Home for Christmas (2 page)

Keeping her voice calm and pleasant, Libby tried to contain her panic. “Thank you so much, Mr. Downing. I appreciate that more than I can say.”

Clearly having had enough small talk, Downing cleared his throat and barreled on like a jovial, speed-talking Santa Claus. “An incredible promotional opportunity has fallen into our laps, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth? Ha, ha, ha, at any rate, I'm thrilled, absolutely thrilled, to inform you that you and your family will be hosting an extra guest at your holiday table this year. A famous guest, no less.”

Libby nearly fell off her ergonomic desk chair. “But Mr. Downing! I couldn't possibly!”

The cheer dropped out of his voice, leaving only steel. “You can and you will. This is not a request, Ms. Leeds. I've already committed you.”

Mouth dropping open in shocked horror, Libby groped for the upper hand. “Mr. Downing, I'm so sorry but I must decline. My family, my privacy—”

“Are nothing,” Downing declared, “when weighed against the need of a true American hero.”

A true American hero. The phrase echoed in Libby's swirling brain, familiar as her own name. Her fingertips prickled, and blood rushed to her head so quickly she felt faint. He couldn't possibly mean …

“Sergeant Owen Shepard,” her boss said. “You've seen the video? Yes, you and everyone else in America. Well, it turns out that the man's daughter and sister live … guess where? Sanctuary Island! Small world, eh? You can imagine how your many readers reacted when they made the connection. My assistant sifted through an avalanche of fan mail, and each one contained the same plea—that you and your husband host the Shepard family for Christmas. I know you would not want to disappoint your loyal readers, so obviously, you must give Shepard and his daughter the perfect Christmas.”

Or you will be fired.

He didn't say it, but Libby heard it anyway. Loud and clear. There was just one problem … the truth.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Libby scoured her mind for a way out, any other option, but there was none. This was it. The moment she'd been dreading for two years was breathing down her neck.

She opened her eyes and stared around her. Instead of the spacious and homey living room she envisioned as she wrote her column, with handmade quilts draping comfy couches and a handsome husband contentedly tying fishing lures in the corner by the crackling fire, Libby saw her cramped, empty studio apartment. Outside, instead of the whisper of wind through pine boughs, she heard the loud rumble of the 7 train passing practically beneath her feet on its way to Flushing.

Libby thought of all the reasons she'd started this terrible deception in the first place—well, the one, single reason, actually. With a quick and silent prayer for her uncle Ray, who'd taken in a grieving orphan girl and raised her with love, Libby took the plunge.

“Mr. Downing. I have something to tell you. And you're not going to like it.”

 

Chapter Two

Libby was right. Mr. Downing
didn't
like it. He shouted a bit, then seethed for a while and when he was finally calm enough to listen, Libby tried to explain.

He cut her off before she'd gotten out more than a few words. “I don't care about Uncle Ray's medical bills! I care about this magazine's reputation. This could ruin us. If word gets out…”

“Can't we just back out? Tell Sergeant Shepard that something came up? It's a little rude, I know, but…”

“It's gone beyond that,” Downing said grimly. “I posted the invitation on the home page of the web site—and he accepted. Publicly. News outlets are reporting on it. There's no graceful way out of this.”

“I'm so, so sorry.” Libby wanted to bang her head against the desk. “I know that's not enough. I know it doesn't mean anything to you now, but I couldn't see another choice at the time.”

“There's always another choice,” Mr. Downing spat out. “For instance, not lying to millions of readers every month about your life. That's a choice. Where did you get your material? Have you ever even been to Sanctuary Island?”

Familiar pain shot through Libby's heart, and she breathed around it the way she'd learned to at eight years old. “I spent part of my childhood there, until my parents died.”

There was a pause, then Downing said, “So. Do you still have family on the island, by any chance?”

“Just a grandfather, my dad's father.” Drowning in guilt, Libby tried to apologize again. “Listen, Mr. Downing, I can't tell you how much I regret putting you in this position. I'll take full responsibility, obviously—I'll make sure no one blames the magazine for what I've done.”

