, he lay down on the bed, its brass bedframe squeaking a little in protest. Overhead, a fan turned languidly, hypnotising him with its slow rhythm. His eyelids began to feel heavy. His mind began to wander.

  What would Melissa make of it all? He smiled, thinking of his ex-wife. She’d been the one to suggest he get away for Christmas, to give him some time and space to deal with the news she was pregnant to her new partner with the child they could never have. They’d been divorced a year, yet the news had the power to hurt in ways he hadn’t imagined.

  Melissa would have loved the bed and hated the overhead fan. The view across the farm, row after row of some sort of fruit tree, would have intoxicated her and the buttercup yellow tongue-and-groove walls would have made her nauseous.

  He imagined her inspecting the room, sitting on the corner of the bed. They’d been friends all their life, together since they were fifteen. Geoff knew every nuance, every thought and impression that crossed his wife’s face. Or so he’d thought.

  ‘When I said you should go on holiday I was thinking something more Hayman Island and less shearing shed,’ said imaginary Melissa.

  ‘No sheep here,’ Geoff murmured, his eyes almost closed. ‘They grow something … can’t remember what. Leanne did say.’ He yawned.

  ‘That explains everything.’ Imaginary Melissa crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Leanne booked this place.’

  ‘I told her to book me somewhere far, far away, and she did. Turns out this place is called Far Far Away.’ When he’d first heard the name he’d thought it cheesy. Now he was here, he thought it apt.

  ‘Your personal assistant always did lack imagination.’ Melissa moved to look out the window. ‘What on earth are you going to do here, Geoff?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ He rolled over on one side, suddenly wearier than he could account for. ‘The owner is pretty cute. Great butt …’

  ‘Hopeless,’ said Melissa, a smile in her voice as she began to fade.

  He woke late enough for the orchard to be filled with long shadows, like fingers beckoning him outside. Golden afternoon light filled the room. No sign of the ghost of wives past.

  Geoff swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat, doing nothing but breathing. He did a lot of that lately, since he’d felt the ground shift beneath his feet and everything he knew to be true had slid sideways. At nearly forty, he’d had it all worked out: the career, the happy marriage, the house nestled in the northern beaches of Sydney. Now the certainty had gone, the marriage over, the house empty and mocking.

  He was spending Christmas alone. Still better than rattling around in his architecturally designed home with all the ice-white walls and acres of glass reflecting his misery back at him. At least it was cosy here.

  His stomach rumbled, galvanising him to action.

  The house slumbered quietly in the afternoon sun, the old weatherboards creaking as if exhaling in their sleep. Several doors led off the main hallway, which ran from one end of the house to the other, depositing him on a wide veranda that ran all the way around the house.

  There was no sign of a living soul; a thick silence blanketed everything. Geoff couldn’t remember a time when it was so quiet he could hear his own heartbeat. Accustomed to the constant thrum of city life, the deep tranquillity was almost disturbing.

  White wicker chairs beckoned, a cool breeze wafted lazily across the veranda, encouraging him to take a seat and soak up the view of the lush, green valley stretched out below. The wide wooden floorboards of the Victorian-era Queenslander, smooth beneath his bare feet, seemed to earth him, connect him to this place.

  His stomach growled again, this time with more insistence, reminding him they hadn’t accomplished their original mission—find food.

  Geoff ambled around the veranda, letting it lead him where it may, confident that sooner or later he’d come to a kitchen. Sure enough, as he turned towards the back of the house, he spotted a big picture window, revealing a neat kitchen within.

  Finding his way inside, he discovered a large table made of Tasmanian oak, the kind of table that might have hosted many generations to countless Sunday roasts. An afternoon tea had been laid out on the table, covered with an old-fashioned netting to keep the flies away. Peeling it back revealed freshly baked scones, a pot of still-warm tea and a note instructing him to find the cream and milk in the fridge.

