Will we let it? Will we let it, my love?’
‘Yes, please,’ Julie whispered, and then she, too, made her vows.
And Mr McDowell married Mrs McDowell—again—and the thing was done.
* * *
Christmas morning.
Julie woke early and listened to the sounds of the surf just below the house. She loved this time of day. Once upon a time she’d listened to galahs and cockatoos in the bush around their house. Now she listened to the sounds of the waves and the sandpipers and oystercatchers calling to each other as they hunted on the shore of a receding tide.
Only that wasn’t right, she told herself. She’d never lain in bed and listened to the sounds of birds in the bush. She’d been too busy working. Too busy with her dot-points.
But now... They’d slowed, almost to a crawl. Her dot-points had grown fewer and fewer. Rob worked from home, his gorgeous house plans sprawled over his massive study at the rear of the house. Julie commuted to Sydney twice a week, and she, too, worked the rest of the time at home.
But they didn’t work so much that they couldn’t lie in bed and listen to the surf. And love each other. And start again.
She’d stop commuting soon, she thought in satisfaction. She could maybe still accept a little contract work, as long as it didn’t mess with her life. With her love.
With her loves?
And, unbidden, her hand crept to her tummy, where her secret lay.
She couldn’t wait a moment longer. She rolled over and kissed her husband, tenderly but firmly.
‘Wake up,’ she told him. ‘It’s Christmas.’
‘So it is.’ He woke with laughter, reaching for her, holding her, kissing her. ‘Happy Christmas, wife.’
‘Happy Christmas, husband.’
‘I have the best Christmas gift for you,’ he said, pushing himself up so he was smiling down at her with all the tenderness in the world. ‘I bet you can’t guess what it is.’
She choked on laughter. Last night he’d driven home late and on the roof rack of his car was a luridly wrapped Christmas present, complete with a huge Christmas bow. It was magnificently wrapped but all the wrapping in the world couldn’t disguise the fact that it was a surfboard.
‘I have no idea,’ she lied. ‘I can’t wait.’
They’d come so far, she thought, as Rob gathered her into his arms. This year would be so different from the past. All their assorted family was coming for lunch, as were Amina and Henry and their children. For family came in all sorts of assorted sizes and shapes. It changed. Tragedies happened but so did joys. Christmas was full of memories, and each memory was to be treasured, used to shape the future with love and with hope and memories to come.
And dot-points, she thought suddenly. There were—what?—twenty people due for lunch. Loving aside, smugness aside, she had to get organised. Dot-point number one. Stuff the turkey.
But Rob was holding her—and she had her gift for him.
So: soon, she told her dot-point, and proceeded to indulge her husband. And herself.
‘Do you want your present now?’ she asked as they finally resurfaced, though she couldn’t get her mind to be practical quite yet.
‘I have everything I need right here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘What more could a man want?’
She smiled. She smiled and she smiled. She’d been holding this secret for almost two weeks and it had almost killed her not to tell him, but now... She tugged away from his arms, then kissed him on the nose and settled on her back. And tugged his hand to her naked tummy.
She could scarcely feel it herself. Could he...? Would he...?
But he got it in one. She saw his eyes widen in shock. He was clever, her husband. He was loving and tender and wise. He was a terrible handyman—her kitchen shelves were a disaster and she was hoping her dad might stay on long enough to fix them—but a woman couldn’t have everything.
Actually, she did. She did have everything. Her husband was looking down at her with awe and tenderness and love.
‘Really?’ he whispered.
‘Really.’
And she saw him melt, just like that. A blaze of joy that took her breath away.
Joy... They had so much, and this baby was more. For it was true what they said: love doesn’t die. The memories of Christopher and Aiden would stay with them for ever—tender, joyous, always mourned but an intrinsic part of her family. Their family. Hers and Rob’s.
‘Happy Christmas, Daddy,’ she murmured and she kissed him long and hard. ‘Happy Christmas, my love.’
‘Do you suppose it might be twins again?’ he breathed, awed beyond belief, and she smiled and smiled.
‘Who knows? Whoever it is, we’ll love them for ever. Like I love you. Now, are you going to make love to me again or are you going to let me go? I hate to mention it but I have all these dot-points to attend to.’
‘But here is your number one dot-point,’ he said smugly, and gathered her into his arms yet again. ‘The turkey can wait. Christmas can wait. Number one is us.’
* * * * *
Cara Colter
To my daughter, Cassidy:
Love you forever
TY Halliday was beyond exhaustion. The driving mix of sleet and snow had soaked through his oilskin slicker hours ago. Icy water was sluicing off the back of his hat’s brim, inside his upturned collar and straight down his spine.
The horse stumbled, as exhausted as his rider, dark setting in too fast.
But beneath all the discomfort, Ty allowed himself satisfaction. He’d found the entire herd. The three cows that shuffled along in front of him were the last of them.
It had been sixteen hours, roughly, since he’d found the broken fence, the cougar tracks. He counted himself lucky most of the herd had petered out and allowed themselves to be herded home, long before these three.
Tracks in fresh snow told the story of the herd splitting in a dozen different directions, the cougar locking in on these three, finally giving up and prowling away down Halliday Creek. These
