Home for Christmas (29 page)

“No,” Ivy said sharply, shaking her head of smooth, retro, coal-black waves. Her red lips were turned down at the corners, and as Libby watched, tears welled at the corners of her eyes. Careful not to smear the black wings of her eyeliner, Ivy dabbed a finger at her eyes. “I mean, I won't do anything to blow your cover in front of the cameras. But I'm not sure what Nash told you, if you think this lie was the only thing keeping us apart.”

Libby shifted her weight uncomfortably. “I guess … I don't know that much about your relationship. Only that Nash is deeply in love with you, and I suppose I assumed … well, hoped, that you felt the same.”

Sniffing, Ivy shook herself like a cat coming in from the rain, her lushly curved body doing a quick shimmy that made the metallic green threads in her tight sweaterdress catch the light. “Come on, they're all waiting. Let's get this salad course underway.”

Unhappy but not sure how much to push, Libby subsided. They worked side by side arranging orange wedges and slices of pale green avocado on mounds of butter lettuce, ladling over her grandmother's homemade poppy-seed dressing, and scattering pomegranate seeds across the plates like tiny rubies.

As they loaded up their arms with plates and prepared to head back into the dining room, Ivy suddenly said, “I do love him, you know. I always have. But all this sneaking around and cloak-and-dagger stuff is pretty familiar. He's never been one for proclaiming his love from the rooftops, and I just can't go through that again. When we were together before back in Atlanta, it was so good between us … as long as it was only the two of us. Or if we were with my friends. But every time I asked to meet his friends, or if he had a work function where everyone else was bringing a plus one, he just … faded away. He'd smile that charming smile and change the subject, and I let him. For a long time. Longer than I should have.”

She looked down at the plates in her hands, blinking quickly. Libby's heart went out to her. “You don't have to tell me this if you don't want to.”

Ivy sniffed once then tilted her chin at a proud, determined angle. “He was obviously ashamed of our relationship, on some level. And I get it. I'm not exactly the pearl-wearing, white-gloved debutante who'd fit right into a rich, old southern legacy. But I can't be anyone's dirty little secret. I deserve better than that. And it's not that I don't believe him when he comes to my house and pours his heart out to me in private, but I've heard that before. Plenty of times. And at this point, I won't feel like my heart is safe with him until he's ready to tell the whole world how he feels.”

With that, Ivy swept out of the kitchen, and Libby could only scramble to follow her. They went around the quiet table, setting down plates, and Libby couldn't help but notice the way Nash tried to catch Ivy's eye and the way she avoided looking at him. Libby's heart hurt for them both, but when Rhonda Friend cleared her throat, Libby's gaze snapped back to the reporter in terror that she might have given something away.

Rhonda had a predatory air about her, like a lioness who'd spotted a lame gazelle, as she lifted one hand and signaled at the nearest cameraman. “Before we move on to the salad course, I have a surprise guest to introduce.”

Under the table, Nash kicked at Libby's ankle, and she kicked him back. She had no idea what this was all about. Across from them, Owen scowled slightly, obviously as mystified as anyone else.

Standing smoothly, Rhonda straightened her black, sequined sheath dress and raised her voice, “You can come in now.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Libby dared to hope that somehow Rhonda had found Dabney Leeds and helped him get home for a dramatic family reunion moment, but the person who entered the dining room was a woman. Young and fair-skinned with dark brown hair and eyes, the woman stepped up to the head of the long table as if she were preparing to address Congress.

She wore a no-nonsense suit in navy blue wool with a silvery gray shirt underneath. The only concession to the season was the glint of a gold pendant in the shape of a snowflake winking at her open collar.

“Um, hello,” Libby said, remembering her hostess duties but unsure what to say. “Would you like some orange and avocado salad?”

“Happy holidays,” the woman replied briskly, her gaze scanning the table and seeming to size up every one of the guests. Her eyes softened when they landed on Caitlin, making Libby think she had hidden depths of emotion. “And thank you for the invitation, but I'm not here for supper. I'm here to give Sergeant Owen Shepard some good news.”

