The Christmas Key

by Lori Wilde

  “When was the last time you remember being happy?” Dr. Fox asked.

  Where did headshrinkers come up with these stupid questions? What did it matter when he last felt happy? He was alive. That was enough. Happiness wasn’t even on the table.

  “Mark?” Dr. Fox called him by his first name.

  When was the last time he felt happy? Hmm, easy one. Last Christmas Eve, before what went down at the orphanage.

  The barracks had been ablaze with celebration, decorations, and laughter. Red tinsel strung the length of the hallway. Cheerful music played. Eggnog downed over sentimental toasts.

  The mail from home had arrived. Presents for everyone, except Shepherd. He didn’t mind. A long time ago, he’d gotten used to not having any family.

  Clayton Luther had strolled up. Wearing a big grin and a string of battery-powered blinking lights strung around his neck like a lei. The smell of rum lingered on his breath, and he had a jaunty bounce to his step. He carried a big green tin wrapped with a gold ribbon. Sparkly glitter trailed in his wake.

  “Gunny, Gunny, it came, it came.”

  The sappy look on the twenty-two-year-old man’s face punched Shepherd in the gut. Had he ever been that young? That naïve? That hopeful?

  “What came?”

  “The Christmas cookies.” The eager private slipped the bow off the tin and opened it to reveal a wide array of cookies.

  Shepherd didn’t like to admit it, but he had a ferocious sweet tooth. Which was why he rarely indulged in sugary treats. Once he got started, he had a hard time stopping.

  “Back home, each year some of the local ladies get together. Bake up huge batches of cookies, and mail them off to the troops. It’s tradition,” Clayton Luther chattered.

  “Nice.”

  Luther surged forward to give him a cookie. Stumbled over his own shoelaces, and almost dropped the tin. The kid had had too much to drink, but it was Christmas Eve.

  “You gotta try this.” Luther fished out an oatmeal cookie embellished with cranberries and macadamia nuts. “It’s called a kismet cookie. My big sister, Naomi, made this batch . . .” He paused, hiccupped, laughed.

  Shepherd held up a hand. “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “C’mon.” Luther shoved the tin of cookies at him. “Pick one. They’re special.”

  “Are they spiked with rum?”

  “Nope, spiked with love.” Luther received more gifts and letters from his hometown than anyone else in the unit.

  “If they came from your family and friends, I have no doubt about that.”

  “No, no.” Luther gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “You don’t get it. Kismet cookies can foretell the future.”

  Shepherd burst out laughing. Ridiculous.

  “I mean it.” Luther’s eyes widened. “If you sleep with a kismet cookie under your pillow on Christmas Eve, you will dream of your one true love.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Irregardless,” Luther slurred, and pointed a wavering finger. “It works. The first time I slept with the kismet cookie under my pillow, I dreamed of my ’Mantha. Now she’s my wife and the mother of my three-year-old son.”

  “That’s ludicrous. How can a cookie predict who you’re going to marry?”

  “I dunno.” Luther shrugged. “But it happens all the time in my hometown of Twilight.”

  “Sounds suspect to me.”

  “Who knows?” Luther went on. “Could be that your heart already knows who you love, even if your mind doesn’t. And if you sleep with the cookie under your pillow it triggers subconscious dreams. Does it matter? Have a cookie, Gunny. Hell, have two, one to eat, and one to put under your pillow. What could it hurt? Your love life is as stale as a Ritz cracker in a survivalist’s underground bunker.”

  He didn’t know why he was humoring Luther. Even on Christmas Eve, enough was enough. But the cookies smelled delicious. And the kid looked so earnest. Shepherd couldn’t find his hard-ass gunnery sergeant frown.

  Shaking his head, Shepherd took two cookies. “Happy now?”

  Luther chuckled. “You’re gonna love ’em, Gunny, I swear.”

  “I’m sure they’re good.”

  “Have you given any more thought to my idea of going to the orphanage to hand out toys?” Luther asked. “I’ve tapped everyone for a donation, and I’ve got the cookies and my comic books.”

