The Forever Christmas Tree

by Sandra Hill

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to all those people who wish they could have a second chance to do things right. I’m one of them. If only do-overs were possible!

  Like my star-crossed lovers, Ethan and Wendy.

  This book is also dedicated to my sister Flora, who lives far away but is following a parallel journey with me these days and months and years, as we have become caregivers for beloved husbands who have sustained traumatic medical issues. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could go back in time and rewrite our history so we could regain our healthy spouses and make decisions that might have avoided all these calamities?

  Alas, that is life!

  But books do help. I swear they do. Flora sent me Streams in the Desert; I sent her When Jesus Wept.

  And it’s not just inspirational books, per se, that help us through hard times, as you readers have told me over and over. Humor and a good story are sometimes the best medicine.

  May this book of mine, and all my others, brighten your days and lighten your load.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Also by Sandra Hill

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  She’ll be home for Christmas . . . unfortunately . . .

  The Wet and Wild was hopping tonight with an overflow crowd of military men and women from Coronado, both the North Island Naval Station and the special warfare command center. Sure, it was TGIF, time for blowing off steam, and there was a live band. But, more than that, with only two weeks remaining till Christmas, the air reeked with joy. The Christmas spirit.

  Not so much, though, at the long table at the back of the tavern, where Lt. Wendy Patterson, U.S. Navy WEALS, sat with two of her teammates and a half-dozen Navy SEALs.

  Started about ten years ago, WEALS (Women on Earth, Land, and Sea) was the female version of SEALs (Sea, Air, and Land). They often bragged that they were as “hard-assed and ever-battle-ready” as their male counterparts “and looked hot-damn-better doing it.” Wendy had been with them for eight years.

  The band, with its female singer, was just finishing up their Mariah Carey version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You” for the second time, to the raucous cheers of the mostly male audience.

  What is it about Mariah Carey and sailors? I just don’t get the appeal, Wendy thought. It must be a male testosterone thing.

  At least the men at her table weren’t hooting and hollering, as they were perfectly capable of doing, she well knew from past experience. And her female friends weren’t rolling their eyes with amusement. You’d think they would be in a happier mood with two-week liberties coming for most of them, starting next week. In her case, it was the first break in six months. For reasons Wendy avoided thinking about, she wasn’t looking forward to her time off. Gazing around the table, she saw that her friends didn’t seem in any better shape.

  It was funny how the SEALs and WEALS tended to stick together when out in public, almost like there was a magnetic pull, or they were a bunch of brain-dead homing pigeons. It wasn’t deliberate, and certainly not an act of snobbery, like some people thought. In fact, they looked downright scruffy at times, the powers-that-be having lowered the grooming standards for special forces operatives so they wouldn’t stick out in foreign countries. No high and tight haircuts, no daily shaving requirements, no inflexibility on military attire.

  No GI Jane dress code for the women, either. Once, when Wendy was about to go out on a live op in Kabul, she’d been advised not to shave her legs or armpits for several weeks. Not that anyone could tell under the burka she’d worn, but just in case she tripped over a rock and flipped her hem up to her butt, she supposed, or was captured.

  No, the reason these teams clung together was because of their shared experiences. They’d seen and done things no one else had. And, frankly, they were a little, or a lot, burned out by the constant missions to curb global terrorism. The images would give the average person nightmares.

  Like the recent pink mist involving one of their own.

  Like the reason for them being together tonight.

  The group of them here at the table had just returned from a memorial service for one of their fallen team members, Master Chief Travis Gordon. Flash had taken a hit from a suicide bomber in Baghdad ten days ago, leaving behind a wife and two kids.

  “Can you believe the music playing when they rolled Flash’s casket into the church?” Wendy remarked, attempting to break the silence. “‘Should’ve Been a Cowboy’ is hardly the traditional hymn for a funeral.”

  Everyone grinned at her words, mostly somber grins if there was such a thing. She hadn’t realized she’d spoken so loud, but the band had just taken a break. It was one of those odd moments of quiet within a crowd.

