by Cat Johnson
Brody must have finally gotten his days straight. He said, “It’s Tuesday the eighteenth.”
That was a start but he realized it didn’t help all that much.
“All right. What month?” He was pretty certain he knew the year, though he should probably confirm that next.
Brody’s eyes widened at Thom’s question. He hissed in a breath and glanced in the direction the doctor had gone. “I wonder how long it’s going to be before that brain scan of yours.”
Thom wondered that too, but amid the many far more pressing questions bouncing around in his damaged brain, the status of his CT ranked pretty low on the list. “So it’s what month? October?”
“Dude, it’s November. When we got called in you were worried about getting back in time for Thanksgiving because that’s your one holiday with the kids this year.”
“My kids.” Thom pawed through his memories, trying to recall their ages as a test for himself.
Brody mumbled one of his more creative curses before letting out a big breath of air. “You don’t remember your kids?”
“Of course, I remember my kids. Juliette and Jason.”
Brody nodded and Thom let the relief overwhelm him. He’d said his son and daughter’s names mainly looking for confirmation that he did indeed remember them.
Thom continued, “What do you mean the one holiday I get with them this year?”
Maybe the unit was deploying and they’d be gone for Christmas? If so, he didn’t remember that either.
“You do remember Debbie, right?”
Thom laughed. “My wife and the mother of my children? Uh, yeah, I remember her.”
Brody nodded. “A’ight. You remember the divorce too?”
Now that Brody had mentioned it, he sure as hell did. Thom slumped lower on the pillows. “Shit. Yeah.”
“Sorry, dude.”
“For what?” Thom asked.
Brody lifted one shoulder. “I feel like I just broke the bad news to you.”
The truth was, Brody had, but Thom was more relieved that once his friend mentioned it, he had remembered the divorce. Maybe there was hope for the rest of his memories yet.
He glanced up. “So is there anything at all you can tell me about what happened? Maybe I’ll remember on my own.”
Brody hesitated for a moment, and then leaned closer. “Mosul.”
The single whispered word brought the memory back to Thom. He could envision the meeting room at the base. The team assembled around the table. The pictures projected onto the screen. Satellite images of the compound. Rocky’s whoop of joy when he heard who they were going after—a sentiment Thom had silently echoed.
He raised his gaze to meet Brody’s. “Did we get him?”
Brody shook his head. “Nope.”
Of course not. They’d have to abandon the mission after the bird had been hit with the RPG.
Still, Thom couldn’t help his disappointment. “Fuck.”
“My feelings exactly, but we’ll try again. We’ll get him eventually. On a brighter note, I’m glad your memory’s back.”
His divorce. Losing Jihadi John. It wasn’t as if he had remembered anything good.
Thom scowled. “Yeah, thanks.”
CHAPTER 4
“Virginia! This is your mother. Where are you? Call me back.”
Ginny listened to the voicemail, not breathing as she heard the familiar and far from melodic voice.
An irrational fear had her worried her mother would somehow sense she hadn’t picked up because she’d seen who was calling, even though that was exactly what had happened. A not so irrational fear had her more afraid she’d accidentally hit the button to return the call while retrieving the voicemail.
She heard the click as her mother hung up the receiver of the old wired house phone her parents still owned. Then the message ended. Only then did Ginny dare to breathe.
Caller ID saved her multiple times daily. She’d like to give whoever invented the means for her to screen her calls a great big kiss.
She loved both of her parents, of course, but a girl could only be berated about the same things so many times before instinct kicked in.
Given the choice of fight or flight, when dealing with one’s mother choosing flight seemed safer for everyone.
Her lack of a steady boyfriend. Her lack of what her mother considered a real job. She didn’t visit enough. She was too far away. A young woman shouldn’t be living alone . . .
There were more topics but those were her mother’s current favorites.
She’d call her mom back—eventually. But right now, she just wanted to enjoy her cup of hot tea undisturbed.
Ginny had just lifted the steaming mug to her mouth when the ringing of the cell began again. She sighed. She might be farther away from them until March first, but she wasn’t so far that calls couldn’t reach her. Maybe she should look for a house sitting gig someplace like the South Pole next year.
She reached down and lifted the phone. Seeing Molly’s name on the screen, she hit the button to answer. “Hey.”
“About time you picked up. I was starting to wonder what the heck you could be doing on Christmas Eve up there in no-man's-land where there’s nothing but woods and wildlife.”
“Sorry. I was waiting to see who it was.”
Molly laughed. “Are you screening calls again? I guess I should be grateful that I made the cut.”
“You should be. My mother didn’t.”
“Ginny, it’s Christmas Eve. The least you can do is talk to your mother on the phone.”
“This coming from the girl with the sweetest mother on earth.”
“That’s no excuse. Virginia Starr, call your mother!”
“Oh my God, you sounded just like her. Stop that. You’re giving me heart palpitations.” Ginny pressed her hand to her chest.
“That’s not palpitations you feel. That’s guilt and you deserve it.”
“Is she paying you to torture me? Come on. Tell me. What did she promise you? My grandmother’s secret plum cake recipe? What? Spill.”
