Home for Christmas (20 page)

“So you let him go.” Owen's statement was neutral, not a hint of judgment, but the guilt and doubts that still haunted Libby about her decisions swirled to the surface.

“I had to respect his wishes,” she said, hearing the pleading note in her own voice but unable to cover it up. “He has so few choices left, so little ability to decide how he wants to live as his mind lets him down more and more every day—how could I ignore him when he was so clear about his wishes?”

“You couldn't. But let me guess at the next part.” Owen's mouth was stiff, barely moving with his words. Only his eyes, bright with anger and betrayal, gave away his feelings. “The assisted-living place was pricey. And the editor made you an offer you couldn't refuse.”

“Of course I could have refused. I'm not trying to make excuses for what I've done—I made the choices all along the way, and I'll live with the consequences. But if you'll let me, I would like to explain why I did what I did.”

Owen leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His hands were curled into fists, but he appeared to make a conscious effort to relax them. “Fine,” he said shortly. “Explain yourself.”

It was a clear challenge, and Libby did her best not to rise to it. Defensiveness wouldn't help her here. Besides, she had no defense. She'd done wrong, and she knew it.

“I accepted the editor's offer because I needed the money. I looked at every assisted-living place and nursing home in driving distance of Queens—it had to be close enough for me to visit—and … Owen, you wouldn't believe how sad most of those places are. Underfunded, understaffed, joyless, and hopeless. I couldn't bear to see the man who took me in and raised me like I was his own locked up in a place like that. But Sunnyside Gardens is different. Every resident gets a private room—at most places, they have to share—and not only that, but at Sunnyside, they're allowed to keep pets. For Uncle Ray, that was huge. He couldn't remember who I was, most days, but he never forgot his cockatoo, Buster.”

The lump in Libby's throat broke open, strangling her with a sob. “He loves that stupid bird. And I absolutely believe that taking care of Buster is helping Uncle Ray. That one chore, and the joy he feels when Buster perches on his shoulder and nips at his ear—those things are like pathways back to who Uncle Ray really is. It's so important—and Sunnyside was the only place that not only allowed but encouraged pets. The nurses there are incredible. They sit and talk with him, they play with Buster and help keep his cage clean, they call me every couple of days with updates on how he's doing. I couldn't put a price on that kind of care.”

“But there is a price,” Owen guessed quietly. “And it's a steep one.”

Libby nodded, her heart feeling as fragile as a cracked crystal vase. “A price I had to pay, because Uncle Ray never made a lot of money and he refused—categorically refused—to let me ask his family for help. He doesn't want his father to know what's going on, and he would absolutely hate knowing that I'm here, and that I almost caved and asked Grandfather for money. But I don't know what else to do. This has all turned into such a huge mess. I never wanted to build my life on a lie, but somehow, that's exactly what I did. And even though I told myself it was a victimless crime, that I wasn't hurting anyone by writing those stories about my imaginary husband and our imaginary, perfect life together—I hated it.”

Owen stood in a rush of controlled power and unconscious grace. The banked fires in his eyes flared to furious life. “You did hurt people with your lies, Libby. You hurt all the people who read your column and believed in you. But what I don't think I can forgive is that you hurt my daughter. Caitlin is slow to trust. I should know. But she trusted you almost immediately, and you got her hopes up sky high about this fantasy Christmas of yours.”

His jaw clenched, his fingers white-knuckled on the handle of his cane. “Turns out, everything about you is a fantasy. A fairy tale you wrote, casting yourself as the heroine, and somehow you got the whole world believing it. But real life is no fairy tale, Libby. In real life, people get hurt. It's hard to tell who's the heroine and who's the villain. And there's no happy ending.”

He strode toward the door, and words fluttered up into Libby's mouth like birds, flapping frantically to get out. But she swallowed them down and kept her lips tightly shut and let Owen Shepard walk out of her life. Because now he knew the truth, and it was his choice whether to forgive her or not.

