Home for Christmas (24 page)

“Your grandmother used to do it that way,” Grandfather muttered, his watery blue eyes trained on Libby's hands. “She said she could never get a feel for what she was doing when she used a machine.”

It was a peace offering—a tiny bit of the past handed over like a coin to a beggar—and Libby pressed her lips together. “I know. This is Grandmother's recipe. I found it last night, in the shed where you store your Santa suit and sleigh. And all of my mother's things.”

Dabney Leeds reared back, his head wagging shakily. “You shouldn't have been in there.”

“It was snowing and we needed shelter,” Libby said impatiently. “That's not the point! The point is that you had all those things, all those memories, locked away and hidden from me. Why? All I wanted when I came here was to learn about my family, my history. You seem to want to build a relationship with me—but I don't see how that's possible when you won't tell me anything about the people we both loved and lost.”

The thin, papery skin of his hand where it clutched the head of his cane showed the tension running through his stooped, creaky body. “You shouldn't have been snooping. Those are my things. My personal, private—”

“They don't belong only to you, though.” Libby gave up pretending to focus on the bowl of creamed butter and sugar. “You're not the only one who misses them. There's a huge hole in my heart where my memories of my parents, my family, should live. I came here hoping to fill it. You're the only one who can help me. And instead, you hoarded those memories like a miser, like Ebenezer Scrooge—”

Libby broke off, remembering her conversation with Owen, his confession about stealing a scarf that belonged to his mother because his father had kept everything else for himself. At the time she'd been intent on learning all she could about the events that had shaped the man Owen had become, but in the back of her mind, she'd spared a moment of compassion for his father, too. He'd been misguided and cruel, but he'd been in the grip of a loss Libby could hardly comprehend.

Could she offer her own grandfather, a man who'd lost not only his wife but all three of his children, in different ways, any less compassion?

“That box of recipes, a few handkerchiefs, a bunch of ceramic figurines—they're all I have left,” Grandfather said gruffly, his pinched mouth folding in on itself to hide what he was feeling.

But Libby was pretty sure she knew. And her big, hopeful heart softened faster than butter in an overheated kitchen. “Those things are precious, and I understand why you held them close. But they're not all you have left, Grandfather.”

“Nash's mother calls sometimes,” he shrugged, his unsteady gaze wavering off to the side. “She's got her own life. Too busy to come home for holidays.”

“That's not what I meant. And I don't mean me, either—although you do have me, Grandfather, and Nash too. We want to be your family, if you'll let us. But I wasn't talking about Nash's mom.” Libby took in a deep, fortifying breath. “I was talking about your son. Ray.”

His voice went cold and hard as the frozen surface of Lantern Lake. “I don't have a son by that name.”

“Yes, you do, and he needs you!” Libby dropped the rolling pin onto the counter with a loud clatter. “He's your family. We neither of us have so much family left that we can afford to cut anyone off. I don't know what happened between you, what happened to tear this family to shreds…”

“I'll tell you what happened. Your grandmother died, and my ungrateful children used it as an excuse to abandon me when I needed them most.”

Libby gave him a narrow stare. “Really. And it had nothing to do with you trying to control them and tell them how to live their lives.”

“It's a father's responsibility to take care of his children and help them make good choices,” Grandfather sputtered. “I wanted my family around me. And I wanted them to avoid doing things that would make their lives harder. Is that so wrong?”

“What's wrong is holding a grudge against your only living son because he refused to fall in line and obey your decrees.”

“Ray was always reckless. Headstrong and independent. The fights we used to have…” Grandfather's gaze turned distant, his eyes wet and red. “Your grandmother played peacemaker. But without her—maybe I went too far. Said things I didn't mean. But that doesn't mean I deserved to lose everything.”

A chill ran over Libby's scalp. It was so similar to what Owen had said about his own father's abrupt personality shift after losing his wife. “Grief makes us do crazy things. It changes who we are and how we see the world. But you weren't the only one suffering, Grandfather. Surely you can see that Ray, and your other children—they'd lost their mother. Maybe they didn't mean what they said back then, either.”