  “It’s against regulations.”

  “The brass doesn’t have to know. C’mon, the orphanage is only three miles down the road. We’ll be in and out in under an hour.” His voice hitched. “I miss my boy, Gunny. Since I can’t be with him . . . It only seems right to make some orphan kids’ Christmas merry and bright.”

  “No.”

  Luther had hardened his jaw. Shepherd should have known right then that the private was going to defy orders and go anyway. Luther was as stubborn as the day was long.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

  “And you’re insubordinate, but you’re drunk and it’s Christmas Eve, so I’m going to let it slide. This time. Go get some coffee and sober up,” Shepherd commanded with kindness in his voice. Much as he hated to admit it, he had a soft spot for the kid. “And that’s a direct order.”

  “See if I give you any more of my cookies.” Luther staggered away, light lei blinking. The dumb kid had no idea it was his last night on earth.

  Neither had Shepherd.

  Shepherd had eaten one cookie, and it was delicious. Luther’s proclamation hadn’t been a drunken brag. In fact, the cookie was so good that Shepherd almost ate the second one.

  But something stopped him. Against all common sense, Shepherd had slipped the cookie underneath his pillow.

  That night, he had the most vivid, experiential dream of his life.

  He was standing beside an emerald green river. It was at twilight, the golden rays of the setting sun casting lush purple rays over the darkening sky. A great calmness came over him. He took a deep breath, inhaled the damp evening air, and then . . .

  He saw her.

  She was standing on the opposite side of the river. Dressed in white, a shimmering dark-haired angel, shining so bright. For a moment, he thought he had died and she’d come to ferry him to the other side.

  He stared. Flabbergasted.

  The dream angel raised her head. Met his gaze. It was as if a lightning bolt jumped from her stark blue eyes straight into his heart.

  He gasped, startled and electric.

  She looked at him . . . into him. As if she could see the contents of his soul and found him pleasing. A big, all-encompassing smile wreathed her sweet round face.

  Shepherd’s pulse galloped, and it was hard to breathe. If his heart stopped in that moment, he would die a happy man.

  He woke bathed in sweat, the image of her beauty filling him with joy. Hope imprinted on his brain, a shiny coil of possibility.

  “Clayton Luther was a silly romantic,” Shepherd blurted to Dr. Fox. He clenched his hands against his thighs. “He had no business in the Marines.”

  “Wow,” the psychiatrist said, staring at Shepherd’s wadded fists. “Where did that come from?”

  Had he said that out loud? Shepherd forced his hands to relax. Tucked them under his armpits.

  “Post-traumatic stress syndrome is an insidious thing,” Dr. Fox said. “It can slip up on you when you least expect it. You’ll need to continue therapy once you’re back home. Where will you be living? I can recommend some doctors in your area.”

  Uneasy, Shepherd itched to avoid the question. He had no idea where he would end up. He wasn’t going back to Lexington. Bad memories there. His plan had been to keep renting his room here in Bethesda until he figured things out.

  “Give it to me straight, Doc. Am I ready for the outside world?” he asked, being flippant.

  But the psychiatrist took him seriously. “Do you mean are you strong enough to function in civilian life?” Dr. Fox scratched his chin. “Yes, you are . . .”

 
“But?” Shepherd prompted when the psychiatrist didn’t go on.

  “Are you free enough from guilt and self-loathing to pursue healthy personal relationships?” Dr. Fox met his gaze head-on, and didn’t blink. “I don’t know. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you. If you can’t love, trust, and forgive yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?”

  Shepherd grunted. Scornful.

  “Promise me you’ll continue therapy,” Dr. Fox went on. “Group therapy in particular.”

  He hated group therapy. It was the worst. “Okay.”

  “I mean it. Promise me. I know you’re a man of your word.”

  Shepherd exhaled. “I promise to go to group therapy.”

  Dr. Fox leaned back into his chair. “All right then. I’m confident enough about your recovery to give you this now.”

  “Give me what?”