How could Libby expect Owen to forgive her when she couldn't forgive herself?

Alone in the study, Libby sighed and allowed her shoulders to slump in despair. But despair wasn't going to get the twinkle lights on the tree or get the menu finalized for the big meal on Christmas Day. There was a lot to do, and not a lot of time to do it in.

Get up,
Libby told herself firmly.
Get. Up.

And with a deep breath in, she did. But all the joy had gone out of the season. Her soul felt as barren and bleak as the steel gray sky over the skeletal pines outside the study window.

What was the point of all this anymore? She'd utterly failed to put her family back together—and in the process, she'd managed to make a good man feel like a bad person. And then she'd made him hate her.

Maybe the best thing she could do for everyone was exactly what her grandfather expected of her. Maybe she should leave and let them all forget she ever existed.

*   *   *

“I just can't believe she'd do a thing like this,” Owen finished his rant to Andie while his sister calmly stacked dirty dishes in her sink.

“I'm not sure why you're so shocked,” she finally said, wiping her hands on a towel printed with sunflowers. “You hardly know this woman.”

“That's true.” Owen frowned. It didn't feel true, though. “I guess I thought we shared something.”

“Maybe you did. Just because she was lying about one thing doesn't mean she's lying about everything.”

Owen paused, narrowing his eyes on his sister. “Wait a second. Who are you, and what have you done with my rule-following, law-loving, truth-telling sister?”

“Shut up. I'm still me, just … with a few more shades of gray.”

“Ugh, if that's some subtle reference to your sex life with Sam…”

Andie lobbed the dishtowel at Owen's head, laughing when he ducked. “My sex life is none of your business, thank you very much. But I guess you could say that Sam is at least partially responsible for my new perspective. He never lied to me about who he was, but there was a big secret he was keeping when he first showed up on Sanctuary Island. When I found out about it, I had a choice. I could either follow the letter of the law … or I could recognize that human beings are complicated, and sometimes they do the wrong thing for the right reasons.”

Owen thought about the way Libby's bottom lip had quivered when she talked about her uncle's terrifying disease. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose himself like that, bit by bit and day by day, until the man Owen had worked so hard to become was gone. “I get why Libby started down this path. What I don't understand is why she couldn't tell me the truth from the start. I would've helped her.”

“She couldn't know that for sure,” Andie pointed out. “And it's not all about her. It sounds like she was juggling a lot of different people's wishes and best interests … while putting her own dead last, most of the time.”

There were scuffs in the linoleum under Owen's boots, and the wooden table he occupied in the breakfast nook was scarred and had a distinct wobble. But the kitchen in Andie's small house on Sanctuary Island felt cozy and warm, welcoming in a way that reminded Owen of what it had been like when their mother was alive. Some of it came from the rekindled family connection, but a lot of it was about how happy Andie was here.

“You made the right choice,” Owen told her. “This is a good life you've built here with Sam and Caitlin.”

Andie sank into the chair across the table from him, stretching out her hand to prod his arm. “Thanks. I want you to have a happy life too, you know. For a while there, I wondered if you might find it with Libby Leeds.”

“Even though she was married—or so we thought? Scandalous.”

“Hmm. I never totally bought into that marriage to Nash Tucker, anyway,” Andie claimed, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest decisively. “Nash has the hots for my best friend, and she's not the kind of woman a man gets over.”

“Wait. Are you saying you knew the marriage was a sham?”

“No, just that I wouldn't have given them good odds on making it to the end of the year still hitched. And as events have proved, I was right. So tell me this, Owen. Are you actually angry at Libby for deceiving you … or are you running scared because now you know that you have a real shot with her?”

Owen sat up straight. “Holy sh—don't hold back, sis! Tell me what's really on your mind.”

The smug satisfaction of an older sibling who still knew how to rattle her baby bro brightened Andie's smile. “That's pretty much it. Did you even stay to hear her whole explanation, or did you jet out of there as if she'd lit your socks on fire?”

