by Jennie Jones
12 Days at Silver Bells House
Jennie Jones
www.escapepublishing.com.au
12 Days at Silver Bells House
Jennie Jones
From the author of the internationally bestselling The House on Burra Burra Lane comes a Christmas story — country style.
Kate Singleton has twelve days to find herself. With Christmas Day and her thirtieth birthday approaching, the best thing a city-chic fashion designer who no longer has a raison d’etre can do is nullify herself in the country. With Chardonnay.
When trouble strikes, the country presents her with Jamie Knight — a gallant but uncommunicative He-Man who drives an excavator and arrives to rescue Kate, her shoes and her case of Chardonnay from a boggy field.
The adventure should be over — nothing but a good story to tell to her friends in the city — but her saviour turns out to also be an unexpected roommate, the new owner of Silver Bells House, Kate’s holiday home.
Forced together and dragged into the community Christmas spirit of the town, Kate and Jamie flounder their way through mistletoe, kissing games, carolling choirs, and a bone-deep yearning for community and acceptance.
Can the enchanting Silver Bells House and the holidays bind them together? Or will love get lost on Highway B23 back to the city?
About the Author
Born and brought up in Wales, Jennie Jones loved anything with a romantic element from an early age. At eighteen, she went to drama school in London then spent a number of years performing in British theatres, becoming someone else two hours, eight performances a week.
Jennie wrote her first romance story at the age of twenty-five while ‘resting’ (a theatrical term for ‘out of work’). She wrote a western! But nobody wanted it. Before she got discouraged a musical theatre job came up and Jennie put writing to one side.
She now lives in Western Australia, a five minute walk to the beach that she loves to look at but hardly ever goes to — too much sand.
Jennie returned to writing four years ago. She says writing keeps her artistic nature dancing and her imagination bubbling. Like acting, she can’t envisage a day when it will ever get boring.
12 Days at Silver Bells House is the second book in Jennie’s Swallow’s Fall series, following The House on Burra Burra Lane. The third book in the series, The House at the Bottom of the Hill, will be released in January 2015.
Acknowledgements
The story 12 Days at Silver Bells House wasn’t on the cards and I hadn’t even thought of writing it until I was asked if I could conjure up a story that would not only fit in with the Swallow’s Fall series, but also have a country Christmas feel.
Turned out I had a ball writing this story. So thank you Kate Cuthbert, Managing Editor at Escape Publishing. Thanks also (and again) to my wonderful, wise and witty writing colleagues who read everything I write and help it shine. Lily and Juanita, next time we’re together, there will be wine (again).
A huge, heartfelt thank you to all my readers who loved The House on Burra Burra Lane. Its success means so much to me. I hope you enjoy reading this Swallow’s Fall story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
For everyone who loves Chardonnay, shooting stars and the country.
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…
Chapter 1
Katherine Angelica Singleton tapped her fingers on the steering wheel of her hire car and threw all thoughts of murder onto the New South Wales Monaro Highway behind her.
Losing her life plan just as she was about to turn thirty hadn’t been on her spreadsheet. Now there was a hard choice to be made. But Kate wasn’t referred to as Snappy Singleton for her dress sense alone. Kate had brains and she’d decided to push them to the limit, albeit at a time when she hadn’t expected to explore the spontaneous side of her nature.
The thought of why she was in this predicament caused gushes of steaming fury to rise to the surface of her skin.
Five days ago she’d been drawn to New York for a fashion shoot that would have seen her young Australian designers flourish in the way she wanted them to, in a manner that had been wearing her heels down for the last decade. By groundwork and gumption.
A measly one hundred and twenty hours away from home soil — and what happens? Her world tumbles into something she’s never faced before: Mayhem. Folly. Madness.
This morning she’d stepped off the plane from New York in hometown Sydney and made her first rash decision ever. She caught the next flight to the political hub of Canberra, booked a hire car and drove into the Snowy Mountains.
This December, she was going without Christmas.
Stuff the turkey. She’d ding-dong merrily on her own. With Chardonnay.
She breathed deeply and attempted to blow her worries out and away; gathering enlightenment and insight with her next intake of breath with all her Zen might. If she hadn’t been driving which necessitated staying focussed — as in eyes open — she’d have got into the Lotus position.
She sighed. Twelve days of freedom; no tinsel. Four hundred and fifty kilometres south of society and Singleton’s Sassy Sensations fashion house; no parties, no fake smile, no juggling canapés on cocktail sticks.
While shepherds watched their flocks by night, Kate would be cozied up in a stone cottage all by herself in the Snowy Mountains, courtesy of a last-ditch wish on a shooting star in New York and a surprising suggestion from her best friend, Sammy.
She glanced at her pale arms, her pale slim fingers topped with dusky-rose nail polish, and made another rash decision. She’d get a tan. Stuff having to slather herself in 30+ sunscreen and take Vitamin D supplements to compensate for the lack of ultraviolet radiation. This was Australia where sunshine abounded. Even smallest, remotest Swallow’s Fall township had sunshine.
She smiled in satisfaction and licked her top lip, tasting her dusky-rose lipstick.