At the mention of his rank, Owen straightened his shoulders as if unconsciously. He was also wearing his dress uniform, looking so handsome and strong and yes, downright heroic in it that it was all Libby could do to keep from lunging across the table and kissing him.

“I'm Sergeant Shepard. Would you like to step outside, ma'am? I hate to interrupt Christmas dinner with my personal business,” Owen said, a muscle ticking behind his jaw.

“It's no interruption,” Rhonda protested, rounding the table to stand with the mystery woman and, not coincidentally, making sure to put herself in the camera's frame. “What, are we worried the salad will get cold? Relax, Sergeant, this is my gift to you. I'm sure everyone here can't wait to watch you open it.”

Beside her, the unknown woman arched one perfect dark brow so slightly, Libby almost missed it. But that moment, along with the bone-dry tone of her voice when she spoke, gave Libby the impression that this woman wasn't pleased or impressed with Rhonda's attention-seeking shenanigans.

“My name is Hannah Swift,” she said crisply, wasting no more time and addressing Owen directly. She didn't look at the cameras even once, although she clearly knew they were there. “I am the founder and president of The Hero Project, a national charitable organization whose mission is to provide service, care, education, and help to those wounded in the line of duty, from military veterans to cops to firefighters and more.”

Without knowing why, Libby's fingers gripped the edges of her straight-backed wooden chair and held on tight.

“Thank you for everything you do,” Andie Shepard said into the brief pause that followed Hannah Swift's introduction. Andie's voice was thick with emotion, but it didn't shake at all. “Your organization has helped hundreds of people to overcome and learn to live with their injuries, both mental and physical.”

Hannah Swift put a hand to her face and whispered, “Your check is in the mail!” without ever cracking a smile. Libby liked her all the more for being able to make such a deadpan joke. “No, really. Thank you—I know that you serve and protect your community as sheriff. And you, Sergeant Shepard, were placed on the Permanent Disability Retired List six months ago following a catastrophic injury to your left leg and hip. At that time, the military doctors determined that you would never walk normally again, that your disability was, in fact, permanent—but I am here today to tell you that is not the case.”

Across the table, Owen went entirely still, his blue eyes going as opaque as the ocean before a storm. Libby couldn't catch her breath. The inside of her head was all white noise and static, until she heard the words she'd been dreading for weeks: “Sergeant Shepard, it is my very great honor and joy to inform you that The Hero Project's medical team has informed me that your progress since you began your therapy at the Windy Corner Therapeutic Riding Center has been nothing short of amazing. Congratulations, you beat all the odds—with continued hard work and the help of a local therapeutic riding program, there is reason to hope that you will soon regain full use of your leg.”

Owen was better. He was going to be completely healed. Joy and gratitude welled up in Libby's heart, even as it splintered apart with the knowledge that this meant Owen would be leaving Sanctuary Island—leaving her—very soon.

“Of course, the requirements for active military service are somewhat more demanding than what we civilians would consider a complete recovery,” Hannah Swift continued. “But when you're ready, we would be happy to facilitate a consultation with the military hospital that treated you, and help get you reinstated in the Army.”

“It's a little more complicated than that,” Owen said slowly. “We'd have to present evidence before the Army Physical Disability Review Board, get my status changed from PDRL to TDRL—that is, Permanent Disability Retired List to Temporary Disability Retired List—before anyone will even think about looking at my case for reinstatement.”

Interest honed Hannah Swift's gaze, turning her from a serious, pretty women to a charismatic bombshell. Her fingers twitched, and Libby got the distinct impression the woman wished she had a pad and pencil so she could take notes. “That's fascinating, Sergeant. I'd love to talk further about this, if you'd be agreeable. My contacts at Windy Corner say you're eager to get back out there.”

*   *   *

“What does she mean?” Caitlin's whisper was louder than a shout in the pregnant pause after Hannah Swift's announcement, as she tugged on Owen's sleeve. “Get back out where, Daddy?”