The old man's jaw hardened as he turned to leave. “It's been decades. Plenty of time to take it back, if that's what Ray wanted to do. He's always known where to find me.”

“I can tell you where he is.” Libby bit her lip when her blurted words caused Grandfather to pause. Maybe this was a bad idea. So much pain, so many years of regret and bitterness—could she really have the audacity to think she could change any of that for the better? “But it might be hard for you to hear.”

“Nothing is harder than not knowing where your son is or how he's doing.”

The raw emotion in Grandfather's voice made Libby swallow hard. Clearly, Dabney Leeds had not managed to cut Ray out of his heart, even if he'd wanted to.

Which was going to make it even harder to share the difficult news about Ray's condition. But it had to be done. This family didn't need any more secrets.

Gathering her courage in both hands, Libby lifted her eyes to meet her grandfather's wary, hopeful gaze and told him the truth.

*   *   *

“Good for you,” Owen said. His voice was strained by the odd position he'd contorted himself into while wrapping white twinkle lights around the banister railing of the front staircase. “If you ask me, the old man needed to hear that. He's had a lot of loss, but not everyone in his family is actually dead and beyond help.”

Libby unwrapped a shepherd and tenderly placed him with his flock on the foyer table that held her grandmother's nativity. She didn't allow her hands to shake with nerves—these heirlooms were too precious for that. “But then he stalked out of the kitchen without saying a word. That was days ago, and no one has seen Grandfather since! It was too much for him to take, or something, and now he's gone into hiding and my boss is arriving in two days with the camera crew, so there's no time to convince Grandfather to help me with Uncle Ray, which means I have to go through with Christmas dinner and it needs to not give anyone food poisoning and…”

“Hey.”

A pair of warm, strong arms encircled Libby's waist from behind, encouraging her to lean back against a tall, hard, masculine body. Instinctively, Libby melted. Not everything in her life was going wrong, she remembered, as gratitude fizzed through her veins like sparkling apple cider.

“Everything is going to be okay,” Owen said, low and husky. His breath fanned the hair behind Libby's ear, sending shivers up and down her spine. “You've got a great menu planned, guests coming over to help distract the TV people … and you've got me.”

Joy bloomed in Libby's heart. Turning in his arms, she pressed up against his chest to loop her wrists behind his neck and flutter a kiss across his mouth. “I do have you, don't I,” she said, wistful hope turning her voice breathless.

For now.

Instead of answering, Owen deepened the kiss, turning it hungry and ravishing between one heartbeat and the next. Libby's body awoke, clamoring for more of the pleasure he'd shown her in the Christmas shed.

In the days since the snowstorm, they'd been run off their feet getting ready for the holiday. In and around Owen's daily appointments at the therapeutic riding facility and Libby's ongoing campaign to show Caitlin the best Christmas of her life, they had decked the halls of Libby's grandfather's house from top to bottom.

Twinkle lights, pine boughs, red velvet ribbons, and gold-glittered berries draped every available surface. Ella Fitzgerald and Nat King Cole crooned carols from the stereo at all hours to accompany the near-constant delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, where Libby was teaching herself to cook from her mother's and grandmother's handed-down recipes.

The last few days had shown Libby that she didn't need to go to culinary school to learn how to make tasty food that people wanted to eat. All she needed was a few good recipes and the guts to try.

Not that everything she'd tried had turned out well. There was the time she forgot the baking powder in the lemon cake, and it turned out flat and hard as stone, or when she put a cup and a half of salt instead of sugar into the peppermint brownies.… Libby moaned as Owen cupped her jaw and angled her head for a deeper kiss.

Focus on this,
she told herself fiercely as desire weighted her limbs and molded her to Owen's form.
Don't think about anything else.

Easier said than done as the front door opened and a blast of frigid air blew into the hallway. Canine nails clicked quickly down the hall as Grandfather's loyal bulldog, Pippin, came running to see if his master had returned, barking his oddly high-pitched bark all the while.

Pippin scrabbled for purchase on the hardwood floors, skidding and nearly braining himself on the doorframe before he realized it was only Caitlin.