How about another rash decision? She frowned behind her polarised oval-framed sunglasses. She didn’t make impetuous decisions, it was difficult pulling one from nowhere. She slapped her hand on the wheel. ‘No dieting.’ Dump the eternal calorie counting. Her days would be filled with endless summer walks and her evenings spent with Chardonnay and pretzels — the full fat, don’t-hold-back-on-the-salt variety.
She pressed the window button and stuck her arm out into the country air which rushed over her skin with more heat than she’d reckoned on. This was the Snowy Mountains for God’s sake. It was supposed to be a little chilly even in summer.
She closed the window and concentrated on Highway B23 spreading before her.
Look out country, here comes Kate.
Kate brought the car out of cruise-control and slowed to make a right turn into All Seasons Road. She’d purposefully missed the town’s turn off at Main Street ten kilometres back. No need to head into the little town until tomorrow morning. The only thing she didn’t have was food, but she’d gone without food most of her adult life, what would one night without pretzels matter? And anyway, she wasn’t ready to face any holiday cheer that might be going on in town. They probably already had a big fat fir tree in place outside the pioneer cemetery, with plump carol singers standing around its base, handing out home-made mince pies while going off-key with a rendition of �
��Deck the Halls’.
The last thing Kate wanted was optimism of the Christmas variety. Which is why Silver Bells House would be her safety-net. ‘Key’s probably under the door mat,’ Sammy had said. ‘Or someone will be there to let you in.’ The lack of administrative orderliness about the what’s and how’s of this away-from-it-all holiday worried Kate but she’d grown accustomed to weekly reports about rural life from Sammy, and had herself witnessed the quaint curiosity of the people of Swallow’s Fall when she’d visited to attend Sammy’s wedding. Over a year ago now. Her friend had married a vet. Her artist friend had chosen the country instead of the city. And her friend was so bloody happy. If Sammy could find happiness in the country, why couldn’t Kate?
Driving along All Seasons Road calmed her disorderly emotions. The long, wide road led to relief. The hedgerows guided her. White, purple and yellow wildflowers sprung in tufts along the verge and wandered into the undulating grassy plains beyond. So quiet. So isolated. So bloody perfect.
Yes, siree. The twelve days of Kate. Should be plenty of time to make The Decision, as she’d christened her problem. ‘Heck, darn and shucks,’ she said, practising her country vernacular. She’d been practising from the moment she stepped off the plane from New York, having sat next to an elderly couple from Texas and learned all about which vittles were best for a Sunday sundowner after a long, hot day of branding, and how to attract a whisky-swilling ranchero — should one want to. She’d been a’bushel and a’peckin’ all through Customs, right through baggage collection and straight into her hire car.
She jolted in her seat and gripped the steering wheel as a deafening, squawking noise erupted above and around her. The early evening sky darkened as though the devil himself had swung the cape of evil from his shoulders with a wrathful flourish. Hark! The herald of the country. Parrots. Hundreds of them.
‘For God’s sake,’ she yelled as she slowed the car. They swooped so low that for a second, she couldn’t see the road in front of her, just a sea of slate-grey wings and red topped heads. She pounded the horn.
‘No,’ she hollered as globs of dinner plate-sized parrot poo hit her windscreen. White mess. Lots of white mess. What the hell did the birds eat around here? She hit the wiper-washer — no water. ‘You’re joking!’ She pulled the arm again — still no water, just a squelchy squeak as the blades made a Picasso of the poop on the windscreen. And the car was still moving.
She slammed the ball of her foot onto the accelerator instead of the brake and screamed as the car veered sideways and crashed through something that splintered, cracked and popped like an exploding barrel. Must be a gate. The slam knocked her backwards in her seat. She hit the brake — and almost snapped a four-inch heel — but the vehicle slid, and kept on sliding, the glopping sounds and bouncing informing her that the car was skimming along mud.
Kate had little idea how to steer a runaway car but she kept her hands on the wheel in case something brilliant happened, like a sudden downpour of rain on the near-blanketed windscreen. No such luck. Just a tree. Great.
The car came to a thumping stop when it bumped into the tree trunk, a shower of twigs and leaves falling on the roof and the bonnet of the car.
Then the air bag exploded, pushing the breath out of her lungs. Timing! Would have been too late if the car had hit a brick wall. She’d have been crushed. They’d have found her buried beneath twisted metal, smashed windscreen and parrot poop.
Time stood still, except for the squawking parrots as they flew overhead and on towards the next unsuspecting motorist. Good luck finding one. She hadn’t encountered another car in the last forty-five minutes.
She pushed the airbag down, helping it deflate faster with hard slaps; punching her fury into it. She gripped the steering wheel and watched billowing white powder float in the air and all over her figure-hugging indigo and eggshell coloured business dress, designed by herself. Now she smelled like talcum powder. Why me? Life had changed too fast and she wasn’t referring to the last five minutes. Kate had changed. She turned her head and looked out at the sprawling green and brown paddock through the side window. No — she hadn’t changed, she’d been kicked out of her own skin. She’d lost herself.
And now she’d ditched her bloody car.
Welcome to the country.