  The psychiatrist reached into the bottom drawer of his desk. Pulled out a white legal-sized envelope with Shepherd’s name scrawled across it. He recognized Clayton Luther’s handwriting, and his breath left his lungs.

  A letter from a dead man?

  Dr. Fox passed him the envelope.

  “From Luther?” He curled his fingers around the stiff white paper.

  “It is.”

  “When? How?”

  “They found it among Clayton Luther’s personal effects.”

  A chill ran through Shepherd, and the hairs lifted on the back of his neck. A premonition. Like the one he’d had last Christmas at the orphanage. A premonition he’d ignored.

  At their peril.

  “Why am I getting this now?” Shepherd fought to keep emotion out of his voice, but he heard the hard steel, felt the punch of anger low in his gut. “It’s dated last Christmas Eve.”

  Dr. Fox’s expression remained unruffled. “You were in such dire straits for months. The coma. The rehab. The decision was made to wait until your discharge before giving you the envelope.”

  His entire body went rigid. The decision was made.

  That was the military for you. His choices removed. Presumably, the letter had languished in Dr. Fox’s desk all this time.

  His chest was a vise. Tightening, thickening, squeezing down on his heart until he could hardly draw in air.

  “Are you going to open it?” Dr. Fox prodded.

  Was he? Should he? What could be in it?

  Part of him wanted to chuck the letter in the trash and walk away. But the part of him that carried the burden of guilt could not. Most likely the letter was Luther requesting leave, or something equally banal.

  Dr. Fox extended a letter opener toward him.

  He stared at the long slender paper cutter. His initial irritation and disapproval gave way to a sudden upwelling of fear. Finally, he accepted the opener.

  Shepherd slipped the blade underneath the sealed flap, cut it free. Took out the piece of white copier paper dated the previous December twenty-fourth. Read the typewritten note.

  Gunny,

  If I don’t make it out of Kandahar, please deliver this key to my family in person. They’ll know what to do with it.

  —Luther

  Goose bumps spread up Shepherd’s arms. If I don’t make it. Had Luther had a premonition about his death? Stunned, Shepherd read the note again, gulped, and turned the envelope upside down.

  A decorative white key, tied up with a red velvet Christmas ribbon, dropped into his upturned palm.

  Chapter 2

  December 2

  The Teal Peacock, Twilight, Texas

  “Hon, if I put another thing on top of that pile, you’re not going to be able to see where you’re going.”

  Undaunted, Naomi Luther dropped her shoulders. The subtle move lowered the boxes stacked in her arms about half an inch. She was a pro. For the past five years, she’d owned Perfect Fit, a personal-shopping business. She had this.

  “Lookee,” Naomi said. “If you take that last box out of the bag, there’s enough room to slide it right on top of the others. And I’ll be able to hold it all down with my chin.”

  The older woman behind the counter, Patsy Crouch, looked skeptical. “One false move and the whole shebang will come crashing down.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Naomi reassured her with a jovial grin. “Go ahead. Stock it to me.”

  “Stock instead of sock. Hehe. You are so funny.” Patsy laughed. “It’s amazing the way you’ve bounced back after—”

  “Gotta keep my spirits up for Hunter.” Naomi polished her smile, brightening its sheen. Hoping to head Patsy off at the pass. This Christmas must be a happy one. Which, granted, was hard to pull off when everyone in town kept recounting her family’s sorrows.

  “How are things with Robert?” Patsy asked.

  Naomi pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to get into her love life. Or lack thereof. “Robert and I are . . .”

  What was her situation with her long-distance boyfriend? She wished she knew. When Robert took the job in Denver, they’d had an understanding. Robert would get his life and career in Colorado established and then she would join him and they’d get married. It wasn’t an official engagement. Nothing formal. He’d not asked for her hand in marriage. But she’d planned on marrying him since she was a junior in high school. She had a hope chest and a wedding idea book stuffed with dreams.

  But since last Christmas, everything had changed. And Naomi was no longer quite sure where she and Robert stood. She hadn’t seen him in four months. They texted, but it was not daily. They’d both been so busy. Shocked, she realized they hadn’t even talked on the phone in over a month.