  Sitting on her right side was Lt. Commander Jacob Alvarez Mendozo, best known by his SEAL nickname JAM. She must have looked confused at the grins because he explained, “Unusual, maybe, but very appropriate. Flash loved country music. That was his favorite song.”

  Wendy had known Flash, but not that well. “Guess I’m just surprised that the priest allowed it.”

  “The Catholic Church is more lenient these days about what they’ll allow during their services. What surprised me was that they followed the eulogies with the old Roman Rite Mass, the Tridentine Latin Rite. Must have been at the request of his parents. Believe me, that requires a special dispensation.” JAM had been in a seminary at one time; so, he would know about all that religious stuff.

  “Remember how he and Cody O’Brien used to go at it over rock versus country, The Boss versus Garth Brooks?” Lt. Merrill Good reminded them. Merrill’s nickname was Geek due to his genius I.Q. Supposedly, he’d gotten his doctorate at age eighteen.

  I do not want to think about what I was doing at eighteen. Or where. Or with whom. Damn! How can it hurt so much, even after twelve years? She steeled herself against the pain, willing the shield to come up over old memories. With a self-deprecating laugh, she thought, This is just great. Giving myself another reason to wallow. Get over yourself, Wendy. You survived. The past is no big fat hairy deal. Not anymore.

  “Yeah, but did you see how wrecked Cody was today? Even though they were constantly on each other’s asses, they were tight as brothers.” This from Ensign Diane Gomulka, a sharpshooter in WEALS and one of Wendy’s housemates. Diane was from the Northwest where she claimed to have honed her skills on grizzlies and other wild game. No wonder her nickname was Grizz.

  Silence followed Diane’s words for a moment as they contemplated the brother-and-sister bond that existed among them, even when they disagreed with each other, even if they didn’t like a particular person. When you worked in such close proximity, whether in a foxhole, or the jungle, or a Kabul stakeout, you came to know the other person very well. In fact, you came to recognize each other’s smell, the sound of their walk, even the way they breathed.

  “Well, I’m going on record here. The song I want played at my funeral is ‘Another One Bites the
Dust.’ The pallbearers should be Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. You can tap a keg at the reception. On my tombstone you can chisel, ‘He laid one thousand chicks.’” Only Command Master Chief Petty Officer Frank Uxley would come up with this notion. F.U. was the most obnoxious, politically incorrect, horny SEAL in the world, and that was saying a lot, but he was an explosives expert with unmatched skills. You’d want him at your back in a close quarters situation or any live op.

  But make a move on me one more time, F.U., and I am going to karate chop your favorite body part. Not that she was special in that regard. F.U. hit on anything with breasts.

  “What makes you think we would plan a funeral for you, asshole?” remarked Commander Luke Avenil, the highest-ranking and the oldest of their group at close to forty. In fact, he had a few gray hairs feathering the sides of his dark brown, almost black hair, which was long, but not as long as JAM’s in its usual ponytail. Handsome, in an edgy sort of way, Slick had been in the original Force Squad, part of the infamous Eighth Platoon in SEAL Team Thirteen. “Don’t you have any family?”

  “Just my mother.”

  “You have a mother?” Slick asked incredulously.

  F.U. threw a pretzel at him from across the table.

  Slick caught it in one hand and proceeded to chomp on it, noisily.

  “Listen up, all of you. I’ve saved your sorry asses more than once by disabling a bomb in your friggin’ laps. You owe me, and I want the whole military funeral shebang. Ten-gun salute, parade with a horse-drawn hearse, and all that. No, wait. Forget the ten-gun salute. A cannon would be better.”

  Unbelievable! And he’s probably serious.

  Everyone shook their heads at F.U.’s cluelessness.

  In an obvious attempt to lighten the conversation, Geek said, “Hey, I got some news yesterday. I was talking to Peach, and—”

  “Who’s Peach?” Wendy interrupted.

