Home for Christmas (14 page)

But Owen didn't even look at her when she smiled and said, “I see everyone is already getting acquainted!”

“I came down to ask if there's anything I can do to help with dinner,” Owen said, more to Grandfather than to Libby, and before she could blurt out anything unfortunate in her panic, Grandfather shook his head.

“Come have a predinner cocktail with me in the library,” Grandfather commanded. “I want to get to know you. Libby can handle dinner.”

“Of course,” Owen replied, with a bare hint of a smile. “And she has her husband to help her. How are you, Mr. Tucker?”

Owen held out his free hand, and Nash reached around Libby to shake it. “Call me Nash,” he instructed with an easy smile that Owen didn't quite return.

Straightening his shoulders with military precision, Owen dipped his head in a nod. “Thank you for having me to stay for the holidays, Nash. It's very generous of you and your wife.”

Was it Libby's imagination, or did Owen place the slightest emphasis on the word ‘wife'? Maybe that's where it came from, this sudden chasm she felt opening up between Owen and her. Maybe he'd sensed her crush and was trying to remind her that she was married.

It was hard not to stiffen up when Nash threw a casual arm around her shoulders. “Don't thank me. It's all Libby. When she heard you were coming to Sanctuary Island, she wouldn't rest until we'd extended the invitation.”

A muscle ticked in Owen's jaw. He still hadn't met Libby's eyes. “It's very kind of you all.”

Nash squeezed her shoulders, and Libby glanced up at him. He was watching Owen with a speculative stare. “What can I say? My wife is a patriot. Come on, honey, let's go finish up with dinner.”

“Good,” Grandfather said, harrumphing and starting off toward the living room. “Come on, Sergeant, let's leave them to it.”

When Owen moved forward to pass him and hold the living room door open, Grandfather took the opportunity to give Libby a shooing motion behind Owen's back. Waggling his bushy gray eyebrows, Grandfather scowled ferociously and jerked his head toward the kitchen.

Not sure what else to do, Libby went. Nash paced her and once they were out of earshot, he immediately punched her lightly in the arm. “Libby! That guy is hot for you.”

Shocked, she froze with one hand on the swinging kitchen door. “What? No he isn't.”

“Trust me. I'm a man, I know what it looks like when a man is into a woman. And Sergeant Shepard is into you, in a big way. Did you see how he was when I shook his hand? He doesn't like me at all.”

“That's hardly proof of anything,” Libby said tartly. “Maybe he just has good taste.”

Nash laughed. “He obviously does have good taste, if he's into you. Which he is.”

Libby's heart wanted to believe it, but years of being basically invisible and alone—not entirely by choice—kept her from getting too excited about the idea. “Maybe there's something between us, but it's more likely friendship than anything else.”

“Sure, because he thinks you're happily married,” Nash pointed out. “And he's obviously a man of honor, or whatever. I'm telling you, Libs, you've got a shot with him if we can be convincing about this whole rocky marriage thing. I say we go for it.”

“You just think
you've
got a shot with
Ivy
if we ‘go for it,'” Libby argued. “Which is reason enough for me. But leave Owen out of it. The poor man has enough on his mind. And God knows, so do I. It's going to take all my concentration to make it through the holidays—I can't be worrying about my love life.”

“Or lack thereof.”

Stung by the truth, Libby wrinkled her nose at him. “You don't know that. I could be going out with a different man every night of the week back in New York.”

“You could,” Nash said seriously. “You are beautiful and sweet and fun. And yet I have this funny feeling that you haven't been on a date in … I'll say a year.”

More like four years, but who was counting? “I've been busy,” she muttered.

“Yes, building a fake online persona who has come to represent the best of traditional American womanhood to thousands of magazine readers.”

“Too bad I didn't use any of that time learning how to actually cook, huh?” Libby pushed open the swinging door and stuck her head into the kitchen, unsure what she'd find. Without time to confer privately with her grandfather, she didn't even know what to expect, but it wasn't this.

