The Christmas Key

by Lori Wilde

  Shepherd nodded, but didn’t speak.

  “Having trouble sleeping?”

  “No more than you.”

  “Point taken.” Nate laughed.

  Shepherd jammed his hands in his pockets, his cane hooked around his elbow.

  “If you want to talk about it, we’ve got big ears and closed mouths.”

  Did he want to talk? To strangers? That was a big N-O.

  Nate waited. Patiently. Not going anywhere. From the bar, Hank gave way to the Rolling Stones, “Honky-Tonk Women.”

  Then again, why not strangers? Might be easier than with friends. He considered it a moment. Nope. He’d had enough of running his gob with Dr. Fox.

  Yeah, but Dr. Fox hadn’t been where Nate Deavers had been. He had a safe position behind a desk. The psychiatrist had no idea what it was like to get shot at. No clue what it’s like to have a man die in your arms.

  Nate held out his hand, an ushering gesture that said, Come with me.

  Shepherd leaned on his cane. He’d promised Dr. Fox he’d go to group therapy, and Shepherd always tried to keep his word. Even if this bunch wasn’t an officially sanctioned group, it qualified.

  “No pressure,” Nate said. “We get how hard it is to integrate back into polite society. You can come sit with us. You don’t have to say a thing. Or not.”

  A longing gripped him. The old need to belong to a group was strong. The Marines had been everything to him. But here in the cold, it felt too much like weakness.

  “No man left behind, right?” Nate murmured, beckoned with his fingers.

  Those words, solid as steel on the December night, cut right into Shepherd. He tightened his jaw and his grip on the cane.

  “C’mon, Gunny. There’s a hot cup of coffee, and a warm piece of apple pie with your name on it. That’s all. Nothing more.”

  Shepherd shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe.” Nate’s smile was kind. “But your knee’s not.”

  He was right about that. Part of him wanted to peel off and follow Nate like a puppy. But another part, the self-loathing part, wanted to go into the bar and order a boilermaker.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” Nate said, looking at Shepherd’s leg. “No matter which building you walk into.”

  That cinched it.

  Shepherd nodded again and followed Nate Deavers into the Waffle-O-Rama.

  Chapter 7

  After her father took Mark Shepherd over to the rectory, Naomi got Hunter ready for bed and he went down easy. She read him The Magic Christmas Cookie as promised. Afterward, he slipped his sweet little arms around her neck for a good-night hug. Whispered, “Night, night, N’omi.”

  Her heart cracked open, bursting with both joy and sadness. The boy was a constant reminder of why she could not give in to her grief. He needed stability. He needed her.

  And she would be there for him.

  Always.

  She texted Robert good night, and sent a fun little animated gif. He did not text back. She told herself he was probably already asleep.

  It was a little after ten when she crawled under the covers. Normally, Naomi worked so hard she had no trouble falling asleep.

  But not tonight.

  Tonight, she felt oddly restless, as if her skin were too tight. She threw off the blanket. Got cold. Put it back on again. Got hot.

  She went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Stopped in the living room to stare out the window. Watched the neighbor’s roof angel wink off. Stepped out onto the porch in her bathrobe. Shivered. Crossed her arms over her chest.

  Then she saw something surprising—someone was limping down the sidewalk toward the town square. Her pulse quickened. It had to be Mark. But what was he doing roaming the town this late at night?

  She had almost chased after him. Almost called his name. But didn’t. The Marine was a stranger, she reminded herself. She had no business running after him. She had enough baggage of her own.

  So instead she stayed silent, listening only to the blood thumping through her ears, feeling bewildered and overwhelmingly sad as she watched him disappear from view.

  Naomi stepped back inside. Closed the door and padded to bed. But she still couldn’t sleep. Tossing and turning, she thought instead about Mark Shepherd. The man practically oozed loneliness, and the nurturer in her wanted so badly to fix him. But she couldn’t afford those feelings.

  Not now. Not ever, really.