  “Caleb Peachy. He used to be a Navy SEAL. An Amish SEAL.” At her arched brows, Geek shrugged in a “go figure” way, then continued, “For a while, after he left the teams, Peach worked for a treasure-hunting company, Jinx, Inc. The Jinkowsky family business. Its headquarters is in New Jersey.”

  “I remember them,” Slick said. “They recovered some kind of pink diamonds from a shipwreck. And then they worked the Louisiana bayous searching for Jean Lafitte’s buried stash.”

  “Right.” Geek nodded. “Anyhow, they’re involved in shipwreck salvaging, mostly, but lots of other stuff. Cave pearls and pirate booty, like you said, Slick. Also, Nazi stolen artworks. Buried gold or precious gems. Tomb artifacts. Caves with drawings or hidden items, like those famous Scrolls. That kind of stuff. Anyhow, the company is for sale.”

  He had the interest of everyone at the table.

  “Why did Peach call you about this?” Slick asked.

  Geek blushed a little. A SEAL who blushed? Had to be a first. He was as wild as all the SEALs, but gave the appearance of an innocent because of his boyish features. It was one of his charms. “He figured I have the cash to buy them out, I guess . . . if I was so inclined.”

  Everyone knew that Geek was wealthy, probably a millionaire, from all his inventions. Most famous, at least among this crowd, was his “penile glove,” which sold by the thousands on the Internet. Enough said!

  “And are you so inclined?” Slick took a long draw on his beer. Everyone at the table was drinking beer. No food had been ordered yet. Probably wouldn’t be in their present moods.

  “No. Well, probably not. Oh, hell, maybe,” Geek admitted.

  “Wow! Just like Indiana Jones! I’m in,” Hamr Magnusson exclaimed. He was the youngest of their group, although he had spent a few years in the NFL (Can anyone say “The Hammer”?), which probably meant that he, too, had the cash to invest in such a venture. He gave up football during the uproar over concussions and had been about to go into the family vineyard business, but then he’d been lured by his older brother Torolf into joining him in the SEAL teams. Torolf had bet his brother that he couldn’t make it through Hell Week. Hamr had done so, bruised and sore, but no concussion, and too stubborn and prideful to quit.

  “Look at it this way,” Geek went on. “I read a blog one time where some Marine said there were only three reasons why any fool would want to become a SEAL. To prove something to someone, to prove something to themselves, or because they’re monkey-ass crazy. Well, I say there are three reasons why a person would become a treasure hunter. Fame, fortune, and monkey-ass adventure. Same thing, in a way.” Geek grinned and raised his bottle, drinking deeply, then set the empty bottle on the table with a clunk, as if making some point.

  “Works for me,” Slick said, “but my ex-wife has me in court again. I’m about tapped out.” For years, Slick’s ex-wife had been suing him for more and more alimony. Rumor was that she wanted the Malibu house that Slick had inherited from some relative.

  “Did anyone ever watch that Oak Island program on the History Channel?” Delphine Arneaux asked. Delphine was a mocha-skinned former bodybuilder from New Orleans, now a master chief in WEALS, and another of Wendy’s housemates. Her nickname was Arnie, not because of her surname but a play on Arnold Schwarzenegger, the quintessential bodybuilder. “That’s Oak Island in Nova Scotia, not North Carolina, by the way. No one is exactly sure what’s buried on Oak Island, but it’s almost certain that it’s something important. Could be buried treasure, Marie Antoinette’s jewels, some Templars’ secret relic, Shakespeare’s manuscripts, even the Ark of the Covenant. It’s creepy, but exciting.”

  They all chuckled at that wide range of potential treasures, mostly unbelievable. And the idea of some venture being both creepy and fun.

