Belle and the Perfect Present Page Banner

Belle Baddington was a happy-go-lucky soul. Yes, she’d be spending Christmas alone and yes, she felt a twinge of sadness about that, but she had much to be grateful for.

She had her house – just – and precious garden, her darling collie Rosie, a job and friends she loved, and she lived in a picturesque small town that, despite her tribulations, had somehow wormed its way into her heart and become home.

So what if money was tight? Despite a certain impetuosity – running off with that cad Conrad to Australia from New Zealand at age nineteen a case in point – she could be disciplined when necessary. It had taken some serious budgeting, but Belle had organised tomorrow to perfection and the pride of it gave a hippy swagger to her strut.

After all, it wasn’t every Christmas that a woman celebrated her freedom. The decree nisi for her divorce had arrived three days ago and if that didn’t warrant some self-indulgence nothing did. Conrad might have left her broke when he took off with his new woman, but he hadn’t left her broken.

Belle was made of much sterner stuff.

She smiled, nodded and finger waved her way down Levenham’s McArthur street with a tinsel-collared Rosie at her heels and her “Santa … I can explain” t-shirt earning her grins from strangers. A canvas Father Christmas shopping bag swung merrily from her fingers, while her Jingle bell earrings made a sweet tinkly sound as she walked.

And it was Sunday. Which meant she had the whole day to indulge in whatever pleasure she liked.

In this case, Bookbuff, Levenham’s second-hand bookshop and its well-curated romance section.

To Belle’s surprise, Bookbuff was bustling. Perhaps others had the same Christmas Day plans as Belle or were on a tight budget too. Or maybe they were simply booklovers, a species, in Belle’s opinion, nearly as admirable as gardeners. Combine the two in a non-fictional man and she might even find the version appealing again.

She left Rosie tied up to a veranda post and excused her way past a thin, stooped gentleman perusing the cookbook shelves, then around a flush-faced mum with a gorgeously cherubic baby in pram in the children’s book racks, before squeezing past a middle-aged man in a blue singlet thumbing through a glossy book on fighter jets, and landing at her favourite section.

‘Oh,’ she said, pleasure filling her at the sight of a shelf labelled “3 for $1”. With her five-dollar budget, instead of buying only one or two books, she could stock up.

Really, Christmas couldn’t get any nicer.

Oblivious to the world around her, Belle began to rummage. Occasionally, she’d give a delighted squeak as she came across a favourite author or a marvellous looking cover or inviting blurb. But it was the discovery of a Christmas cowboy romance that had her clutching the book to her chest and closing her eyes.

‘You look like you’ve found something special,’ said a masculine voice.

Belle opened her eyes and found a startlingly ginger-haired man with soft brown eyes regarding her with amusement. He was around her age, in his late twenties she supposed, and tidily dressed in a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of cream chino shorts and leather boat shoes. He held a thick fantasy novel in one hand and a crime novel in the other and appeared to be weighing them up.

‘Very special,’ replied Belle. She turned the book around to show off the cover.

He scanned it and raised he eyes to hers. ‘The Outback Christmas Cowboy.

‘I know! Isn’t it marvellous?

‘You like romance novels.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Adore them. They make me happy.’ She grinned, still overjoyed at her find. ‘Like Christmas does.

He chuckled. A warming sound, deep and round with humour. ‘That’s good then. Being happy is important.’

She tipped her head at his selection. ‘And you?

He sighed. ‘I can’t decide.’ He waggled the heavy fantasy. ‘This one will keep me occupied but this one,’ he waggled the crime novel, ‘sounds good too.

‘Get both. Problem solved.

‘I suppose I could.’ He sat the crime novel on top of the fantasy and gripped them in his left hand. It was a strong left hand, Belle noticed. With freckles. Lots of freckles. This was a man who liked the outdoors.

There were lots of freckles on his face, too. And he seemed well-built, with defined shoulders and a straight chest and lean hips. In fact, he had more than a touch of the Prince Harrys about him. Much brighter hair, but very attractive all the same.

Which begged the question, what was a well-dressed man like him doing in a second-hand bookshop in Levenham on Christmas Eve?

He used the thriller to indicate her t-shirt. ‘Cute top.