  He sighed with happiness. The last time he’d had a Devonshire-style tea had been with his nan back in 1990-something. He’d been too young to appreciate the utter indulgent delight of a fragrant scone loaded with strawberry jam and far too much cream. After that, Melissa would never let him have them. Bad for his cholesterol.

  Pulling out a chair, he sat down and made himself at home. Geoff selected a scone, breaking it open with his fingers. He took his time, heaping the rich jam on with a spoon, and finishing off with a dollop of cream. Then he sat back and contemplated his creation with deep satisfaction before picking it up to eat.

  Letting his teeth sink into it, savouring the divine texture of the scone with the sweetness of the jam against the velvety cream … He closed his eyes and let it transport him, unaware he had an audience.

  Chapter 2

  Lexie had never seen anyone so enraptured by a scone before in her life. Her guest ate it as if it were manna from heaven, sending a little fission of pleasure through her. She was proud of her scones.

  She watched him for a moment, the way the light through the kitchen window traced the strong lines of his face, dark hair tangled and untidy, the way his shirt clung to his body, hinting at the possibility of sculpted muscles underneath.

  His hands bore no marks or scars, unlike her own. His face lacked lines left by the wind and sun. He belonged to the city, a rarefied creature. Unlike herself.

  She banged the kitchen door as if just entering the room. He looked up, startled with that guilty look on his face again.

  ‘Glad to see you found your afternoon tea,’ she said, employing her cheeriest tone and biggest smile. She dropped a bowl full of freshly harvested lettuce in the sink to wash.

  ‘These are the most delicious scones I’ve eaten in decades. Seriously,’ he said, swallowing the last of them and licking the cream off his fingers. Lexie turned away, a blush stealing over her cheeks for reasons she didn’t care to identify.

  ‘I’m glad you like them,’ she murmured as she turned her full attention to the lettuce.

  ‘What exactly do you grow here?’ She heard the kitchen chair groan as he leaned back.

  ‘Avocados,’ she replied, refusing to look at him. Every time she did she got a kind of vertigo. If she didn’t look at him, she didn’t get dizzy and therefore didn’t need to go looking for a reason as to why it was happening in the first place. Whoever said ignorance is bliss was
right on the money.

  ‘Wow! A good living in avocados?’

  That made her turn and look at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘Money isn’t everything.’

  ‘Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that it was.’ He scrambled to regain his balance.

  Lexie took pity on him. ‘We do okay.’ She finished running the lettuce under the tap, gave it a good shake and left the leaves to dry on the sideboard.

  ‘We?’

  When would she get used to the idea that there was no ‘we’ anymore?

  ‘My husband and I bought this farm about ten years ago.’ Might as well get it over and done with. He wouldn’t be the only guest to be curious about how things worked around here. She’d have to get used to telling the story no matter how much it hurt. ‘My husband passed away eighteen months ago. From cancer,’ she said as she saw his mouth open to ask the inevitable.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said.

  Lexie shrugged off his pity. ‘Life can be cruel.’ Profoundly cruel.

  ‘And you decided to carry on alone.’ It wasn’t a question as much as a statement, as if he’d expect nothing less from her, though he didn’t know her at all.

  ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’ She surprised herself with her frankness. The thought of leaving the farm and taking up a new life somewhere else simply hadn’t occurred to her. What would she do and where would she go?

  He took a sip of tea, the cup looking too small for his large hands. ‘Have you always lived on the land?’

  She laughed and shook her head. ‘No, I was born and raised in Brisbane. My family are still there. I met Malcolm, my husband, at university. He was studying agricultural science and I was studying English literature, of all things.’ Life before Malcolm seemed like a story she’d heard somewhere rather than one that belonged to her.

  ‘What were you planning to do with that degree?’

  ‘You know, I don’t know.’ His question surprised her. She’d fallen in love with Malcom and moved to the country to be with him. It had all happened so fast she’d never had time to consider what an alternative future might have looked like.