“Pippin!” she cried, kneeling down to give the disappointed dog a hug that he leaned into, his overlong tongue lolling out of his wide, panting mouth. “Ew, you're all slobbery.”

Owen dropped his hands from Libby's shoulders and stepped back, which Libby tried not to take personally, while down the hall, Nash poked his head out of the dining room where he was supposed to be polishing the silver.

“What's all the fuss about—oh, hey there, sprout. Are you here to help Miss Libby cook again today?”

“We're making spinach casserole,” Caitlin told Nash proudly. “From scratch.”

“How did you get over here?” Owen wanted to know. “Did you ride Peony?”

Caitlin's face lit up the way it always did when anyone mentioned horses. Of course, Owen's gentle teasing had the same effect, so it was hard to know what was making her eyes so bright as she said, “No! It's too cold out. The horses are all snug in the barn.”

“So is Andie here? I should go say hi.”

But before Owen could make a move for the door, Caitlin shook her head. “No, Aunt Andie had to work. Ivy gave me a ride.”

Nash was out of the dining room and across the hall to pull the front door wide before Libby could blink.

“Hey, Libs?” Nash said over his shoulder as he snagged his coat from the rack by the door. “Would it be a big deal if I invited one more guest to Christmas dinner?”

Libby clapped her hands, delighted. “Of course not! The more the merrier. Tell Ivy we'll look forward to seeing her tomorrow.”

“The more the merrier?” Owen muttered as they followed a bright, chattering Caitlin down the hall toward the kitchen. “I got the biggest turkey they had at the market, but I don't know how many more people we can squeeze around the dining room table.”

“Ivy is Nash's long lost love,” Libby explained. “And I screwed everything up for him by coming here and asking him to play house. The least I can do is let the woman come over for some turkey and stuff—oh, no.”

Caitlin had stopped dead in the kitchen doorway, forcing Owen and Libby to nearly crash into her. But the reason for her shock was only too obvious as they took in the sight that greeted them.

There was the stepladder Libby had gotten out for the express purpose of boosting Caitlin up to help with cooking tasks at the high kitchen counter. She'd set it up a few days ago and hadn't put it away, since Caitlin had been coming over every day.

Unfortunately, Libby hadn't considered what a temptation it would be to leave a stepladder out by the countertop that also held the roasting pan and rack where she'd unwrapped and left the twenty-pound turkey to defrost.

“I thought Pippin was slobbering an extra lot,” Caitlin said, looking up at Libby tearfully. “Miss Libby. Look at the turkey.”

“I see it,” she said faintly, almost unable to believe her eyes. Her perfect, pristine bird, that she'd planned to get up at one in the morning to start roasting so it would be golden-brown and juicy in time for a mid-day meal, had been torn to shreds. The white, dimpled skin hung in strands around the carcass, which looked like it had been picked clean by an army of scavengers. It was almost impressive for one elderly bulldog.

“He got up on my ladder!” Caitlin sobbed. “I'm sorry. It's my fault.”

“Hey, no.” Libby had drifted into the kitchen to inspect the remains up close, but she turned back at that. “It's really not your fault at all. It's mine, for being careless and leaving the turkey out where Pippin could get to it.”

Caitlin's thin shoulders shook, the girl heading toward the kind of meltdown that couldn't be reasoned with. Andie had confided to Owen that these recent intense emotional outbursts were reassuring, in a way—they were a more natural, healthy way of processing than the total withdrawal Caitlin had used in the past. But when Caitlin wailed like that, it was hard to see it as progress.

Owen stood behind his daughter, an agonized expression on his face. His big hand hovered an inch above Caitlin's back, as if he were afraid to reach out to her. Libby remembered the way Caitlin had pulled away from him before, and she knew Owen was remembering it too.

She started to hurry back, intending to give Caitlin a hug if the kid would allow it, but before she took two steps, Caitlin had turned and thrown herself at her father. Her skinny arms went around his waist, her red face buried in his stomach, and Owen closed his eyes as if he'd been hit with the butt of a rifle.