The tips of her fingers felt numb and tingly with fear. This was going to be bad. But whatever the consequences, she would face up to them. Her stomach churned, but another part of Libby was actually a little relieved. To have the truth come out, finally—it was like being able to take a full breath again after two years of gasping for air.

“No,” Mr. Downing said, decisive and curt. “You will not take responsibility for anything.”

Her breath caught. “What?”

“There's always another choice,” he said again, but this time his tone was all smug satisfaction. “We can salvage this. It's simple. You will go to Sanctuary Island and convince your grandfather to host the holidays for Sergeant Shepard and his family.”

Libby sat up so fast, her desk chair scooted sideways and nearly dumped her out on the floor. “I can't do that! I haven't spoken to my grandfather in years, he and Uncle Ray are estranged—”

“Irrelevant.” She could picture the man waving away her objections like they were a swarm of irritating gnats. “We need a house on Sanctuary Island—he has one. Problem solved.”

Trying to inch back from the edge of the fiery pit opening up at her feet, Libby scrambled to present other objections. “Okay, but, you promised them we'd have the perfect Christmas … which means a big feast, right? I can't cook!”

“That's a lie, too?” Poor Mr. Downing sounded like he might be literally tearing his hair out. “But the way you write about food … it all sounds so good.”

“My mother was a wonderful cook. When I write about a meal, I draw on my memories of how she cooked.” Libby swallowed around the lump in her throat. “But I don't even have her recipes to follow. I wish I did.”

Downing made a thoughtful noise. “This can still work—we'll provide you with some recipes and you'll be fine. If you can read, you can cook.”

“No, I really can't.” Desperation made her words rush, tumbling out of her. “The last time I tried to make myself a cup of tea in my apartment, I got caught up researching how to describe learning to churn my own butter for the column, and all the water boiled away. I scorched the bottom of the teapot so badly, I had to order a new one. I set off the smoke alarm! You know what that means? I literally
burned water
.”

“So pay attention,” Downing growled impatiently. “For the love of—it's not rocket science. Figure it out.”

Tears of frustration prickled behind her eyes. “You don't understand—”

“No,” Downing broke in. “You are the one who doesn't seem to understand. This is not a request. I am not asking you to do this. I am telling you,
you are doing this
. You have no choice.”

The arrogant command in his tone had Libby's spine straightening. “But according to you, there's always another choice,” she said quietly. “Right?”

She could actually hear him grinding his teeth. “Fine,” Downing spat. “Put it this way—your other choice is to be sued for fraud. Who's going to pay Uncle Ray's medical bills if you go to prison?”

Everything in Libby's whirling brain suddenly stilled, giving her a light-headed feeling of vertigo. “Prison.”

“Public disgrace, financial ruin, and potential criminal charges on the one hand,” Downing enumerated as if he were making a pro and con list, “or you can do this one little thing for me, show a wounded war veteran and his motherless daughter a good time on Sanctuary Island, and then I'll let you retire quietly from the column and we all go our separate ways with the public none the wiser.”

Retire! Libby shook her head reflexively, her heart clenching. Despite how hard it could be, she loved writing. Her stories about Sanctuary Island and the fake life she'd created there were all she had. She couldn't bear to lose them. “You mean, you'll fire me and I'll go quietly or you'll carry out your threat to sue me.”

“I'd say an employee who lied about who she is to get her job deserves to be fired. Wouldn't you? You're lucky I'm giving you the chance to walk away clean. And it all hinges on Owen Shepard.”

Of course, it had to be Owen Shepard. She'd meet him, get to know him in person. The idea was too strange and thrilling to entertain for longer than a single shivery second. Just the idea of being in the same room with him, much less around the same holiday table, made Libby go flushed and hot with embarrassed longing.

“I don't understand why you're willing to go to such lengths for one story.” Libby stalled for time, her mind racing, trying to figure a way out—some way to keep the job she loved, the salary that paid for Uncle Ray's care, and herself out of prison.

