by Irene Hannon
Yeah, he did.
Because of Debbie—and Josh.
He owed Debbie an explanation . . . and an apology. And until he found the guts to take care of that piece of unfinished business, he wasn’t going to be able to put the whole mess to rest. Nor would he be able to pry his personal life out of hold and move forward with it, as he’d moved forward in his career.
Propping one shoulder against the wall, he noted the clear glass bowl of shells on the vanity—the souvenir of some pleasant vacation by the sea, perhaps. A reminder meant to stir up happy memories.
But some memories were best left buried.
At least that’s what he’d tried to tell himself all these months, over the protests of his conscience. Through sheer force of will, he’d managed to keep them at bay, to convince himself he was coping fine for the moment and that he’d get around to dealing with all the bad stuff someday.
Then a beautiful figure skater entered his world, and suddenly someday wasn’t a fuzzy spot on a distant horizon but looming just ahead.
He reached up and kneaded the back of his neck. Christy might be new in his life, but he had a feeling she could be here to stay. She was nothing like any of the women he’d dated. All the others had been easily forgotten the instant he ended a phone call or dropped them off after an evening of partying.
Not Christy.
From the time he opened his eyes in the morning until he closed them at night, she either dominated his thoughts or hovered around the edges of whatever else he was thinking about.
As for his dreams—she played a starring role in those too.
At this point, he was having difficulty imagining a future without her.
But there could be no future until he laid the past to rest once and for all.
He gripped the edge of the vanity and studied the solemn man staring back at him in the mirror.
Maybe it was time to take a trip to Virginia.
A muffled clatter of pots sounded in the vicinity of the kitchen, pulling him back to the present. Since he didn’t have Superman’s ability to rewind the clock to before she’d issued her dinner invitation, his best strategy might be to chow down quickly and make a fast exit. In the interim, he’d keep the conversation light, simple, impersonal. Ask some questions about her skating career, her hobbies, her work. Talk about recent movies, travel, books. Share a few laughs. That should get him through a stir-fry. It wasn’t as if this was a multiple-course meal.
Armed with that plan, he joined her in the kitchen.
She gave him a tentative smile, almost as if she knew he’d been having second thoughts about staying. “This won’t take long. I’ve already got the rice cooker going.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“That depends. Do you cook?”
“Does adding milk to cereal or dropping a bagel in the toaster count?”
Her lips twitched. “I might have to assign you to cleanup duty instead.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind—but in the meantime, you don’t have to be a cook to chop and dice. How would you like to use that knife for something other than opening envelopes?” She gestured to the wooden rack on the counter.
“I’m good with knives. Just tell me what you want done.”
Once she got him started, he launched into topic number one—her job—and by the time savory aromas from the stove were setting off a rumble in his stomach, any lingering tension between them had dissolved.
“If you’d like to set the table, you’ll find glasses, utensils, and paper napkins over there.” She motioned toward the cabinets beside the sink while she set two plates on the counter and began dishing up the stir-fry.
“Ah. A job that doesn’t tax my kitchen skills.”
“You did fine with the chopping.”
“Don’t get too carried away. In general, it would be better—and safer—to assign me to cleanup duty.”
“I’ll keep that in mind next time.”
Next time.
He liked the sound of that . . . once this case was over.
After finishing the table, he got them each a soda. She joined him in the dining area, heaping plates in hand—his piled higher than hers.
“Sorry I couldn’t offer you steak, but I do make a mean stir-fry.” She set the plates in each place and slid into her chair.
“This looks great. You might even convert me.” Not that he’d ever admit that to Lisa after turning up his nose at her ladies-who-lunch place.
He took his own chair, picked up his fork—and froze when Christy bowed her head.
The lady prayed before meals . . . just like he and the rest of the McGregor clan had done during his younger years.
When she lifted her chin and found him watching her, she bit her bottom lip. “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable, but I’m used to offering a blessing at meals.”
Did he look uncomfortable?
Maybe.
How long had it been since he last thought about saying a prayer before a meal, unless he was home for a visit and his mother or father initiated it?
Too long to remember.
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” He broke eye contact to scoop up a generous mouthful—and to hide that stretch of the truth. “We always prayed at meals when I was growing up. I just got out of the habit.”
“How come?”
He chewed slowly, buying himself a few seconds to compose an answer he hoped wouldn’t offend her. “It was hard to feel God’s presence in some of the situations I was in during my military career.”
Her eyebrows rose. “I didn’t realize you were in the military. What branch?”
“Special forces.”
She stopped eating. “As in SEAL or Delta Force?”
“The latter.”
“Wow. I’m impressed. How recently?”
Uh-oh.
A direct answer would lead her to the obvious conclusion: he was an FBI rookie. Might be better to go with vague. If he was lucky, she wouldn’t press the issue.
“Very.”
She poked at her stir-fry, a hint of wariness in those green irises. “How long have you been with the FBI?”
So much for luck.
He braced. “I finished the Academy in December. I’ve been in St. Louis since the first of the year.”
“You mean . . .” She bit her lip. “Is this your first case?”
He looked at her straight on, his gaze never wavering. “Yes. But I’m well trained and I have plenty of experienced agents to call on if I need help—including a former Hostage Rescue Team operator.” He swallowed, then forced out the words he didn’t want to say. “However, if you’d rather have a different lead agent on the case, I can talk to my boss.”
Several eternal seconds ticked by while the food congealed in his stomach.
At last she forked a piece of chicken. “I expect God knew what he was doing when your receptionist directed my phone call to you.”