  She wasn’t free. She had a long-distance boyfriend. She was adopting her nephew. She was a pastor’s daughter. A good girl. Her parents depended on her, even though they insisted she should not give up her life for them. She didn’t see it that way. To her, you sacrificed for family. Period. Besides, she actually enjoyed living with her folks.

  The periods of time she’d lived alone—during college and afterward—were the loneliest times of her life. Robert was off getting his graduate degree and not around much. She was a people person. Needed to be with others. In fact, after Clayton and Samantha died it had been her idea to move back in with her parents. It had also been her idea to adopt Hunter—the child she loved with every beat of her heart. Her family was not a burden.

  Even so, her life wasn’t her own. Her actions had repercussions on her family.

  All the more reason to avoid Mark Shepherd.

  After thrashing around for half an hour, she got back up. Made chamomile tea and ate a kismet cookie.

  Her father came into the kitchen, yawning. “It’s almost midnight, sunshine.”

  “I know.”

  “Can’t sleep?”

  She shook her head. “You?”

  “Your mom is snoring,” he said, his voice filled with affection.

  “I’ll make you a cup of tea with warm milk.”

  He sat down at the kitchen table. “Thank you.”

  She put on a saucer to heat the milk.

  “What do you think about Mark Shepherd?” her father asked.

  “He seems nice.” She bit her bottom lip, a little horrified that her own father might have picked up on the sexual attraction between her and Mark. “How long is he going to be here?”

  “Just through the holidays,” her father said.

  “Oh.” Naomi wondered why she felt disappointed. Why should she care how long the handyman hung around?

  The milk started to simmer and she added it to the hot tea. Brought it to her father, and sat down beside him. Gave him the full brunt of her smile.

  He did not smile back.

  Her stomach ached. “Thinking of Clayton?”

  Dad tapped a restless finger against his cup. “He’s never off my mind.”

  “Mine either.”

  He laid a hand on top of hers, said with conviction that didn’t stick, “It’ll get better.”

  “It already has.”

  “But sometimes that old swat of grief bats you right back down the dark hole. This time of year, I . . .”

  “I’m trying not to let grief get at me.” Happy is as happy does. Right? She had to stay positive. Because if she didn’t, she was terrified she would lose control and everything would fall apart. “That’s why we have to give Hunter the best Christmas ever. He might have lost his parents, but he’s still loved. Still has us.”

  “Your mom and I worry that you’re giving up your own life for your nephew.”

  “Oh no, no!” She splayed a palm to her chest. “Hunter is my life. I couldn’t love him more if he were mine.”

  “I know, but Robert—”

  “Robert will come around.” Naomi bobbed her head as if all she had to do was think it and she could make it so.

  Her father held her gaze, his darkening with concern. “And if he doesn’t?”

  Naomi notched her chin up. “Hunter comes first. Always.”

  “Even if that means breaking up with Robert?” Her father ran his thumb over her knuckles.

  She didn’t hesitate. The answer rolled right off her tongue. “Yes.”

  “You
’ve been with Robert since high school. He’s the only boyfriend you’ve ever had. Are you sure you’re prepared to lose him?”

  She couldn’t help feeling she’d lost him already and had just been too busy to address it.

  “And yet, he’s never asked me to marry him.”

  “But you have an understanding.”

  “That’s not enough.” She bit her bottom lip. “Not anymore. If Robert wants me, he’s got to want Hunter too. We’re a package deal.”

  Her dad shook his head, a regretful expression plunking at the corners of his mouth, but he said nothing.

  “What is it?” she prodded, gripped by an unknown anxiety.

  “From the time you were little, you sacrificed yourself for others. I still remember how generous you were with your brother. If there were five M&M’s you would give him three and keep two for yourself.”

  “He was my baby brother.”

  “Most kids are all about themselves. It’s normal. Natural to be selfish when you’re six. You weren’t.”

  “I guess I just like giving. It makes me feel good the way nothing else does. I don’t feel as if I’m missing out on anything. I feel like so much love is being added to my life. Hunter enriches me in countless ways. He’s not a burden. Besides, I always knew I wanted kids. Now I have one.”