“This Sergeant Shepard is a hot commodity,” Downing said. “Everyone wants a piece of him, and we're lucky enough to have our most popular columnist living in the same town where the man is spending the holidays. I'm not passing up this chance for free publicity—and I'm certainly not trading the free publicity for the public humiliation of the world finding out our star columnist is a fraud.”

The determination in his gruff voice gave Libby the glimmer of an idea. Taking a deep breath for courage, she said, “I have a counterproposal for you.”

“I'm not sure you're in a position to negotiate, but go ahead.”

Stung by the amusement in his voice, Libby gripped the phone tightly. “I'll do it. I'll go home to Sanctuary Island and ask for my grandfather's help in hosting Christmas for Sergeant Shepard and his family, and I'll figure out how to cook and throw a great party—and when I do, you'll let me keep my job.”

In the long pause that followed, Libby listened to herself hyperventilate and thought about how insane it was for her to make any demands in this situation. She did deserve to be fired! She probably deserved prison, too—but Uncle Ray needed her. And she needed this job, not only for the money, but because writing about her fantasy life in her hometown was as close as Libby ever got to feeling truly alive.

“You want to keep writing the column,” Hugo Downing said slowly, all traces of amusement erased from his tone. “Even though you admit you can't cook and haven't lived on Sanctuary Island in years.”

“It hasn't slowed me down so far,” Libby pointed out. “And after this Christmas, I'll have more material and experience than ever. My columns may not be strictly factual, Mr. Downing, but they're good stories. They make people happy. I've got the fan mail to prove it.”

She held her breath, going light-headed when Downing said, “Fine. I'll consider it. But put me down as one of your guests for Christmas dinner—I'll want to judge how you do for myself.”

Nerves and adrenaline roiled in Libby's stomach, turning her queasy. She couldn't believe she was agreeing to this crazy scheme. “I'll do my best, Mr. Downing. I promise. Although … I'm still not sure I can pull off the perfect Christmas. Not to mention that, well, you might not believe this, but I'm not actually a very good liar.”

“I've always found that employees rise to challenges,” Downing said, cheerful again now that he was getting his own way. “It's amazing what people can do with the right motivation.”

And that's how Libby found herself boarding a ferry headed for Sanctuary Island, almost before she knew what was happening. Once she gave in to the inevitable, everything came together shockingly quickly. One final trip out to Sunnyside Gardens to visit with Uncle Ray—it was a good day, too, he actually recognized her—and one hideously awkward phone call to the grandfather she barely knew, and here she was.

Libby clutched her pink puffy coat's collar closed and huddled her neck down into the thick turtleneck of her sweater. Even on the bottom floor of the ferry, indoors and mostly protected from the biting December wind, she was cold.

Or maybe that was the chill of terror at the thought of setting foot on the island that was home to her happiest memories … and her darkest grief.

At least I'll have a couple of weeks to get over whatever emotions this trip brings up,
Libby comforted herself. Sergeant Shepard was scheduled to be released from the hospital on December twentieth, so Libby's plan was to settle in at her grandfather's house, get the lay of the land, and practice cooking.

Once he'd gotten over his evident shock at hearing from her, Libby's grandfather had been surprisingly eager to open his home to an unknown relative. She'd forced herself to explain the circumstances of her visit—he deserved the chance to turn her away if he didn't want anything to do with this deceitful charade. She'd told him she only planned to impose on him for the week of Christmas. But to her shock, he'd immediately jumped in with both feet by ordering her to get on the next flight to Virginia. Before they'd even gotten off the phone, he'd gone online and bought her a ticket for the first weekend of December.

Something told her Dabney Leeds was a man who was used to taking charge and being obeyed.

It was just as well since, now that she'd committed herself and made her deal with the devil, Libby found herself at a loss as to how to go about setting up this whole fake Christmas thing. Luckily her grandfather, Dabney Leeds, didn't seem to require her input. He'd launched into planning mode, ignoring equally both her worried apologies and her stammered thanks.