“We had a lovely conversation this morning but no, she promised me nothing. I bug you without compensation. Just for the sheer joy of it.”
A lovely conversation this morning?
Zeroing in on Molly’s words had Ginny frowning “Wait one minute. You talked to my mother? Today?”
“Yup. She’s so sweet. She called to thank me for the Christmas card I sent her.”
Ginny groaned. “Let me guess what she said next. How horrible it was that I didn’t bother to send cards this year.”
“Nope. You’re wrong. We talked about what she’s cooking for dinner tomorrow night.”
Ginny blew out a frustrated breath and glanced out the window at the snow that had started falling about an hour ago. “She’s really going to freak when she hears I probably won't be able to make it home. Not with the way this snow is falling.”
“It's snowing by you? Aw.” Molly sounded annoyed. “There's not even a hint of a flake here. You're gonna have a white Christmas and I'm jealous.”
Easy for Molly to say. She lived in a condo where some nice hired maintenance man shoveled, plowed and sanded the walkways before Molly even woke.
Ginny glanced out the window again, taking particular note of the length of the driveway she’d have to shovel before she’d be able to get her car out.
There was a snow blower in the barn, but she’d be damned if she knew how to start it. Besides, the giant exposed blade in front scared the bejeesus out of her.
People should know their limitations, and she knew she wasn’t cut out for operating equipment with big sharp spinning parts.
A white Christmas as an adult was definitely not as much fun as it had been when she’d been a child. If she was still eight years old, Ginny would be jumping for joy. Getting out the sled and the makings for a snowman. Running inside wet and cold for hot cocoa with tiny marshmallows.
Being twenty-eight meant she’d be b
reaking out the shovel and the bag of ice melt instead of marshmallows.
The snow changed from tiny flakes that drifted down slow and serenely before disappearing, to fat juicy lumps that pelted the ground with a big splat of white.
“It's snowing like crazy.” She glanced at the rapidly disappearing driveway. “It’s sticking too, even on the blacktop.”
Molly hissed in a breath. “That doesn’t bode well for driving. But maybe it will stop soon and the crews will have all night to clean up the roads. Then by tomorrow you’ll have a beautiful clear drive.”
“Maybe.” And maybe Molly was the biggest optimist she knew.
Given Ginny’s own propensity for pessimism, it was a wonder they’d been friends since grade school.
Pessimist or not, this time she couldn’t help but hope Molly was right, because her mother would never let her hear the end of it if she couldn’t get home for Christmas dinner.
Sometimes being an only child was a lot of work.
On a brighter note, Ginny had to admit, though begrudgingly, that it really was getting pretty outside. Snow totally covered the ground and the thick wet flakes stuck to every tree limb and surface.
If she had nowhere else to be, it would be perfect. Quite the makings for a picturesque scene . . . then the lights flickered.
“Uh, oh.” Ginny eyed the table lamp, waiting for the worst to happen, but the bulb stayed illuminated. For the time being anyway.
“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.
“I’m worried I’m going to lose electricity.” And along with it, the heat and hot water.
Then what would she do?
She was all for women’s equality and independence but at times like this she regretted not having a man around. If not a boyfriend, then at least a hired handyman to build a fire and bring over a generator.
Ginny needed to face it. She was, and always should be, an apartment dweller. Then she could make a single phone call and pass problems such as no electric to somebody else—like a nice twenty-four hour on-call building superintendent.
But when she’d taken this job as a house sitter, she supposed she'd become the twenty-four hour handyman.
She probably should have thought this over better before taking on the responsibility of a whole house, five acres and a barn in Massachusetts in winter.
Hindsight always had been Ginny’s strength. She sighed and turned her mind to brighter thoughts. As long as the lights stayed on, everything would be okay.
“So what are you doing for Christmas Day?”
“Marco is taking me to the city to see the tree at Rockefeller Center and look at the window decorations, then back to his place for a romantic dinner.”
It was Ginny's turn to be jealous.
Her friend not only had a great job, a fabulous condo, and parents who supported everything she did, but also a hot new boyfriend with an Italian accent to go along with his expensive Italian sports car.
“That sounds perfect. You better text and tell me what he bought you for Christmas the minute you open it.” Ginny might as well be completely green with envy and get it all over with at once.
“I will. Promise. Are you going to be all right up there by yourself if you get snowed in and can't drive home tomorrow?”
“Sure. There's food in the fridge.”
“But what if the power does go out?”
“There’s firewood on the porch and plenty of candles in the house. I’ll be fine even if the power goes out.” Ginny dismissed Molly’s concern, sounding more confident than she felt.
“Okay, but I'll make sure I keep my cell phone on in case you need anything.”
“Thanks.” Ginny didn't know what Molly and Marco were going to be able to do for her. If the roads proved so bad she couldn't drive south to Stamford, they wouldn't be able to drive north to Springfield either, but she did appreciate the offer.
The lights flickered again and she stifled a groan. She didn’t need Molly, in an attempt to help, reporting back to her mother that she was sitting alone in the dark. Her mom’s I-told-you-so would be more than Ginny could stand.
