Home for Christmas (7 page)

Libby gazed up at him hungry for more. “And my dad?”

“Taught me how to throw a ball,” Nash said promptly, nostalgia and fondness warming his light gray eyes. “My own father was … not around much. But Uncle Phil made up for a lot.”

Nash's smile crinkled the sun-tanned skin at the corners of his eyes, and Libby let herself smile back at him, feeling put at ease for the first time since she walked away from Owen Shepard.

“Thanks for telling me that. My uncle Ray—I guess he's your uncle, too!—never talked much about the family when I was growing up. I'm afraid I'm pretty in the dark about how we all fit together.”

A shadow crossed Nash's classically handsome face. He set down her suitcase and glanced over his shoulder at the wide, heavy door with its shiny brass knocker. “There are maybe a few things I should have told you before we got here. About … the family.”

A frisson of unease skittered over Libby's skin, and she wrapped her arms around her torso against the chill. “Okay.”

“So, Grandfather and Grandmother had three children,” Nash explained. “Ray, the oldest, then your dad, Philip, and last, my mom, Susan. The Leeds family was one of the first families on the island, several generations back. We have a long and storied history here, as Grandfather will be happy to tell you.”

Curious, Libby said, “I know Ray left home pretty young after some kind of fight with his parents. He never would tell me what it was about.”

Nash's mouth tightened. “We have a long and storied history—but not all the stories are happy ones. Or ones that Grandfather can be proud of. For instance, my mother got pregnant with me while she was still in high school.”

“That must have been hard.” Libby tried to imagine it, the very public shame in such a small town, the abrupt change from carefree teenaged girl to mother. “And your father? You said he wasn't around much.”

“Oh, he married her. Grandfather made sure of that.” Nash smiled, so tense and tight it was more of a grimace that pulled at his mouth. “But even Grandfather couldn't make my mom and dad magically ready to be spouses and parents. Dad took off when I was still a baby.”

“I'm so sorry.”

Nash shrugged. “Don't be. I don't remember him. I don't remember Uncle Ray, either, because he fell out with Grandfather over that forced-wedding business. I guess Ray didn't think Mom should have to marry Dad just to keep me from being born out of wedlock. And he was right, in the end. The marriage didn't last, and Mom moved to the mainland as soon as I left for college. “

Libby's head spun, the bare facts of Nash's story—her family's history—playing through her mind like a film. She could see it all, the forcefulness she'd noticed in her brief conversation with her grandfather prevailing on the frightened young woman. Her bull-headed Uncle Ray taking a stand and sticking to it, to the point of leaving his family and everything he knew behind for a solitary life in New York City.

And her father, caught in the middle. Her heart ached for all of them, and right then and there, Libby decided that if there were a way to manage it, she would do her best to put the broken pieces of her family back together. She owed her love and loyalty to the man who'd taken her in and cared for her as if she were his own daughter—but she couldn't help feeling that Dabney Leeds deserved at least the chance to reconcile with his son before Ray's terrible disease erased every scrap of the person he'd once been.

“Your mother left home,” Libby mused. “And so did Uncle Ray. It sounds as if my parents—”

“Were the only ones who could stand to live in such close proximity to Grandfather?” Nash smiled faintly.

Heart squeezing, Libby reached out and rested her hand on the gleaming polished brass of the doorknocker. It was in the shape of a bulldog's head, pugnacious and morose, and she couldn't help wondering if her grandfather had chosen it as a symbol for his own stubborn, outsized personality. “What is he like? Grandfather, I mean.”

A funny look came into Nash's eyes as he scrubbed one big hand through his tousled dark gold hair. “That's what I wanted to warn you about. Grandfather is … he can be difficult.”

Unease prickled across the back of Libby's neck. “He did seem a little, um, bossy. When I talked to him on the phone.”

“Bossy, huh?” Nash laughed. “Let me guess. You told him you had a problem and before you knew it, he was laying out a plan and expecting you to fall in line. No arguments, no discussion, no input from you required.”

For the first time since she met this catalogue-model cousin, with his perfect hair and movie-star looks, Libby felt the spark of kinship. She gave him a half smile. “You too, huh?”