The kitchen was full of amazing smells, steam billowing from various pots and pans on the six-burner range, and piles of mixing bowls and chopped ingredients littering the marble countertops. At the center of it all was a petite and very round woman wearing a black French maid's costume and a ferocious scowl. She was moving so quickly she was basically a blur of short black skirt, tiny white apron, and brown hair in a messy topknot.

“Um, hello?” Libby tried, exchanging raised eyebrows with Nash as they entered the kitchen.

The woman didn't even pause as she bustled from the marble-topped kitchen island to the stove to dip a wooden spoon into a cast-iron pot. She tasted whatever she'd spooned up, her expression never wavering from the ever-present scowl. Grabbing a lemon from the bowl in the corner with one hand and reaching for a wickedly sharp-looking knife with the other, she cleaved the citrus in two and squeezed a few drops into the pot in one smooth motion. Spooning up another taste, a brief look of satisfaction displaced the frown before she whirled to face Libby and Nash. “Get out!”'

Libby took a quick step back, bumping into Nash's chest. Keeping her wary gaze on the knife being brandished in her face, Libby said, “Um, I'm Libby. I think my grandfather hired you?”

The woman tsked once, then flew back into motion, peeling and dicing an onion with fast, sure strokes of her knife. “Yes. To cook and serve zee meal, not to entertain. So you will please leave.”

Behind her, Nash was struggling manfully not to laugh, but Libby didn't think it was funny. “I promise I won't get in your way, Miss…?”

“Robie,” the woman said, her accent as French as her stiff, starched costume. “Chef Genevieve Robie.”

“Yes, of course. Hi. I mean, it's nice to meet you,” Libby started, wondering how much her grandfather had told this woman before hiring her.

“
Enchantée
,” Genevieve said, dry as toast. “Now please to get out. I must have complete privacy and freedom for my art.”

“Oh. Right.” Libby frowned repressively at Nash, who was biting the inside of his lip. “But the thing is, well. I'm not sure how to explain this, but it's kind of important that it look like I did the cooking tonight. So it would be weird for me to not be in the kitchen while dinner is being prepared. Right? My grandfather did explain all this to you, didn't he?”

“He explain,” Genevieve muttered darkly, sweeping her perfectly uniform cubes of onion into a sizzling sauté pan and giving them a quick stir. “It make no sense to me—why hire famous French chef and not tell anyone? But he eez rich, no? The rich do not have to make sense. Only have to pay. So I say, okay. I come, I cook, I wear dress, I serve.”

Libby blinked rapidly. “Great. Then I guess we'll leave you to it. We'll just be in the corner over here, out of the way.”

“And no interference!” Genevieve snapped, her attention already back on her battery of pots and pans.

Nash pulled Libby off to the side, still looking far too amused.

“What was Grandfather thinking?” Libby wrung her hands together. “This will never work!”

“Are you kidding? This is a classic Dabney Leeds plan,” Nash declared. “Wave around a giant stack of cash, hire the very best in the business, and assume the universe wouldn't dare to defy him by allowing things not to work out.”

“I mean, it does smell incredible in here,” Libby said, inhaling the aroma of onions caramelizing in butter.

“Oh, it'll be delicious. I have no doubt about that. But this time, Grandfather may have bitten off more than he can chew.”

A chill of premonition ran down Libby's spine. “What do you mean?”

Nash gave her a look. “You really don't get out much do you? Or read your own magazine, for that matter. Genevieve Robie was named the top chef in New York last year.”

“That's good, right? Since I'm supposed to be such a good cook, it makes sense to have someone who's famous for her cooking do it for me.”

Nash dropped his voice to a whisper. “She's not famous only for her cooking. According to the stories, she's one of the most temperamental chefs in the business. Do you remember that book that was all over the bestseller lists last year?
Hotter Than Hell
?”

“I read that! About the new cook just starting out who ends up being mentored by a woman chef who turns out to be … completely crazy…”

Nash nodded. “It was a barely fictionalized memoir, written by a line cook who used to work for Genevieve Robie.”

Remembering some of the more dramatic episodes in the book, Libby felt her blood run cold. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. This time, Grandfather's need to always have the best may come back to bite us.”

