Home for Christmas (25 page)

But he didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees to pull Caitlin into his arms, that same hand that had hesitated to touch her now cradling her carroty-red curls against his shoulder. Owen whispered soothing words Libby couldn't quite make out, but she knew the tone well enough. And she recognized the way Owen's hand stroked down Caitlin's back, tender and careful as if he were handling something infinitely precious.

The knot of upset and tears that had choked into Libby's throat at the sight of her ruined hopes for a perfect Christmas dinner melted, along with every bone in her body. Only the swelling of happiness in her heart was enough to keep her upright.

Caitlin quieted, her sobs trailing off into hiccups and sighs. Owen bent his head to bury a kiss in her messy red hair, and when he looked up again he caught Libby's eyes. Her breath hitched and her heart swelled at the naked love shimmering in Owen's gaze.

“Is Libby mad at me?” Caitlin asked in a small voice, her face still pushed into the curve of Owen's neck.

Libby smiled tremulously when Owen immediately said, “No, sweetheart. No one is mad at you. You didn't do anything wrong. But even if you had, we'd forgive you.”

Knees weakening, Libby groped for the edge of the counter behind her. Owen never dropped his gaze. His warm, reassuring voice was steady and clear. “We all make mistakes now and then. And we all deserve forgiveness.”

Libby's vision blurred with tears, emotion filling her heart to the brim and running over. Owen nodded slightly, his face serious, and a weight Libby had been dragging around for what felt like years suddenly lifted from her shoulders.

Owen forgave her.

Filled with renewed energy, Libby whirled to face the task of disposing of her poor turkey. She rolled up her sleeves and got to work, her mind already racing with ideas for how they could replace the centerpiece of the holiday meal with less than two days to go.

It was a daunting idea, but for the first time, Libby found herself believing what Owen had tried to tell her earlier.

Everything was going to be okay. It might take a Christmas miracle—or two—but it would work out. Libby believed that with all her heart.

 

Chapter Twenty-Two

The morning of Christmas Eve brought a new bank of storm clouds rolling in with the dawn.

Libby, who had already been up for a couple of hours by the time the sun refused to show its face, kept the radio tuned to the local station in hopes of a weather update. Maybe her Christmas miracle would take the form of a snowstorm that would keep travelers—like her boss and the camera crew—from boarding the ferry to Sanctuary Island. That would work.

Closing her eyes and sending up a quick prayer, Libby took a moment to massage a cramp out of her aching lower back.
In my next article,
she thought absently,
I'm going to write about what hard work it is to put on a multi-course dinner for a dozen people.

Of course, unless she went through with this crazy charade, she wouldn't be writing any more articles. She'd be out of a job.

As much as she'd longed to be done with the elaborate lie her career had become, the idea of being done with writing stung. Especially now that she'd learned so much about the art of the kitchen from her mother's notes on her grandmother's recipes … and she'd learned so much about being a family from Nash and Grandfather, and from Owen and Caitlin. She'd always treasured the stories she'd spun about her imaginary life on Sanctuary Island, but after this experience, she was sure she could give them even more depth and detail.

“Happy Christmas Eve,” Owen said, slouching into the kitchen with his gaze trained on the ancient coffeemaker perking in the corner.

Libby paused in the act of cutting marshmallows into tiny cubes for ambrosia, her scissors hanging forgotten from her fingers as she contemplated the delicious sight of Sergeant Owen Shepard, sleep-tousled and heavy-lidded, with coppery stubble shadowing his jaw. The standard issue desert-tan T-shirt was rumpled over the black jeans he'd obviously thrown on to avoid shocking her with his boxer shorts. But he'd forgotten to do up the top button, and the way they slipped down his lean hips when he leaned over the coffeemaker had Libby's mind going blank with a heady pulse of desire.

Sighing to herself, she acknowledged that she'd be perfectly happy to have sleepy Owen be the first thing she saw every morning for the rest of her life.

He poured himself a cup of coffee while Libby surreptitiously ogled him. The first sip seemed to give him a boost that allowed his eyes to open fully for the first time. They immediately zeroed in on Libby, who instantly became aware of her bedraggled hair and sticky, fruit-juice-stained hands.