  “Seriously, you guys,” interjected K-4—that would be Kevin Fortunato, who’d joined the SEALs after his wife died of cancer, “we’re all burned out at the moment. Eventually, we have to give up this life, maybe sooner than later. Unless we have other talents or degrees . . .” He glanced pointedly at Geek. “. . . which I don’t, we usually ease into one of the paid military security companies, like Northbridge or Academi. But think about it. This treasure-hunting gig would be a great alternative, a better transition to civilian life. Still the element of danger. Excitement. And financial reward.”

  “And women,” F.U. added. “Betcha the babes would be hot for treasure hunters, just like they are for SEALs. We’d be regular Harrison Fords, younger and tougher versions.”

  K-4 rolled his eyes.

  And Wendy said, “You are delusional.”

  “What? You don’t think I’m a chick magnet, Flipper?”

  Flipper was Wendy’s WEALS nickname because she swam and dove like a fish. Years of competitive swim teams and dive meets. She still did a mean swan dive. Actually, she’d had another nickname originally, “Windy,” and not as a play on her name. No, during her first week of WEALS training, she’d accidentally broken wind when doing duck squats, and the SEALs instructors, never ones to be sensitive or politically correct, had slapped that tag on her. Luckily, she’d outgrown that incident and the nickname.

  “Like I said, delusional,” she remarked to F.U.

  F.U. looked as much like Harrison Ford as she resembled Kim Kardashian. Wendy took a sip of her beer, not really her drink of choice, but asking for a watermelon margarita at the Wet and Wild would be like asking for filet mignon at McDonald’s.

  “So, what’s everyone doing for liberty over the holidays?” Delphine asked. “I’m going to spend at least a week with my family. Lots of Creole food. Music. Dancing. A week is more than enough, though. I can only take so much of kids yelling, babies crying, and my aunt Estelle getting drunk on what she calls ‘sweet tea’ but is actually straight bourbon.”

  No one spoke while the waitress took away their empties and gave them new bottles, but then Hamr said, “I have to go home to Blue Dragon Vineyard or my father’ll whack me on the head and give me the concussion I didn’t get in football, and that’s no joke. He’d do it with the long sword he keeps in
the hall umbrella stand.”

  Wendy had met some of the Magnussons, who prided themselves on their Norse heritage. The men all looked like fierce Vikings, perfectly capable of going a-Viking for fun and plunder. Even Hamr, with his long blond hair pulled off the sharp features of his face into a long braid, would look comfortable on the prow of a longship.

  “Talk about kids and babies and yelling and laughing,” Hamr continued while Wendy’s mind had been wandering. “All one hundred of us Magnussons will be there, between my father, my stepmother, eleven sibs, their significant others, and a gazillion rugrats, no exaggeration.”

  “I’ll be alone in Malibu and loving it. No tree. No jolly Christmas songs. No fruitcake or cookies,” Slick said. “Me and my friend Jack . . . Daniels.”

  “Sounds lonely to me,” Wendy commented.

  “Sometimes lonely is good,” Slick said enigmatically, holding her gaze for a long moment.

  What does that mean? Is Slick hitting on me? Nah. He’s had plenty of chances to make a move over the years if he was interested in me that way. He must sense a fellow loner, which is what I’ve been, sort of, ever since . . . no, I am not going there. Not now. She shook her head to clear it and said, “I’m going home for Christmas . . . for the first time in twelve years.”

  Everyone looked at her and waited for her to say more.

  “I own a house on the Outer Banks, which my aunt Mildred has been taking care of since my father died. I’m hearing rumors that Aunt Millie has gone a bit bonkers, turning the place into some kind of B & B for swinging seniors. Well, ‘lively’ seniors, but you get the picture.” She revealed all this in a rush, already regretting having brought up the subject at all.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” K-4 said. “My wife and I honeymooned on the Outer Banks. Houses there run in the millions. I mean, oceanfront real estate. Flip? Wow!”

  “My house isn’t oceanfront, and Bell Cove isn’t like other touristy towns along the Outer Banks.”

  “What do you mean by banks?” Delphine asked, her brow furrowed with puzzlement. She and Diane would be grilling her for sure when they got back to the cottage.