  “It’s complicated,” she said, as much to herself as to Patsy. “All my focus is on Hunter right now. It has to be.”

  “Does that mean he’s free to date other people?”

  That pulled her up short. She hadn’t really thought about it. Robert hadn’t mentioned wanting to see other people. Was he seeing other people?

  “How about you?”

  Naomi made a dismissive sound. “If I had time for dating I could fly to Denver every few weeks and reconnect with Robert.”

  “Robert’s not coming around to the idea of you adopting Hunter, is he?” Patsy looked at her over the rim of the reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “That’s the real issue.”

  Patsy made a good point, but Naomi wasn’t going to discuss that. She, her parents, and Hunter’s other set of grandparents had decided together that Naomi should be the one to adopt Hunter since her mother’s health was fragile and her parents were both over sixty and the other grandparents still had five other children of their own to raise. Robert hadn’t understood, and asked why her parents and the other grandparents were trying to “saddle” her with her dead brother’s baby.

  They’d had a huge fight over it. He didn’t get that adopting Hunter had been her idea, not her folks’ nor the Woolys’. In fact, they’d tried to dissuade her, telling her they didn’t want her to give up her life to raise her nephew. But Hunter was her everything.

  Her relationship with Robert had not been the same since, even though he’d apologized, and they’d smoothed things over.

  On the surface, anyway.

  “I’m sure everything will work out the way it’s supposed to.” Patsy took the box out of the shopping bag she’d just put it in.

  “Hopefully.” Naomi felt unsettled by Patsy’s questions because she didn’t know the answers, and she hated not being in control.

  “How’s your mother?” Patsy’s voice lowered, knitting a sympathetic tone.

  Naomi flinched at the pity, but kept the smile pasted on her face. Nothing was going to get her down. The family had been steeped in sorrow long enough. Being happy didn’t mean they didn’t still grieve their losses. But if she’d learned anything, it was that life was short and you had to make the most of it.

  And hey, in high school she hadn’t been a cheerleader for nothing. Rah, rah, Twilight Tigers.

  “Mom’s good.”

  “I know
this is a rough time of year for your family. The holidays—”

  “We’re fine.” Naomi’s smile stiffened, but she kept her voice loose. A flag flapping in the breeze. Oh, say can you see, life is good, good, good. “We’re doing great. Honest.”

  “You’ve all suffered a huge loss.” Patsy added the box to the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Naomi’s arms. “It’s okay to grieve. I—”

  “Could you open the door for me, please? Thank you.” Naomi locked her elbows to help brace the load. Mashed her chin against the top package. Squelched the sad feelings rising up inside her.

  None of that, missy.

  “How far to your van?” Patsy asked.

  “It’s in the shop. Transmission overhaul. It’ll be out of commission all week.” But she wasn’t letting the inconvenience get her down.

  “So how are you getting all this home?”

  “Jana’s swinging around to pick me up at the curb.”

  “You sure you don’t need help getting the packages into Jana’s Jeep?” Patsy folded the empty bag emblazoned with a teal peacock and stuck it back inside the drawer.

  “Juggling packages is all part of the Christmas fun, right?”

  Patsy hustled across the old wooden floor to open the door, moving fast for a woman in her late sixties. “Do mind your step, hon, and watch out for the workmen setting up Dickens.”

  During the first weekend in December, tourists flocked to Twilight, looking for fun at the annual Dickens on the Square festival. Normally, Naomi loved this time of year. But after last year’s tragedies . . .

  Stop. No unwanted thoughts. Come hell or high water, this was going to be the best Christmas ever. No excuses.

  With the packages blocking her view, Naomi inched down the stairs of the Teal Peacock. Workmen were stringing electrical cords and wiring. Two crew members carried neon orange sawhorses. They were using them to block off the cross streets.

  Dang it. Now, Jana wouldn’t be able to drive through that way and pick her up. She’d have to wait on the curb with her unwieldy load while Jana circled around to the back of the building.