“I’m going to go. I think I’ll bring in some wood and make a fire.”
Even if the power didn’t go out, a cozy snowy Christmas Eve spent in front of a roaring fireplace seemed slightly less sad.
“That sounds nice. You should open a bottle of wine and enjoy your night alone.”
Spoken like a woman who had a boyfriend and didn’t have to spend any night alone if she didn’t want to. “Will do. Good night, Mol.”
“Good night and happy Christmas Eve.”
“Happy Christmas Eve to you too.” She disconnected before Molly could dispense any more holiday cheer Ginny wasn’t in the mood for.
After putting the cell down, Ginny stared at the lamp for a few seconds. The light bulb glowed steadily, with no more visible flickers.
That was a good sign. Maybe it had been a false alarm, though she should probably locate some provisions in case the electricity did go out.
Even at only four in the afternoon, on a cloudy late December day in New England, it was nearly dark already.
Best to be prepared, that's what Ginny always said. Well, she never actually said that, but it sounded good. For this situation she settled on locating the flashlight.
That was preparations enough for the time being because her trip to the kitchen had made her realize she was hungry.
She opened the fridge and perused the choices. She had lettuce to make a salad, but that idea left her feeling cold.
There was chicken breast in the freezer. She could defrost that in the microwave and throw something together for dinner. Maybe with some homemade mashed potatoes, but that would all take a lot of time and more incentive than she had.
Ginny opened a cabinet and eyed the rows of cans. Laziness won out and she opted on a hearty bean soup. One quick turn of the electric can opener and it would be ready to cook, with only one dirty pot to wash after she was done.
As the soup heated on the stovetop, Ginny wandered into the master bedroom.
Choosing to ignore the time of day, she grabbed her pajamas from where she’d left them hanging behind the bathroom door. A cozy night in front of the fire would be even better in her soft flannel PJs.
Okay, it wasn’t technically night yet. It was still more late afternoon, creeping up to be evening, but what good was the freedom of working from home if she couldn't put on her pajamas when she wanted to?
Besides, for better or worse there was no one there to see or judge her for it, so Ginny tossed her jeans and sweater on the chair in the bedroom and pulled on her softest, and also oldest, red and white snowflake patterned pajamas.
The soup was hot enough to eat by the time she got back to the kitchen, so she flipped off the burner.
After poured the steaming liquid into a bowl, she grabbed a spoon and a napkin and carried the lot into the living room.
The dark gaping opening of the fireplace reminded her she’d meant to bring in wood and make a fire. She’d have to do that later. If she did it now, her dinner would get cold.
She should probably try to put in at least an hour on her book since she hadn’t touched it in days. She could do that while she ate.
Ginny put the bowl down on the desk and sat. Her laptop was still open, just the way she’d left it. She tapped a key to wake the computer from hibernation mode and watched the screen spring to life.
She clicked to open the file for her novel. The document appeared on screen, looking exactly how she'd left it—unfinished, stalled halfway through the first chapter.
Okay, maybe not halfway. More like a few paragraphs in.
She blew out a breath. Ginny had heard of writer's block, but her experience seemed more like writer's amnesia. Nothing spilled out of her brain and onto the screen and she started to suspect that what she'd already written might be crap.
A Colonial-era cozy mystery had seemed like such a great idea when she'd originall
y come up with it and done the research.
So why wasn't it working? She had no idea, but sitting and staring at the screen didn't help either her mood or her novel.
In her defense, she had an eight-page outline for the story and ten pages of research notes, so she was closer to being finished than it appeared at first glance in spite of the pitifully low word count.
All she had to do was write it.
Easy. No problem at all . . . She laid her fingers on the keyboard, but she’d be damned if she knew what to type.
Maybe if she opened the outline and went over that again it would help.
Ginny was just about to do that when an alert popped onto her screen, which reminded her she hadn’t checked her email since this morning.
She opened her inbox in a new browser and found it full. She’d definitely be able to concentrate better after she went through it. And it would be far easier to eat her soup while reading email than while trying to write her novel.
Decision made, Ginny clicked open the first email, grabbed her bowl and settled in.
The falling white flakes out the window in front of her caught her attention. She had to admit, there was nothing that put a person in the holiday spirit more than snow.
It was peaceful.
Too peaceful. The house, so far removed from the neighbors and the road, was too quiet.
Maybe that was why she couldn’t work. She was used to her apartment and all the noises that came with it.
She got up, grabbed the remote control, and turned on the television. Ginny flipped through the channels until she found an old black and white movie. She lowered the volume until it was a soft drone and went back to the desk.
A little background noise would make her feel more at home. She’d make quick work of the inbox and the soup, then get right back to her book.
An hour later, Ginny’s soup bowl and inbox were both empty.
The movie had ended and another began. She heard George Bailey’s familiar voice behind her and smiled. It's a Wonderful Life had come on the movie channel.
It was a classic. One she made sure to watch every Christmas, but she hadn’t seen it yet this year. Who knew if the station would air it again tonight, and if she was traveling tomorrow she could miss it.