She gathered her breath in gulps, hoping she wasn’t going to pass out — something else that had never happened before — and considered her options. It was after six o’clock and although she had her mobile phone, who would she call? Sammy and her husband Ethan, the local vet, were away, taking the opportunity for a long-delayed honeymoon, and their house on Burra Burra Lane was locked up. They were building a new veterinary surgery and stables on the lower paddock which for some reason meant the water and power to their house had to be shut down for a week. She couldn’t even call Sammy and ask who to ask for help. For one thing, Kate was a super-powered businesswoman who never asked for assistance with anything, unless it was to fire short sharp orders to her team at Sassy Sensations. For another — Sammy and Ethan Granger would currently be thirty-thousand feet high, flying north-west to the Kimberley in Western Australia.
But Kate hadn’t called her business Singleton’s Sassy Sensations for nothing. She’d bought country equipment in Canberra before driving down here. She had torches and firelighters. She had matches and a lighter. She had rope. What she’d need the rope for only God knew, but it was a pretty black and yellow weave, so she’d plopped it onto the counter of Hillsides & Waysides mountaineering shop along with the rest of her gear. She had more than Chardonnay too, she had Wellington boots. The pretty kind, with blue rosebuds and although she hadn’t wanted to get them covered in mud, she supposed that was their original purpose and she’d have to buckle up and ride that beast.
Except all that equipment was in the boot. A two-metre walk through gluggy mud without her rosebud wellies.
She undid her seatbelt and twisted to the back seat to check her tortoiseshell leather carry-on bag, packed neatly and tidily with the full seven kilograms cabin allowance. She might not know how to deal with parrots but she knew how to pack. Except she hadn’t packed her flat pumps. They were in the boot, in her larger suitcase, alongside the Chardonnay and the wellies.
With a sigh and a reminder that she was now in a courageous and countrified state of mind, she opened the door and stared down at the glop. Dark brown muddy mire, along with the turf her car had torn up after it collided with the gate. She’d ruined someone’s paddock.
Another sound punctured the air. Not parrots. Kate lifted herself from the seat until she stood on the edge of the opened door frame. She held onto the top of the car and looked over the roof and over the gate and the stone wall to the road. Thank God she hadn’t crashed into the wall. She concentrated on the sound.
A truck? A bus? Too mechanically rickety-sounding. Too loud. Not chugging fast enough. The sound was heavy and metallic, and vibrating on the road.
The top of a yellow cab came into view, rumbling down All Seasons Road. A crane or a digger or something. With a workman!
‘Hello,’ she called, waving madly at the workman driving the huge yellow digger. It slowed, and Kate sighed in relief. He’d seen her — or perhaps he’d seen the broken gate which was now shattered over the road and the muddy paddock. She flinched as the digger-excavator steamrollered parts of the broken gate and then came to a shuddering stop.
The workman opened the cab door. ‘Are you alright?’ he called, getting out and jumping off the conveyer-belt tread.
Kate knew all there was to know about designer style and this guy had none of the style she was used to. But he did possess muscles. Beefy ones that matched his height and his work boots. Kate ran an expert eye over him, deciding he was a 48-inch chest, a 36-inch inside leg and a size thirteen shoe. About six foot three, all up.
What did people eat in the country?
Kate waved. ‘I’m fine,’ she called back. ‘But I’m stuck. Can’t get out.’
> He stopped at the stone wall and looked down at the ground around her vehicle. ‘From where I’m standing it looks like you can walk out of there.’
From where he was standing he obviously couldn’t see the mud. She offered him her most pleasant smile. Perhaps it was his gate and his mud and he didn’t like his paddock ripped to furrowed shreds by her hire car.
She pointed to the gate. ‘I’m so sorry about your gate. I’ll pay for a new one.’
‘Isn’t my gate. It’s part of the property on Burra Burra Lane.’
‘Sammy and Ethan. Yes — my friends.’ Sammy wouldn’t mind a bit of damage to one little gate. They didn’t keep sheep or anything that would wander out of the paddock.
‘The Grangers aren’t home,’ he said.
‘I know. They’re on their way to the Kimberley.’
‘So why are you here? You can’t live up at the house. The water’s turned off along with the electricity.’
‘Are you the man digging the ditch?’ Sammy had said some guy was working up at the homestead, digging ditches for the cabling and plumbing for the new veterinary surgery.
‘I was today, probably will be tomorrow.’
A ditch-digging workman. What did he need the excavator for when he had shovelling shoulders so wide he probably had to buy his shirts from Bigger & Bigger Work Wear?
‘Do you work for them?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I work for myself. How’d you manage to crash through the gate?’
Kate fought the signs of frustration as he stood there, not moving, not rescuing. ‘I didn’t manage it, it was an accident.’
‘How?’
‘A flock of parrots.’
He stared at her for a long time as though considering her answer and any response he might make to it. Or perhaps he hadn’t heard her.
Kate had to admit a flock of parrots probably didn’t usually give motorists cause for concern but she was in the country, for God’s sake. There were parrots everywhere. ‘Parrots,’ she said again, louder. ‘And now I’m stuck.’