With a lift of his broad shoulders, Nash communicated the same helplessness Libby had felt when dealing with her grandfather's schemes. “You know how in movies, grandpas are always wise, kindly old men with big, friendly bellies and maybe a fluffy, white beard? Yeah, not our grandfather. Whatever image you have in your head, I can almost guarantee it's wrong.”

Libby, who'd started revising her imagined vision of her grandfather the minute he answered his phone with a terse and crabby “What now?” glanced up at the flawless façade of the plantation-style house. Pristinely white, as if it were repainted every two years like clockwork, the house was impressive. Imposing. Stately, even.

But it wasn't very welcoming.

“I don't know,” Libby murmured, wrapping her arms around the chill that settled in her chest. “I think I'm getting a pretty clear picture. But if he's so awful, why did you come back here?”

Nash hesitated, a strange expression flitting over his face. Sensing a story, Libby waited breathlessly. But before Nash could say anything else, the front door swung open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges, revealing a slight, stooped figure in a crisp dark suit. Libby jumped at the sharp rap of a brass-handled cane on the hardwood floor of the foyer.

“Well?” The voice was creaky and petulant, sharp with impatience. “Stop standing around out here in the cold before you catch your death of darned foolishness. I would never have thought any grandchildren of mine could be so idiotic and lacking in consideration.”

Shocked, Libby took a step back and nearly tripped over her large suitcase. But Nash grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, Grandfather. We were just—”

“Gossiping like a couple of biddies at a quilting bee,” Dabney Leeds grumped, his faded blue eyes narrowed in disapproval.

To Libby's surprise, her tall, confident cousin ducked his head like a shamed little boy. And for some reason, the sight of Nash's chagrin overcame her normal shyness. Taking hold of her courage with both hands, Libby lifted her chin and said, “We were getting acquainted. That's what I'm here for, after all.”

His bushy white brows went up, as if he'd expected Libby to cower before him. “Hmm. To get acquainted, and to pull the wool over your boss's eyes by making a show of the perfect family Christmas.”

Reminded of her less-than-noble reasons for coming to Sanctuary Island should've deflated her. Nothing about this trip was going the way she'd imagined. But the glimpse of vulnerability she'd seen under Owen Shepard's calm strength made it impossible for Libby to give up now. “Yes,” she agreed. “At your invitation, Grandfather. Thank you again for that, by the way. It means a lot to me that you would open your home to a relative you haven't seen in years.”

Maybe it was naive, but Libby chose to view that invitation—which had honestly been more like a royal proclamation—as proof of Dabney's generosity of spirit rather than a desire to control his family. And for a moment, she thought she detected a slight softening in the harsh lines of his weathered face.

But in the next instant, he was scowling and turning away with a harrumph. “Quit letting all the heat out,” he said, stomping further into the house. “Despite what you may think, I'm not made of money, and I don't intend to waste what I do have by trying to warm up the whole outdoors.”

Nash gave Libby a sympathetic glance as he brushed past her, carrying her bag up the wide, winding staircase. Heart sinking, Libby turned to close the door behind them. The solid thunk of heavy wood meeting the doorjamb sounded incredibly final to Libby's sensitive ears. Slowly, she let out the breath she'd been holding as the still, chilly silence of the big house settled around her.

She gazed around the empty foyer, the gleaming hardwood floors smelling of beeswax and pine-scented polish, the unblemished expanse of white walls hung with framed paintings whose subjects Libby could barely see through the gloom.

Where were the lights? The pine boughs festooned with red ribbons and the clusters of mistletoe hanging from every doorway? Where was the homey smell of baking cookies? The warm, smiling family to welcome Libby back to the island she'd loved and lost so long ago?

Nowhere but in your imagination
, she scolded herself as she started to follow her cousin up the stairs. Once again, she had let herself spin a fantasy, a vision of home and love and family that existed only in her own head and heart. Ever since she could remember, Libby had found the differences between the world of stories she made up and the real world to be disappointing at best. Heartbreaking at worst.