‘Thanks.’ She looked down at the inscription and image of a startled Santa with an adult woman on his knee. Seven dollars at the discount shop. Another person and she might brag but Mr Ginger didn’t need to hear about her bargains. ‘Just getting into the spirit of things.

Other than a smile, Mr Ginger didn’t have a response to that. He held her gaze for a moment longer then made an awkward gesture toward the shelves and moved away, leaving Belle sagging a little. He seemed a nice person and it was good to meet nice people. Especially bookshop habiting people.

Not to worry. She had five books in her bag already and change for more, and the next few days were looking splendid. Along with her books, a feast lurked in the fridge at home. On the bottom shelf were eight cooked prawns – four for tonight and four for her Christmas entrée – and some home-made seafood sauce, while on the middle shelf, soaking in rosemary, sage and allspice-infused brine, was a deboned turkey maryland that she’d picked up frozen and on sale a few weeks before. Enough for Christmas lunch, dinner and a Boxing Day sandwich if she was prudent.

Tomorrow, Belle would wrap it around a log of apple and sage stuffing, bind the whole leg up with string and roast it with potatoes, pumpkin and an onion, and serve it with her favourite green vegetable dish, Brussel sprouts sautéed with bacon and balsamic vinegar. And proper gravy made from the pan juices, of course. Christmas lunch wouldn’t be Christmas lunch without real gravy.

To add extra glitter to her day, chilling in the fridge door was a bottle of local sparkling wine she’d snapped up from the bargain bin at the Australian Arms Hotel’s bottle shop, along with an entire packet of foil-covered chocolate Santas for dessert, which she’d scoff while singing along to a television replay of Carols by Candlelight with Rosie casting her pained looks from her daybed.

Fine days ahead. Very fine indeed.

Belle dove back into the bargain shelf and dug out a romantic suspense. It had a cowboy on the front too. Pity the model didn’t have red hair. That would have been a delicious fantasy to indulge in. She read the blurb and placed it back. Not quite her story.

She traced her fingers across a row of books and squeaked as she spotted Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander. Not just any Outlander but the television series tie-in, complete with red-headed Jamie on the cover looking delectable in a kilt.

‘Perfect,’ she breathed, resisting the urge to press the book to her chest again. Instead, she glanced around to see if she could spot Mr Ginger.

She found him frowning at the cookbook shelves. As if sensing her scrutiny, he looked over his shoulder, caught her eye and gave what seemed to be a wry shrug before returning his focus to the shelves.

Did he want help?

She waited a few breaths but he didn’t turn again. Oh well. Popping Outlander into her shopping bag, Belle decided to call it quits. She only had Christmas Day and Boxing Day off work. Half a dozen books would be enough, and the day was warm and Rosie was waiting outside, and her beloved garden called.

With a last look of longing at the shelves, she headed for the counter, except when she reached Mr Ginger her feet slowed and then stopped.

‘Are you looking for a particular kind of recipe book?’

He shook his head. He really did have the most glorious red hair. Shiny and coppery, clipped at the sides and with a tousled, side-swept fringe. Even his eyebrows were red. ‘I was just looking.

‘Oh. Okay.

Belle checked the counter. The mum with the baby was being served. She should probably line up behind her before someone pinched the spot. She stole a glance at Mr Ginger. Their gazes met briefly then flickered aside.

Belle chewed her lip. Mr Ginger rubbed the back of his neck. Belle swapped her bag to her other hand. She really should go.

He gestured at her bag. ‘All stocked up?’

‘Yes. Six lovely sounding romances.

He nodded and leaned back on his heels. ‘I’ve never read a romance novel.

‘You should try one. They’re wonderful reads.

He scratched his jaw. ‘Yeah. Maybe I should. I might learn something.’ His smile dropped and a flush rose up his neck, highlighting the freckles that ran in trails along his skin.

Belle thought it was sweet.

Belle thought he was sweet. Like a Prince Harry-Outlander Jamie mash-up. Except more self-conscious and with an Australian accent. And no kilt.

Pity, but a girl couldn’t have everything.

He cleared his throat and lifted his books. ‘Guess we’d better pay.’ He gave a short bow and swept his arm. ‘After you.