“Tell me you haven't been up all night,” Owen demanded, a stern frown lowering his red-gold brows.

“I haven't,” Libby hedged defensively. Anytime after midnight was technically a new day, right? “There's a lot to get done.”

“And you can't help worrying that if you leave the kitchen for more than a couple of hours, some new disaster will explode in your face.” Owen shook his head, but his expression had softened into something like fond indulgence.

“Not only that. I'm worried about Grandfather. Nash heard from him last night, and Grandfather says he's fine, not to worry about him, but I can't help it. I'm afraid he's going to miss Christmas.”

As if hearing the real tears that shook Libby's voice, Owen set down his coffee mug and crossed the kitchen in two long strides to take her in his arms. Libby let herself sink into his warmth, smooshing her face into his firm shoulder while holding her sticky hands safely out to the sides.

“I'm sure he won't want to miss Christmas at home with you and Nash,” Owen murmured, so strong and sure that Libby wanted desperately to believe him.

“But if he's where I pray he is, visiting Uncle Ray up in New York, he might not have a choice,” she fretted, already feeling guilty for hoping a snowstorm would sweep in and bury all her problems under a thick blanket of white.

“Is it really that bad out?”

“Not yet, maybe, but the last forecast predicted a new snowfall. Six inches!”

Owen hummed thoughtfully, the vibration under Libby's cheek making her shiver just as the jazzy, full-orchestral version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” faded out and the announcer's voice came back over the airwaves.

“As we've been predicting, folks, it looks like it's going to be a white Christmas here on Sanctuary Island! And I'm not talking about the white sands of our beautiful beaches, either, or the leftover snow from last week's storm—no sir, we're getting a brand-new dusting of powder just in time to cushion Old St. Nick as he slides down your chimneys tomorrow night. Festive as that sounds, the Town Council is holding an emergency session right now to figure out how to prepare for the storm. Keep that dial right where it is, folks. We'll be updating you on the latest business closings and weather advisories as soon as we get 'em. For now, let's all keep warm by the fire with Miss Dolly Parton.”

Libby stood paralyzed in Owen's embrace as the first few notes of “Away in a Manger” played on a simple piano came tinkling out of the radio. “‘Closings,'” she said, a mixture of dread and relief churning in her belly. “I wonder what that means.”

“Let me text my sister. Andie's the sheriff, if anyone knows what's going down at that Town Council meeting, it's her.”

Reluctantly, Libby stepped back and let Owen dig through his pockets for his phone. He thumbed out a quick message then laid the phone on the counter in favor of picking up his coffee mug once more. “Have you tried calling your grandfather?”

Guilt swamped her, drowning every other emotion under a tidal wave of regret. “He won't answer when I call. It goes straight to voicemail. Why did I have to push? Grandfather is old. His heart isn't the strongest. I knew he'd take it hard.”

“Ray is his son,” Owen said, his lips set in a hard line. “Your grandfather needed to hear the truth about what's happening to him. He needed to face it, even if it's hard.”

Owen, who'd missed years of his daughter's life just as Dabney Leeds had missed out on his son's, had a point. But if anything bad happened to Grandfather because of what Libby had told him, she'd never forgive herself.

“I just wish I knew what was happening,” she fretted. “I'm sure he went to see Ray. That's the only thing that makes sense, after what I told him. But I don't even know if Grandfather's going up there to reconcile with his son or to fight with him some more! Or maybe just to make sure I'm telling the truth. I wouldn't blame him for doubting me, after all of this.”

Sniffling, Libby picked up her scissors and glumly went back to snipping jumbo marshmallows into quarters. Every other marshmallow or so, she dipped the scissor blades into a glass of water to keep them from getting too gunked up—a tip her mother had scrawled across the back of one of the three separate recipes for marshmallow cream salad—aka ambrosia—in her grandmother's recipe box.

“Wouldn't it be easier to use mini marshmallows?” Owen asked, his tone determinedly light.

Libby shrugged. “Maybe. But the recipe says to use big ones and cut them down, so that's what I'm doing.”

Amusement curved Owen's beautiful lips. “You're really getting into this cooking thing, aren't you?”