Libby watched the intense woman whirling around the kitchen like a miniature tornado and sent up a brief prayer that they could all make it through the evening with a minimum of broken crockery and shrieking.

*   *   *

Granted, it had been years since Owen last sat down to supper around a table full of family, so he was no expert. But was it supposed to be this tense?

He wasn't helping, he knew. The only way he could be sure to keep his new resolution to remember that Libby Leeds was off limits was to shut down, which did not make him sparkling company for a dinner party. Not that this felt anything like a party, with Libby pale and subdued across the table, her jackass of a husband ignoring her to talk to his grandfather, who was presiding over the table with a calculating look in his deep-set blue eyes. Owen hadn't been able to get much of a handle on the old man over a glass of Scotch, but it appeared that he owned the house. Owen wondered why Nash and Libby lived here instead of getting a place of their own, but maybe he was biased. After all, he'd left home as soon as he was of age and hadn't been back since.

The kitchen door swung open and the maid marched in carrying an ornate silver soup tureen. Owen tried not to stare, uncomfortable with the overt display of Mr. Leeds' wealth. Was it really necessary to make the poor woman wear that ridiculously clichéd uniform? It looked like a Halloween costume. And if she bent over, she was going to be showing all of them London
and
France.

“Here eez soup,” she announced, dropping the tureen on the table so abruptly that a few drops of bright orange liquid sloshed out. “Butternut squash. You will enjoy eet.”

With that, she marched back into the kitchen, leaving Libby to stand and grasp the ladle with a bright blush reddening her cheeks. “Er, I'll serve, shall I? Pass me your plates.”

“Wow, this is delicious,” Owen said when he'd tasted his. He stared down at the bowl and inhaled the steam rising off the soup. “Seriously. It's going to be damn hard to go back to army food after eating your cooking, Libby.”

Her blush intensified, but the smile she gave him was wide and glad. “I'm so happy you like it.”

“I love it,” he corrected, closing his eyes to better savor the complex flavors. “What else is in there besides squash?”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at her husband's bowl while she filled it. “You know. Stuff.”

“Secret recipe,” Nash put in, winking at him.

Owen did his best not to frown. What kind of grown man went around winking at people? “Is this one you're working on for the column? I'd say it's ready, if you ask me.”

Libby sat down, having dished up her own bowl last, and spread her napkin in her lap with exaggerated care. “I don't know. It's possible I might … well. To be honest, I'm thinking about taking a break from writing the column.”

She gave Nash a grateful smile when he put his hand over hers where it lay on the table, and Owen fought the urge to grit his teeth.

“That's too bad,” he said. “My men love your columns. Private Fisker's wife sends the magazine overseas as soon as there's a new issue out, and you wouldn't believe the squabbling over who gets to read it when he's done. On second thought, maybe it's good you're taking a break. Less dissension in the ranks.”

“Really?” Libby took back her hand from Nash and used it to tuck her hair behind her ears, looking equal parts embarrassed and delighted. “I never would have imagined … that is, I didn't know you'd read my columns.”

“Sure, we all read 'em,” Owen said, shrugging and trying to ignore the kernel of satisfaction that she and Nash were no longer touching. “The way you write about your house and your community and your family life, even your chickens. The saga of Sweetie Pie, the hen, gets the guys going like you wouldn't believe. It's the next best thing to getting a letter from home, for most of them.”

“And what about for you?” Libby asked.

Owen hesitated, feeling strangely exposed. But these people had opened their home to him, at Christmas, no less. The least he could do was open up a little in return. Wiping his mouth on his napkin, he met Libby's hopeful, interested gaze. “I don't really have a home. Haven't since I was a kid. So for me, I guess I'd say your columns are like a fairy tale. A pretty fantasy about what it might be like to have a home like that. Reading it is an escape from reality, for me.”

Recognition flared in Libby's eyes, and once again Owen felt the tug of connection between them. It didn't make sense and it wasn't a good idea, for either of them, but he could no more turn it off than he could stop breathing.