She smiled her thanks but as she moved away the blue singlet wearing man with the glossy aircraft book scuttled into the line. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered, earning her a chuckle from Mr Ginger.

‘It’s the quick and the dead around here today,’ he said.

‘Seems like it.’ Belle checked the door to see if Rosie was okay. The collie was more than fine, happily basking in the attentions of the stooped elderly man who’d stopped to stroke her head.

‘Your dog?’ asked Mr Ginger.

‘Yes. Rosie. My darling.’ She blew the dog a kiss as the elderly man moved off and Rosie’s attention returned to the shop. ‘Do you have a dog?’

He shook his head. ‘Not yet. Maybe once I get settled.

‘Settled? You’re new to Levenham?’

‘Arrived last week.’

‘Oh. From where?’

‘France. It’s where I’ve been working for the past three years.

Oh!’ The breath left Belle’s lungs. Mr Ginger liked books and dogs and had worked in France, which meant he could probably whisper sexy things in French like ma cherie and mon coeur and mon ange. Honestly, it was like meeting the hero of one of her romance novels, except with bright copper hair. ‘What did you do in France?’

‘I’m an oenologist. A winemaker.

‘A winemaker.’ Belle’s continued breathlessness had turned her voice an embarrassing shade of husky. Even the word made her toes tingle. She needed to pull herself together before she did something impulsive and silly. Like swoon.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What do you do?’

Her nose screwed up. She’d much rather talk about oenology or France or anything other than her work. Belle loved her job but it wasn’t terribly exciting. Not like France and winemaking. ‘I work for a building society.’ Which was fortunate. Without that access to good financial advice and her employee benefits, Belle would be homeless right now.

‘Which one?’

She to told him and for some reason the answer made him laugh.

‘What’s funny?’

‘I worked for them for a while.

‘You’re kidding me.

‘Nope. My first job after finishing my accounting degree was in their audit department in Melbourne.

Belle frowned. ‘I thought you said you were a winemaker.

‘I am. After eight months of pushing paper and tapping a keyboard I decided I hated accounting and went and studied winemaking instead.’ He shrugged. ‘My parents weren’t happy, but it was the right decision in the end. I love it. They’ve come around now.’ He winked and Belle’s insides gave a bird-like flutter. ‘All those cheap French holidays helped.

She laughed. ‘I can imagine.’ She considered for a moment, torn between curiosity and the fear of being rude. Curiosity won. ‘So what’s a winemaker doing in a second-hand bookshop on Christmas Eve?’

‘Killing time. I’m stuck in a boring hotel until the New Year. Thought a few books would help me get through. This was the first shop I came across. You?’

‘Treating myself to some Christmas cheer.’ She shifted her bag again and shoved out her hand. ‘I’m Belle, by the way.

‘Duncan.’ He shook her hand. Duncan. Very Scottish. Perhaps he’d have a kilt in his closet after all. ‘Pleased to meet you, Belle. Good name. Very French, although your accent … Kiwi?’

‘Yes. From Dunedin originally. My real name’s Belinda but Belle sounds so much prettier.

‘It does. Suits you better too.

‘Thank you.

Belle checked the line. In their distraction, they’d been usurped again. Now three more people waited. She didn’t mind a scrap. Her books were safe in her bag and she had an attractive man to talk to, one who thought she lived up to her name.

Well, she would talk, if she could think of something to say. Something other than ‘Speak French to me, you romantic ginger man.

‘So what—

‘What are—’

Duncan laughed and gestured to her. ‘Ladies first.’

‘Oh, I was just going to ask what’s brought you to Levenham.’

‘A job. I’m the newly appointed winemaker at Gratia. It’s a vineyard north of town. Perhaps you know the owner, Digby Wallace-Jones?’

‘As a matter of fact, I do. I work with his girlfriend Jasmine. They’re good people.’

‘Huh. Small world.’

‘It is when it comes to Levenham. It’s a friendly place though. You’ll like it.’

‘I think I will. It’s impressing me so far.’

They lapsed back into silence. Belle waited. Duncan waited. Neither spoke. Yet a world of anticipation buzzed between them.

