12 Daves of Christmas Read online

  12 Daves of Christmas

  Juliet Madison

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  12 Daves of Christmas

  Juliet Madison

  A beautiful, uplifting holiday story from bestselling author Juliet Madison about a lonely writer, her grandmother’s ghost, a road trip and 12 different Daves.

  Abby Solomon may write happy-ever-afters for a living, but doesn’t believe she’ll have her own. But then a surprise visit from her grandmother’s ghost sets her off on a journey she’ll never forget.

  Grandma Charlotte wants to find her first love, Dave, who she mistakenly thought had died in World War II. A quick trawl through the Yellow Pages yields a list of twelve possibilities, and Abby and Charlotte set off on a Christmas road trip — twelve Daves over twelve days along the sun-drenched east coast of Australia.

  With just over a week to make the meeting happen, Abby has to meet a dozen Daves — some sweet, some quirky, some downright dangerous — while trying to honour her book deadline and enduring the awkward challenges of having a ghost as a travelling companion. But when she comes across a young doctor who looks like the hero in one of her novels, Abby has the chance to discover that true love transcends time and space, and that happy endings aren’t only to be found between the pages of a book.

  About the Author

  Juliet Madison is a naturopath-turned-author of fiction and self-help, and a colouring book artist. She likes to combine her love of words, art, and inspiration to create books that entertain and empower readers to love, laugh, and live.

  She enjoys putting her characters into extraordinary situations and taking them on a challenging journey to discover their true passion and inner strength, weaving in some laughs, tears, romance and sometimes a touch of magic along the way.

  Living near the beach on the beautiful south coast of New South Wales, Australia, Juliet spends as much time as possible writing and coming up with new ideas, while doing her best to avoid housework.

  Juliet is a proud member of the Romance Writers of Australia and she loves to interact online with readers and writers. You can contact her on Twitter:

  http://www.twitter.com/juliet_madison, on Facebook:

  http://www.facebook.com/JulietMadisonAuthor, and through her website

  http://www.julietmadison.com.

  Acknowledgements

  This story is not only about true love, but the bond between grandmother and granddaughter, so I’d like to thank both of my late grandmothers whose enthusiasm for life, books and family will always be remembered, and who are always a source of inspiration for me.

  To my parents, my son, family and friends—thank you for your support and encouragement with my writing, and Mum, as always, for reading my work before anyone else.

  Thanks to Alli Sinclair and Diane Curran for your helpful critiques and praise for this little story, and for putting up with frequent discussions about my overload of new ideas. Thanks also to the readers and Facebook friends who helped me brainstorm names for small towns.

  Lastly, thanks to my editor Belinda Holmes, and Kate Cuthbert and Escape Publishing for my contracts and your belief, and for publishing this book with its rather unique title!

  To Dave. And Dave. And Dave, and Dave, and Dave ...

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing...

  Chapter 1

  Only 27 Days Until Christmas! Take 20% Off Books, This Week Only. Ho-Ho-Ho!

  ‘Ho-ho-holy crap!’ I closed my email inbox that was fast filling with pre-Christmas promotions and buried my face in my hands. Forget Christmas, there were only fifteen days until my deadline. Until then, I couldn’t get distracted by anything. Not a book sale, not Facebook, not even Chris Hemsworth, if he was to show up at my door.

  Ding-dong!

  My gaze darted to the front door, visible from my living room’s ‘Writing Corner’ that doubled as a catch-all for junk mail, miscellaneous household items, and potato chip crumbs. Well, maybe Chris. I chuckled, wondering what I’d do if it really was him at the door.

  ‘Delivery for Abby Solomon?’ a man with black-rimmed glasses and a severe case of sunburn asked, as he held a large cardboard box.

  ‘That’s me.’ I flashed a brief smile, taking the box and almost toppling backwards at the weight of it. I placed it on the floor and signed for the delivery.

  ‘One more.’ He grunted as he picked up another box and handed it to me. I placed it next to the first one. ‘Been doing a bit of online shopping?’

  I glanced at the return address label on the boxes and my heart twinged. ‘Something like that.’ I farewelled the delivery man and closed the door. Truth was, shopping had been the last thing on my mind these past few weeks, what with the funeral and looming deadline.

  I bent down and went to remove the packing tape, but my hand trembled against the cardboard. If I opened the boxes now, there’d be no way I could get my mind back into work mode when I returned to my desk. No, I’d deal with the boxes later, once my word count goal for the day’s writing had been achieved.

  Easier said than done.

  The cursor blinked on the computer screen, like a flashing neon sign saying ‘Fraud!’ I told it to bugger off, and looked out the window into the concrete jungle of my ground-floor apartment backyard. There were no pear trees or partridges, no French hens or geese-a-laying, and certainly no golden rings. Not even one.

  With twelve romance novels published and the thirteenth on the way, I paid more attention to my characters’ love-lives than my own, and hadn’t been on a date in over three years. Author interviews always asked: ‘Do you draw on real life for inspiration for your novels?’ and ‘Is there a hero in your own life?’ to which I’d answer ‘No’ and ‘No’, though in a slightly more eloquent way that alluded to being ‘too busy building up my career right now’. The truth was, I wasn’t sure I believed in true love. General love that bonded two people together to live out their daily lives, yes, but not the real, intense, spectacular love between soulmates that I wrote about in my books; happy endings guaranteed.