“You know, I am.” Libby struggled for a moment, tears closer to the surface than she'd like. “It almost feels like my mother is here, looking over my shoulder and helping me. It's like she's teaching me to cook from the beyond.”

“That's beautiful, Libby.” Owen stroked a hand over her hair, his fingers too nimble and gentle to catch in the tangles.

She felt a tension she hadn't been aware of flow out of her shoulders at Owen's simple acceptance. “I haven't felt this close to her in a long time. And it feels great, but it hurts a little too. Because this is all I can have of her now—and it's taken me so long to get here.”

On the counter, Owen's phone vibrated with an incoming text, and Libby let out a grateful breath. She took the time to pull herself together while Owen checked his sister's reply.

“Andie says the Town Council meeting is over,” he told her, voice tense. “And they voted to close the ferry down after this morning's run.”

Libby sagged over her cutting board, not sure how she felt. “Oh my goodness. Well, if that's what it takes to keep people safe, that's what they have to do.”

Looking at her limp hands and the half-full bowl of snipped marshmallows, Owen raised a brow. “I guess that means you can stop cooking now, if you want. No more television crew, no more boss to lie for.”

“No!” Libby straightened her shoulders and dunked her scissors determinedly before picking up a jumbo marshmallow. “Maybe Grandfather won't make it home in time, but we're still having a wonderful family Christmas here if it kills me.”

The silence from Owen felt taut, full of things unsaid. Libby peered over her shoulder to see him standing in uncharacteristic indecision, one hand rubbing absently at his injured leg as a frown dropped over his handsome face. “I guess Caitlin and I will do Christmas at Andie's, then.”

Oh. Pierced through, Libby kept herself upright by sheer force of will. Looking back down at her work, she said, “Okay. If that's what you want. But I would love to have you here, especially with no cameras or prying eyes to put on some big act for.”

“I know you promised to help me give Caitlin a Christmas to remember, but you've already done that—we've built snowmen, made a gingerbread house and snow angels, decorated cookies, had homemade snow ice cream. I'm pretty sure we could take Caitlin through the drive through for a hamburger for Christmas dinner and she'd still think this was the best Christmas ever.”

“I'm glad of that. But I don't want you both here to fulfill a promise,” Libby said, reaching deep for the courage Owen kept saying she possessed. “It's much more selfish than that, I'm afraid. I want you here because it won't feel like a real family Christmas to me without the two of you. You and Caitlin—you're family to me. The family of my heart. I know that's a lot to take in…”

The rest of Libby's words were lost, swallowed by Owen's mouth as he grabbed her and whirled her into his arms, bending her back in a low dip and kissing the breath out of her. Shocked and off balance, Libby clutched at his shoulders and kissed him back with everything she had, pouring every drop of love from her overflowing heart into this man who was so much more than the handsome hero of a story she'd made up. Owen was real, haunted and flawed and perfectly imperfect. He was here, in her arms, and he was kissing her as if he'd never let her go.

She held on with all her strength and wished that it meant what she wanted it to mean—that Owen was starting to love her back.

*   *   *

Hearing Libby tell him that he and his daughter were the family of her heart brought out something wild and primitive in Owen. He had to touch her, had to possess her and claim her and mark her somehow.

A hard tug at his hair shocked Owen out of free fall. Maybe Libby was the one marking him, with her sticky sugar-coated fingers. That was okay too, Owen decided, loving the way her eyes went hot and dark when he lifted her right hand to his mouth and sucked her index finger between his lips. She tasted like sugar and cream, with the bright tang of crushed pineapple and mandarin oranges, and an underlying richness that was all Libby.

From the front of the house came the distant chime of the doorbell. It barely registered in Owen's brain, busy as he was with cataloguing every sigh and shift of Libby's sweetly rounded body against his much larger, much harder one. The sound of footsteps descending the staircase from the second floor let Owen put it out of his mind completely. Nash would answer the door and deal with whoever it was. Owen could concentrate on mapping the velvet of Libby's mouth, testing the plush plumpness of her bottom lip with the barest edge of his teeth, enjoying the way she jumped then moaned.