Owen tore his gaze from the woman watching him with calm understanding in the depths of her dark eyes. That woman was offering him everything he'd been working toward for months … and instead, he looked down at the little girl who'd just called him “Daddy” for the first time.

“She said you beat the odds,” Caitlin pursued, her nose wrinkled in the same look of confusion that Andie used to get when they were kids. “Is that like beating someone in a race?”

Owen stared down at her. He couldn't find the words. He couldn't make his mouth open and shape itself around the truth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Libby's hand dart up to cover her own mouth, and Owen's lungs squeezed tight.

On the other side of Caitlin, Andie leaned over to wrap one arm around the girl's thin shoulders. “No, honey,” Andie murmured. “Remember how your dad had to walk with a cane when he first got here? This lady helped your dad get better, and now she's here to tell him that someday soon, he could be well enough to go back to work. Until now, we didn't know for sure that he'd recover all the way.”

He met Andie's eyes over the top of Caitlin's head, a silent and agonizing moment of connection, before Caitlin said dully, “So he's leaving.”

“Sweetheart,” Owen said, putting his hand over her small, cold fingers where they still rested on his arm, but Caitlin pulled away. She wasn't petulant or obvious about it; somehow, she seemed to shrug or shift and suddenly, she'd slipped out of his hold.

“I don't want to leave you,” Owen tried, sharply conscious of the many eyes watching them, including the cameras recording every instant of this gut-wrenching conversation. “That's not what it's about. But I'm needed over there, where I work.”

He paused, feeling helpless and hating it, but no one jumped in. No one else could have this conversation for him, Owen realized. It was between father and daughter, and he was the only person who could even attempt to make this better for Caitlin.

What other things in life would be like that, if he was here for her full time?

Shaking off the thought, Owen glanced at Libby, who dropped her hand from her mouth and attempted a smile and an encouraging nod. He could read her broken heart in her eyes, though, and nothing about that made what he had to say to Caitlin any easier.

“I love you,” he told his daughter, the words falling out of him as if they'd always been that easy to say. “Nothing will ever change that, whether I'm here with you all the time or if I only see you for visits. Nothing has to change—”

“Everything changes.” Caitlin said the words to her plate, her young voice sounding as tired and resigned as a much older person's.

He waited, heart in his throat, but she said nothing else. She didn't look up, she didn't respond when Andie tried to hug her … just eeled her way out of the contact as easily as breathing.

“Keep rolling,” Rhonda hissed at one of the camera guys, who reluctantly brought the camera back up to his shoulder and pointed it at Owen's pale, trembling daughter.

Red-hot rage blew through Owen's chest, scouring it as clean and raw as a sandstorm in the desert. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his feet, his hands curled into fists, and Rhonda was taking a step backward with eyes gone wide with shock at whatever she saw on his face.

“Well,” said Hannah Swift, smoothly interposing herself between Rhonda and Owen. “I've delivered my message, as agreed, Ms. Friend, and now I think I've taken up enough of this lovely family's time. Sergeant Shepard—Owen—it was a privilege to meet you, and The Hero Project is here to help … no matter what you decide.”

With that, Hannah Swift turned and marched out of the dining room. Her timely intervention had broken the tension, and while Rhonda hastily conferred with her head camera guy, Libby picked up her fork and said, “Dig in, everyone. There are still two courses left to go.”

Owen wondered if he was the only one who could interpret the grim determination in Libby's tone. This Christmas dinner had gone from being something to dread to something he and Libby were doing together to something to get through—to survive, no matter how difficult.

Owen glanced sideways at his daughter, sitting motionless beside him with a full plate of food in front of her, and examined the empty wasteland inside his chest.

It felt possible, in that moment, that even though he'd lived through basic training, Ranger training, and combat, he actually might not survive this holiday intact.

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

Libby had to go by the expressions of the people around her to tell if the salad tasted all right. Every bite she put in her mouth tasted like dust and ashes. She kept going, forkful after forkful, shoveling it in and hoping for the best.