  Maybe that blinking cursor was right.

  I sighed, lifting myself and my self-doubt off the chair to make a cup of coffee. When my caffeine levels were no longer at a critical low, I returned to my chair, ready to give that cursor a workout and tell it who was boss.

  I typed up a few sentences and, just for fun, made the heroine grab the hero’s shoulders and yell, ‘You love me and you know it!’ then hit backspace to erase it. Writing was fun like that. I could write anything I wanted and have control over these lives I’d created. Unlike my own ...

  My attention turned to the two boxes near the front door. Oh, who am I kidding? It might be difficult to return to work after opening them, but having them sitting there expectantly wasn’t doing me any favours either.

  I left my characters mid-argument and ripped the tape off the boxes in leg-wax fashion. I lifted the flaps on both boxes at once, and the scent of decades-old books and rose perfume sent me hurtling back to my past, back to a time that was both challenging and comforting. I closed my eyes and absorbed the moment, then took a deep breath and withdrew a book from the first box.

  A laugh escaped my mouth at the illustration of
a nurse with one of those old-fashioned white caps being embraced by a tall, dark, handsome doctor. Romance novels sure had come a long way since then, but the vintage charm of my late grandmother’s collection would always warm my heart.

  I gently sorted through the books, memories from eight years ago flooding back ...

  ‘Trust me, you’ll be hooked in no time,’ Grandma Charlotte had said to me as I lay in the hospital bed; bruised, sad, and bored with both legs broken after a car accident. She’d brought a selection of books to help me pass the time.

  ‘Thanks, Grandma,’ I’d managed with an obligatory smile. I wasn’t really a fan of romance novels. Okay, so I’d never read one before that day, but I knew they wouldn’t be my thing. Until they were. The richly drawn characters, well crafted stories, and realistic heart-tugging emotion took my mind off the pain, both physical and emotional, and soon I was going through two a day, in conjunction with my pain relieving medication.

  ‘Told you so!’ Grandma had said when I confessed that yes, I was enjoying reading them.

  I took all the books from the first box and began categorising them into piles, as my uncle Ron had obviously packed them up without any regard for sub-genre or the alphabet. Historicals, medicals, suspense ... Grandma Charlotte enjoyed them all. As long as there was a to-die-for hero and a happy ending, she’d read it.

  I glanced around the room and noticed I was seriously lacking in bookshelf space to store my inherited loot. I’d have to buy some new bookcases. I know! I’ll use some of the money Grandma left me to get some nice ones to house her collection. She’d like that.

  Before my accident I’d had plenty of bookshelf space, but that soon changed. Once I’d recovered and returned to work at the accountancy firm, numbers just didn’t do it for me anymore. Words did. And after running out of books one night, I started writing my own. I felt silly at first, as though the authors who wrote those books were some kind of special breed who lived glamorous lives and had everything they wanted, and I was an imposter, crazy for even considering to try my hand at such a task. But on looking up my new favourite authors, I discovered that most were ordinary people living ordinary lives, many with day jobs in a variety of fields. I could do this, I could be one of them. And three years later, I was.

  Gratitude filled my heart as I categorised the books, and on picking up one called Love’s Warrior, a tattered piece of paper fell out. Grandma was always using scraps of paper for bookmarks. I unfolded the paper, and intrigue curled itself into an inquisitive spiral in my mind.

  It was a love letter.

  I smiled as I read it; I didn’t know Grandpa Harry had been such a romantic!

  I long for sleep so I can dream of you, see your rosy lips smiling, and hear your sweet voice whispering ...

  How cute! I held a hand to my heart as the letter concluded, then my mouth gaped. It wasn’t from Harry. It was signed:

  Yours, Dave.

  Dave? Who was Dave? Grandma had never mentioned anyone of that name, and she hadn’t exactly been shy in discussing her life story. I shook my head and smiled. Grandma Charlotte, you cheeky thing!

  My ex-accountant brain did its thing and calculated the difference between the date on the letter and now. She would have been only eighteen when she’d received the letter. And to keep it all this time, it must have really meant something to her.

  Wow. It struck me then how important Grandma Charlotte had been in the lives of those she loved, even as a teenager. She’d been an amazing woman.

  My bottom lip trembled and I was compelled to speak, though I was alone. ‘Thank you, Grandma. You helped me fall in love with books, you encouraged my writing career.’ I held the book and letter tightly to my chest. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered.

  A tear slipped out of my eye, and more would have followed had it not been for the fact that a voice behind me said, ‘You’re welcome.’

  Chapter 2

  I spun around with a gasp and the book fell to the floor. I gripped the wall to steady my shaking legs. ‘Grandma?’ I whispered. Her faded but unmistakeable figure stood near my writing desk.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s just me.’ She held out her palms, as if to send a calming force to my pounding heart.

  ‘How can ... what ... huh?’ I rubbed my eyes, squinted, widened them, but the image of her cloud-white curls surrounding her porcelain face remained, and her trademark pink lipstick matched the pink linen shirt that skimmed her thin frame.