Owen pushed back from the table, jittery enough to haul himself to his feet and try to pace around the cramped kitchen. “I heard her out … mostly.”

“Oh, yeah?” Andie looked unimpressed. “So, you asked her what you asked me, about why she didn't confide in you sooner?”

The expression on Owen's face was obviously answer enough.

“I see,” Andie said calmly. “And you probably also thought to inquire as to whether she's still set on going through with this crazy charade.”

Owen stopped dead. “What do you mean?”

Andie gave him a slightly pitying glance. “What I mean, my big, dumb idiot brother, is now that Libby's secret is out, does she plan to stay on Sanctuary Island and go through with the whole Christmas dinner thing? Or is she heading back up north instead?”

The idea of it cut Owen off at the knees. “Heading back…”

Andie pressed her lips together sympathetically, but she didn't mollycoddle him. “Back to where she lives. Queens, isn't it? For all you know, she could be on the ferry over to the mainland to catch a plane right now.”

 

Chapter Eighteen

Libby settled her wooly cap more firmly on her head, tugging to make sure it covered the tops of her cold ears, and let herself out the back door. The pines creaked in the wind, rustling and whispering to each other in the gathering dusk. There was something peaceful and melancholy about them, Libby decided, walking briskly to get her blood moving.

She wrapped her arms around herself, slapping at her puffy-coated sleeves, and marched deeper into the woods away from her grandfather's house. Every step farther from the deep gloom of that broken home, every breath of sharply cold air, cleared a little more of the fog from Libby's brain.

Never before had Libby come face-to-face with the depth of her family's unhappiness. A terrible rift had pulled her family to pieces before Libby was even born—maybe she'd been naive and arrogant to think there was anything she could do to fix that. But maybe she could fix other things.

Libby paused, her booted steps cushioned by the bed of fallen pine needles carpeting the frozen ground. Her breath fogged in front of her face, and the tip of her nose tingled with cold. She glanced up through the waving branches at the monochrome sky, the clouds heavy with the promise of snow. The whole world felt hushed, as if it were waiting for something.

She breathed in, tasting the possibilities like snowflakes on her tongue. She could run away, leave her misdeeds and the people she'd wronged behind her—but she'd carry her guilt with her wherever she went. Her other option was to stay and try to make things right. Or if not right, at least better.

Caught on the edge of the decision, Libby stood still and shut her eyes tight, trying to listen for an answer on the chill wind.

“Libby!”

Owen's calling voice reached her, sending her heartbeat into a frantic gallop. Her eyes popped open in time to see him striding through the trees, tall and broad-shouldered and sure. A man on a mission.

“Libby,” he repeated, relief clear in his ocean-blue eyes when they found her. “There you are. I couldn't find you back at the house. I was worried you'd left town.”

“I thought about it,” she admitted, breathless at his nearness. Her hungry gaze roved over his leanly muscled form, committing him to memory. His russet hair caught the fading light, tickling her palms with yearning to run her fingers through the short bristles. Tiny lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes, from laughter or from too much squinting against the glare of the harsh desert sun. His skin still carried a deep golden tan, though the other legacies of his time in Afghanistan, his visible wounds, were fading. He didn't even have his cane, Libby noticed with a pang of concern.

“Don't leave,” Owen said, reaching out to clasp her by the upper arms. Libby fought a gasp, and the urge to go boneless in his grasp.

“Why not? I'm the villain, remember? The only happy ending is for me to go slinking off in disgrace. Or for me to get my comeuppance.”

Libby tried to smile a little to show she knew how much she deserved it, but Owen didn't even see it. He was too busy shaking his head. “You don't get off that easy.”

Shame burned through Libby. Running away would be taking the easy way out, she saw with a sick lurch to her stomach. “You're right,” she said numbly. “You were right about everything. I can't leave like that. I have to stick it out, and take whatever's coming to me.”

“That's not what I meant. Don't stay to punish yourself, or because you hope I'll punish you.”