  “But not in quite the way you planned.”

  “It’s part of God’s plan.” She bowed her head. “I believe that with all my heart.”

  Her father looked relieved. They’d discussed the issue before but not to this degree. “And you’re certain this is what you want?”

  “It’s not just what I want, but what God wants for my life.”

  His soft smile turned wry. “Maybe you should deliver Sunday’s sermon. You sound far wiser than me.”

  “Daddy,” she said. “You and Mom lead by example. You give so much to others, how could I not follow in your footsteps? It’s my best way to honor you and Mom, Clayton and Samantha.”

  “Your mother and I could adopt Hunter. It’s still an option.”

  “We’ve been over this before, Dad. Mom is in no shape to take care of an active boy, and you are busy with your congregation.”

  Her father nodded. The same reluctant nod he’d given her when they hashed this over with Samantha’s parents after Samantha’s death. “Your mom and I and the Woolys just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. Raising a child isn’t easy.”

  “I know.” She straightened her shoulders, buffed her smile. A shiny, polished, I-just-won-an-Oscar kind of smile. But she knew neither one of them was buying it. “But I’m prepared.”

  “Samantha fell down that dark hole of grief we were talking about . . .” Her father trailed off again.

  “She was hurting.”

  “We all were.”

  The cookie Naomi was eating turned to dirt in her mouth. They all wanted to believe that Samantha’s death was accidental, but in her heart of hearts, Naomi knew it had been intentional. The coroner had put down that the cause of death was accidental because he was friends with her parents and wanted to blunt their pain, but Samantha had swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills that she’d had filled at the pharmacy the week before. No way that could have been an accident. Although it was hard to imagine how a mother could leave her child without making provisions, the truth was what it was. After much soul searching, Naomi had come to understand how the emotional pain of losing her husband, and Samantha’s delicate mental constitution, had led her to end her life and abandon her son. Naomi could only pray that God understood too. That was why Naomi was so determined to raise Hunter. He deserved a stable, strong, happy mother who would be there for him no matter what.

  It was her job to get her father back on cheerier topics. This had to be a happy Christmas, no matter what. As the oldest child, and a pastor’s daughter, giving to others was ingrained in her. Service was as much a part of her as her hair color. It was up to her to make this Christmas the merriest of all, for herself as much as anyone else. She needed to be needed. And talking about Clayton and Samantha was taking them in the opposite direction.

  “Tomorrow,” she said, “let’s take Hunter to see the new Disney movie.”

  “I forgive Sam, and I know God does too. We all miss her terribly,” Dad went on, ignoring Naomi’s attempt to shift topics, and letting her know that he too realized Samantha had indeed killed herself. “But she’s left us with a tough row to hoe.” He nodded in the direction of Hunter’s bedroom.

  “I don’t mind. I love the little guy to pieces. But I wish . . .” She caught herself, pulled her chin up. “Well, there’s no use in wishing for things that can’t happen. All we can do is move forward with a smile on our faces and hope in our hearts.”

  “I’m so proud of you, sunshine.” Her father squeezed her hand and looked into her eyes. When she was a little girl and felt sad, he would bounce her on his knee and sing “You Are My Sunshine” to cheer her up.

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “You are so strong.”

  “No stronger than you.” She squeezed his hand right back. Since her mother had been diagnosed with RA, their bond had strengthened. They were the caretakers now. “I love you, Daddy.”

  Tears misted her father’s eyes. “I love you more than words can say, sunshine. Never doubt it.”

  They sat for a moment. Father and daughter. Holding hands. Steeped in grief. Naomi was lucky. So very lucky to have loving parents. Parents who’d taught her that service to others was the most rewarding of life’s paths. Not everyone was as lucky as she. She sent up a prayer of gratitude, thankful for her blessings.

  The image of Mark Shepherd popped into her mind. He didn’t have to tell her about his past for her to understand that he was one of the unlucky ones. The clouded look of yearning in his eyes when he’d watched them at the dinner table spoke volumes.

