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up?’
    ‘Afghanistan.’
    ‘Cool.’
    ‘Yeah, it was.’ Layla made a precise cut with her fork. ‘He seemed nice.’
    ‘Nice?’ Carise picked up the bowl of whipped cream. ‘Whipped cream on cheesecake is nice.’ She dolloped a huge spoonful onto her slice. ‘Men are not “nice”. They are sexy or funny or heroic. Or sometimes all three.’
    ‘And sometimes none of those things.’ She glanced over her shoulder, as though thinking about Ian would conjure him up on Carise’s back veranda. ‘Okay, the soldier said thank you. He liked the cricket cards.’
    Carise’s mouth formed a moue of disapproval.
    ‘It was a three-line email. How much can you tell about a man in thirty words?’ Layla laughed.
    ‘Is that the first email you’ve received back?’
    ‘Yeah. Part of the fun in preparing the Christmas boxes is you never know where they go, or who gets them. But I broke with tradition. I put my contact details in. Dad never did that when we packed our boxes together.’
    ‘Ah, so you invited him to email you?’
    Layla choked on her cheesecake. ‘No… Yes… Maybe?’
    Carise put her hands up in front of her. ‘I’m just saying.’
    ‘I never thought about it like that before.’
    ‘I think it’s a positive step.’
    Layla gnawed on her lip. ‘How so?’
    ‘For a long time after Ben was killed, you guys hated the army and everything it stood for. Yet every year, you put together very generous, but always anonymous, care packages. It was like you cared, but you didn’t want to be seen to be caring.’
    ‘I was supporting our troops overseas.’
    ‘For one day of the year. The anniversary of Ben’s death.’ Carise reached across and touched her arm. ‘Don’t look so horrified. I’m not saying what you were doing before was wrong. I like you changing it up a bit. Traditions aren’t set in stone. They change over time. You’ve personalised your family’s tradition to you and I think that’s great.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Really. It’s not a crime to receive a thank you when you give a gift. You’re one of the most generous people I know and your contribution should be acknowledged. You should email him back, flirt with him a little. Maybe it would take your mind off stalker boy Ian.’
    Layla shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
    ‘Why not? It’s not like it’s a lifelong commitment or anything. A couple of emails doesn’t mean you have to marry him. Have some fun.’ Carise paused, then reached for the coffeepot. ‘Enough of this serious talk. We need more coffee. We haven’t even touched the white chocolate raspberry slice yet.’
    ***
    ‘What’s happening in your life, son?’ Walter Sharpe, the unit padre stood next to Tate as he crosschecked the contents of the supply delivery against the never-ending list on the clipboard.
    ‘Nothing much.’ It was the same response he gave every fortnight when he and Walt were rostered to check the delivery. The army might force him to spend time with the padre, but they couldn’t force him to talk.
    ‘Good Christmas?’
    ‘Better than most.’
    ‘You sound like that surprises you.’
    Tate glanced up from the clipboard. ‘It did. I don’t really celebrate Christmas. Not like other people do.’
    ‘What changed this year?’
    That was the exact question he was asking himself. ‘Everyone has something bad going on in their life.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘I kinda met someone who should’ve been having a bad Christmas. But they weren’t. They were happy, and friendly. It made me think.’ Self-reflection was big right now in the army.
    Walt straightened a row of packages. ‘And?’
    ‘And nothing.’
    The older man nodded, then moved onto the next row, painstakingly re-organising the parcels so they all faced the same direction.
    Tate’s ears rang with a silence worse than nails on a chalkboard. ‘Her name’s Layla and I emailed her. She put together my care package. I said thank you. And she emailed me back. Twice.’ How did Walt