She had a chance here, though. Maybe a slim chance, but a real chance all the same. With some hard work, perseverance, and yes, a good imagination … she could turn this drafty old mansion into the warm, welcoming home she'd always wanted for Christmas.

Hope flooded her chest. Libby marched up the steps with renewed determination. She would unpack and take a quick tour of the house to see what decorations they needed—maybe there were some things stored in closets or an attic waiting to be dusted off and admired. But if it took hiking into the forest with a saw and chopping down a tree with her bare hands to get this house looking festive, she'd do it. Because this time it wasn't just about Libby and her dashed hopes and crushed dreams. And it wasn't all about keeping her job and providing for her uncle.

There was a little girl out there who deserved a great holiday. And if the memory of that little girl's father smiling, slow and warm, sent a thrill all through Libby's body … well. Owen Shepard deserved a perfect Christmas, too. And somehow, Libby had the honor of providing it. She refused to disappoint them. It was all going to work out. She was sure of it.

After all, Christmas was a season for miracles, right?

 

Chapter Seven

The Christmas Village was one of Nash's favorite memories of growing up on Sanctuary Island, and he couldn't help straining for his first view of it as eagerly as any kid. But the first thing that hit him as he parked in Grandfather's reserved spot behind the Town Hall was the noise.

The merry jingle of silver bells chimed under the music of laughter and childish shrieks of joy, shouts of “Ho ho ho!” and “Merry Christmas!” ringing through the simple symphony. Scents of roasting sugared nuts and apple cider spiced the air, and Nash breathed in deeply, transported back to his childhood for one bright moment.

He opened his eyes and smiled at his cousin's rapt, upturned profile. Libby wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting when Grandfather informed him that Nash was to play husband to the cousin he hadn't seen in more than a decade. Nash had pictured a schemer, the sort of hard, beautifully brittle woman who would run a con like this to keep her job. Not that he could judge her—he had his own reasons for agreeing to take part in this charade, after all.

But instead of being hard and sharp-edged, Libby turned out to be soft. Soft spoken, soft eyed, with softly rounded cheeks and a tentative smile that made him want to tickle her to see if he could make her laugh the way she used to when they were little kids.

For some reason, Nash didn't think Libby laughed a whole lot these days.

But she was happy tonight, if the starry look in her hazel eyes was any indication. Nash remembered that her mother's eyes had been that exact same changeable color, like sunlight through the leaves in a deep, ancient forest, and the wave of nostalgia almost knocked him over.

Coming back to Sanctuary Island hadn't worked out quite the way he'd thought it would, but there was no denying the power of the memories he'd buried here. They routinely snuck past his defenses and ripped him open when he least expected it.

“Tonight should be fun,” he said as he got out of the car. He leaned over the roof for a minute, waiting for Libby to grab her puffy pink coat from the backseat. “It's the Opening Ceremony to welcome everyone to the village. There's a parade and everything, and we can walk around and check out the stalls.”

“Will there be any place selling nativity sets, do you think?” Libby asked keenly.

She'd spent the entire afternoon rummaging through the attic, opening unlabeled boxes and sifting through tissue-wrapped treasures looking for Christmas decorations. She'd unearthed enough ornaments to trim at least four eight-foot fir trees, and enough lights to get her started. But she hadn't found Grandmother's hand-painted nativity, even though Grandfather swore it was up there somewhere.

Nash had helped in the futile search, but Grandfather refused, saying his bones were too old and creaky to be dragged up the attic stairs. But Nash had a sneaking suspicion that the old man couldn't bear to see the mementoes of the family he'd pushed away. Grandfather had been morose, in his own cantankerous way, all day. It was a relief when he had his chauffeur take him down to the Christmas Village early to run through his part in the Opening Ceremony … and, presumably, to drive the festival organizers crazy with his contradictory orders and petulant demands.

Even Libby, who seemed determined to find the good in their difficult grandfather, had visibly relaxed a little once Dabney was out of the house. But she still hadn't managed to find the nativity and now she was determined to replace it. Maybe she thought a replacement set would disperse the gray clouds that permanently hovered over that sad old house, but Nash had his doubts.