  What had he been like as a boy? she wondered. What conditions had he grown up in? Who was he deep down inside?

  “It was weird,” she said. “Wasn’t it? About Hunter calling Mark Daddy.”

  “Yes,” her father agreed. “It was awkward, but you handled the situation well.”

  “You hired Mark as our handyman because he’s a Marine.”

  Her father nodded. “Like Clayton.”

  “By taking him in, it’s like you’re saving Clayton.”

  “Things aren’t as cut and dried as that.”

  “You’re too softhearted, Daddy.”

  “So are you.” He smiled at her, a foggy smile. Weary. Stared off into the distance as if peering into the past. “You get that from me. Your mother is a lovely soul, but she’s much better at keeping her heart out of business decisions.”

  “You and Mom make a great team.”

  “Things were easier before the arthritis took over,” he said. “But all growth comes with challenges.”

  “It would be nice if God slowed down on the challenges a bit,” she said. “I’ve had enough growth for one year.”

  “He never gives us more than we can handle.”

  Naomi wasn’t so sure about that, but it was too late at night to get into a philosophical discussion. “Do you know what you’re going to talk about for Sunday’s sermon?”

  “I do.” He finished off his tea. Her father often read his sermons to her for feedback.

  “Are you going to make me wait until Sunday to find out?”

  “Forgiveness,” he said. “I want to talk about forgiveness. Forgiving others. Forgiving ourselves. Forgiving our misunderstandings of God’s plan for our lives.”

  “We can’t lay everything at God’s feet,” Naomi said, getting agitated. “He wasn’t the one who killed Clayton.”

  “Forgiveness,” her father murmured.

  “You’re directing the sermon at me?” She let go of her father’s hand, ran her palms over her upper thighs.

  “I’m directing it at anyone who needs forgiveness. Both giving it and getting it.”

&nb
sp; “And what about the Marines? Why didn’t they rescue Clayton? No man left behind. That’s the motto, right? Yet they left him behind.”

  “Others’ lives were at stake. More would have died if they’d gone back after your brother.”

  “When I imagine what Clayton went through . . .” Naomi shuddered. Dropped her face into her hands.

  Her father massaged her shoulder. “Shh, shh. Don’t think about it.”

  “But that’s the trick, isn’t it? How do you not think about it?”

  “Prayer helps.”

  “But sometimes prayer fails.”

  “Seems to fail,” he corrected. “We have to be patient.”

  “And when you can’t be patient?”

  “That’s when I chop firewood,” he said. “Or go box at the gym.”

  “Maybe I should take up boxing,” she mused, and feigned punches.

  “Perhaps you should.” His tone said he meant it.

  Naomi laughed at the idea of taking up boxing.

  Her father yawned, pushed back his chair. “We should try and get some sleep.”

  “I’ll give it a shot.” She got up, kissed her father’s cheek, went back to bed. And finally managed to fall asleep.

  Only to dream of Clayton. That terrible, recurring dream when he begged her to rescue him. In the dream, she kept trying to get to him, but she couldn’t run. Mired in gooey glue that stuck to her shoes. Held her down.

  She woke, bathed in sweat. Trembling. Tears filling her eyes. Swamped with a terrible knowledge. If she lived to be a hundred, she didn’t think she could ever forgive the evil man who’d killed her baby brother.

  Or the Marines who’d left him to die in enemy hands.

  Chapter 8

  The men at the table introduced themselves to Shepherd. Gideon Garza, former Army Ranger, Ryder Southerland, army military police, and Hutch Hutcherson, retired Delta Force. There was a lot of collective military experience in the Twilight Waffle-O-Rama.

  And a lot of pain.

  These men had seen things, done things that civilians couldn’t begin to understand.

  Gideon was missing a hand. Hutch was the sole survivor of a guerrilla attack on his team in Afghanistan. And Ryder had witnessed a good friend die in front of him during a training exercise.