Belle scanned the shop in the hope a book cover might give her an idea for conversation. When nothing came to her, she flashed a smile at Duncan, indicated the dwindling line and joined it. He followed, standing alongside instead of behind. Like a friend would.

Or a romantic interest.

The leading customer only had one purchase and was sorted in moments. Belle moved up the line, Duncan joining her. They shared a quick smile at their progress and glanced away again.

Finally, it was Belle’s turn. She lined her selection on the counter.

‘These will keep you busy,’ said the woman serving.

‘And feeling very warm and fuzzy.’ Although given the warm-fuzzies she was experiencing right now, her reads had a lot to live up to.

Belle handed over her five dollars and waited for her change, the disappointment of her dried-up conversation with Duncan somewhat assuaged by the idea of the three spare dollars she was about to receive. She might buy herself an icecream on the way home.

With her books safely in her bag, she turned to Duncan. ‘Merry Christmas, Duncan. And all the best with your new job.’

‘Merry Christmas to you too, Belle.’

She maintained her smile and eye contact for a moment longer then, when that didn’t elicit any further comment, Belle straightened her shoulders and headed out. Not to worry. Christmas was going to be wonderful, Mr Sweet Duncan Ginger or not.

Besides, she’d learned her lesson about being impetuous.

Belle crouched to untie Rosie and give her ears a rub. ‘Ready for home, darling one?’

The collie gave her hand a lick in reply. Belle rose, wound Rosie’s lead around her fist and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. Time to go.

She was paused at PaperPassion, Levenham’s mesmerisingly beautiful stationery shop owned by Digby Wallace Jones’s sister Emily Sinclair, when Duncan jogged up beside her.

‘I was just wondering,’ he said, eyes wide and hopeful and his cheeks cutely flushed. ‘Would you like to join me for a coffee? My treat. There’s a café near Civic Park that does a good brew.

‘Full Of Beans?

He nodded. ‘That’s the one.

Belle’s heart thumped. Did she truly want to do this? Duncan seemed a nice man, decent and attractive. But Conrad had been attractive too and nice when they first met, and look where that got her. Overloaded with sexually transmitted debt and too broke to visit her family for Christmas.

Still, he liked dogs. And clearly he liked books. Then there was the French thing and the education and job. A job working for Digby Wallace-Jones, no less, smart operator and heir to the famous Wallace fortune.

Positive pointers, surely?

Still …

‘Do you like gardening?’ she asked.

‘I don’t mind it. I’m pretty handy with a pair of secateurs.’

A buzz began to run through Belle. Could this be truly happening? ‘What about Brussell sprouts? Do you like them?

‘Brussel sprouts?

‘Uh huh.

‘With bacon?’

Belle was fairly jiggling such was her growing glee. ‘Yes.

‘They’re good.’

A grin split her face. Oh, this was simply marvellous. ‘Carols by Candlelight?’

His grin matched hers for breadth. ‘Love it.’

She looked down at Rosie, who was watching the exchange with clever eyes. The dog’s gaze settled on Belle. Rosie tilted her head as if to ask, ‘What are you waiting for?’

What indeed. Truly, sometimes jumping in was the only way to go.

‘I’m not sure how I can say no.’

‘Then don’t.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Coffee.’

‘Maybe cake too,’ replied Duncan, leading on. ‘It’s a cake kind of day.’

‘And it’s Christmas.’

‘It is.’ He smiled at her. ‘And we deserve presents, don’t you think?’

Belle couldn’t agree more. What better way to celebrate the season than with a lovely man? After all, she was due a Christmas romance. She could even give it a title – The Winemaker’s Yuletide Belle.

The thought brought forth a giggle and a puzzled look from Duncan. ‘What’s made you laugh?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said, boldly curling her hand into the crook of his elbow. ‘Just thinking about tomorrow’s dessert.’

‘Right,’ he said, sounding nonplussed. ‘What are you serving?’

‘Chocolate Santas.’

‘Chocolate Santas … Good choice. Tasty, easy and not much mess to clean up. And festive. Yeah, very good choice.’

She beamed at him. ‘You know, I was hoping you’d say that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I have an entire packet to share. Interested?’

He beamed back. ‘Very, Christmas Belle. Very.’

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© Cathryn Hein 2019