  Did someone spike my coffee jar?

  ‘Don’t worry, darling, you haven’t accidentally consumed hallucinogens and your mind is in perfect mental health.’ She smiled and stepped towards me.

  I stepped back, colliding with a box and falling into it with a thud. ‘Argh!’ I fumbled around trying to get back up, and Grandma rushed towards me and held out her hand. Instinctively I went to grab it, but my hand went straight through. I gasped again. Shaking, I eased myself up and huddled in the corner near the front door.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘I forgot for a moment that I was ...’

  Dead?

  ‘Well, you know.’ She ran a finger across her neck like a knife and made a choking sound. ‘Anyway, I always hoped there’d be life after death and what do you know, eh?’ She held her hands out to the side and turned in a circle.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I mean, I’d obviously been deep in thought about Grandma and her books and the impact she’d had on my life, so maybe my overactive imagination was playing extremely real-looking tricks on me. Maybe I was drinking too much coffee these days and I was experiencing caffeine toxicity. That could be it. And when was the last time I ate? Proper food, not potato chips. Did I simply need a good protein bar and a vitamin tablet? Thoughts bashed against my mind in time with my heart bashing against my chest.

  She looked at me with gentle eyes. ‘Sweetheart, please don’t be scared. I’m still your Grandma Charlotte, just in a different form. In fact, I feel better than ever.’ She wriggled her fingers. ‘See? No arthritis!’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘But nothing. Life goes on, pumpkin. Even after death.’ She pointed to the boxes. ‘I see you got my books. I know you’ll take good care of them.’

  I inched closer to her, my eyes not daring to blink in case I blinked her away. My fear subsided a little and was replaced with curiosity, and the desire to feel one of her unbeatable soft and squishy hugs. I brought my hand close to her cheek, a sensation of warmth radiating up my arm. ‘Is it really you?’

  She smiled and nodded. ‘Well, yes, but in spirit.’

  ‘I can’t believe it.’ I shook my head in awe and wonder. I’d never seen a ghost before, had sort of believed in them but was never really sure. Until now.

  ‘It’s true. And you have to believe it because I need your help.’ She pointed to the fallen book. ‘The letter.’ I picked it up and Grandma looked at it, pressing her painted lips together. ‘And in the other box should be something else apart from books,’ she said. I withdrew some books and moved others aside. ‘There it is.’

  One of the books looked different, and on closer inspection I realised it wasn’t a book but a book box. A storage box that was made to look like a hardback book. I opened the flap and inside was a velvet pouch and, inside that, a watch. I held up the brown leather wristband attached to the scratched but still-ticking Hamilton timepiece, its brass frame aged and faded.

  ‘It belonged to Dave,’ Grandma said.

  I was glad she was talking because I was clearly lost for words. I looked at the letter again, then at the watch. ‘Who was Dave? And what do you mean you need help?’

  Grandma appeared to take a deep breath, though I wasn’t sure how that was supposed to work in her state. ‘Dave was my first love. And I need you to find him for me.’

  Chapter 3

  Overwhelmed by what was happening, I ran my fingers through my overdyed white-blonde hair and retreated to the couch with my oversupply of vintage chic cushions. First love? Find him?
But ...

  ‘What about Grandpa?’ I said. ‘Is he, ah ...’

  ‘On the other side? Yes. I’ve touched base with him, and it was good to see him again, it really was, but I’m afraid to say he’s moved on. We loved each other of course and had a great life, but the truth is ...’ she took another of those redundant breaths, ‘... we weren’t soulmates.’

  ‘What do you mean he’s moved on?’

  ‘He’s spending the afterlife with Lorna. And I’m not angry. I don’t blame him, because when all the obligations and responsibilities of physical life are down the pooper, all that matters is being true to your heart and soul.’

  I frowned, from disappointment at Grandpa’s choice of afterlife companion or confusion as to how this all worked, I didn’t know.

  ‘Sorry, darling, it must be hard to comprehend all this. But the fact is, Harry and Lorna had a ... what do you call it? A rendezvous or a fling, if you like, many years ago. I knew about it and of course I was furious, but after a while I forgave him. Because in reality, I knew I still loved and longed for Dave, so who was I to judge?’

  ‘But, Grandma, who is Dave and why didn’t you stay with him back then?’

  ‘It’s a long story, muffin. But the gist of it is, we were together before the war, well, during the war. But then he went off to fight when he was eighteen and I never saw him again.’ She dropped her gaze to the floor. ‘We promised that when the war was over we’d meet again at our favourite place, and I was to turn up there every Saturday at noon until we were reunited. Months and months passed and I was there every week without fail, but he never showed.’

  ‘But the letter ... he wrote to you, obviously.’

  ‘Just the once. As you can see in his letter, he promised to keep writing whenever he could, but something must have happened to prevent him from fulfilling that promise.’ She puffed up her short fluffy hair with an upturned palm like she always used to do, and pointed to the watch. ‘He gave that to me before he left, said it was to remind me that in time we’d be together again. I maintained it and kept it working.’