He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I appreciate your confidence.”
“I’ve read about you special forces guys. You’re a formidable bunch—on and off the battlefield, I suspect. And your earlier comment about God makes a lot of sense now. War is tough enough for ordinary soldiers, but I imagine you’ve seen a lot of very bad stuff. I’m sure God can seem far away in those kinds of circumstances. And in the midst of trauma, it can be hard to feel his comfort or hear his direction.”
The voice of experience.
Christy might never have been on a battlefield, but she’d known personal tragedy and loss and grief—yet she’d held on to her faith.
“So how did you manage to do it?” The question was out before he could stop it.
If she considered his query too nosey, she gave no indication. “I didn’t always succeed. I felt abandoned by God, first after my parents were killed, and again after the fire. But whenever I get depressed or discouraged, I think back to the lesson I learned
after my career-ending fall: even if it seems God is ignoring us, he’s listening. And when the time is right—his time, not ours—he offers us the guidance we need. Knowing that, believing it with all my heart, has always been a great source of comfort and strength.” Her voice was steady, her resolve absolute.
“I envy you that.”
“It’s yours for the taking if you want it.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
She speared a piece of broccoli. “I never said it was easy. Most things in life worth having require effort. Maybe you should recultivate that habit of prayer you had growing up. It would be a start, anyway.”
“Maybe.” But he had a feeling it would take a lot more than a few words spoken from the heart for him to reconnect with the Almighty.
As if sensing his skepticism—and resistance—Christy switched gears. “You mentioned family. Does that mean you have siblings?”
“Yes.” He dived back into his meal. This was a much safer subject. “Two brothers—one older, one younger.” He filled her in on their background.
“Talk about an accomplished family.” She offered him another piece of bread from the basket she’d set on the table before they began eating. “SEAL turned homicide detective, Delta Force operator turned FBI agent, and Army Ranger. You all make me feel like a slacker.”
He buttered his bread. “Are you kidding? We might know how to fight, but none of us would have had the discipline to be an Olympic athlete, even if we’d had the talent—which we didn’t.”
“I can’t speak to the talent part, but from everything I’ve read about special forces soldiers, discipline is their middle name. Have all of you been to the Middle East?”
He chased an elusive piece of carrot around his plate. “Our missions were classified, so I don’t know exactly where Mac and Finn have been. With the current state of world affairs, though, it’s a pretty safe bet that if you’re in special forces, you’ve been deployed to that region more than once.”
She rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her palm. When she spoke again, her tone was more subdued. “You know, I can’t even imagine being in some of the situations I’ve read about in the press. The conflicts over there don’t follow most of the traditional rules of engagement. Just distinguishing between allies and enemies seems to be a huge challenge.”
Lance stopped pursuing the carrot and set his fork down. How had she managed to home in on the very situation that had led to the trauma he’d been dealing with for the past eighteen months?
When the silence lengthened, she set her own fork down too. “I’m sorry. I can see I touched a nerve.”
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugged, but the stiffness in his shoulders negated his denial. “Every soldier over there ran into those kinds of situations on a regular basis.”
“But I expect some were worse than others.” Her soft, sympathetic voice was filled with compassion, as if she’d looked into his soul and seen the darkness and pain.
“Yeah.” He picked up his soda. Took a long swallow.
Once again the room went silent.
After a few moments, she rose and reached for his empty plate, lightening her tone. “Would you like some coffee? I have a few homemade chocolate chip cookies left from my weekend baking binge.”
She was dropping the subject. Moving on to dessert he didn’t need.
This is your chance to make that fast exit, McGregor. Take it.
Yet for some reason, other words came out.
“That sounds great. Thanks.”
As she returned to the kitchen and busied herself with the dessert preparations, Lance frowned and pulled out his phone. Checking messages would buy him a few minutes to regroup.
But instead of reading emails, he saw only a blur of type as he scrolled through the phone log.
Why in sweet heaven had he stayed?
Sure, he liked being with Christy, and that was a fine incentive to hang around—but the spark of attraction between them wasn’t why he’d abandoned his original eat-and-exit plan.
The truth was, he’d lingered because her empathetic eyes and kind, caring manner had sucked him in. Tempted him to dredge up all the ugliness he’d buried in the murkiest corner of his heart for the past year and a half. Encouraged him to trust her with secrets he’d shared with no one. To expose his flaws—and the shame he carried—and see if she could dredge up enough compassion to stick with him or turn away in disgust.
There was a danger in following that inclination, though. If she couldn’t live with what he’d done, there was very little chance Debbie would be receptive to his story, either . . . or to his plea for forgiveness. Plus, if Christy did distance herself, if she shut the door on the possibility of a personal relationship, where did that leave him?
A flicker of panic sent a spurt of adrenaline racing through him.
“Do you take cream and sugar?” She called the question through the open shelves that separated the kitchen and dining area.
He looked over. A rectangular ceramic plaque on one of the shelves occupied the spot beside her face, the border design representing spring, summer, fall, and winter. He hadn’t noticed it while they ate, but now the six words in the center jumped out at him.
To everything there is a season.
It was a quote from the Bible, that much he knew, though the name of the book eluded him.
“Lance?”
He shifted his attention back to her. “Black.”
While she retreated to the kitchen, he reread the words. Wasn’t there a line in that passage about a time to kill and a time to heal? About mourning and weeping giving way to joy?
Odd that such a quotation would cross his path tonight, just as he was struggling to decide whether to make the leap that could launch a new season in his life.
Could God’s hand be in this . . . or was that a stretch?
His heart said the former; his mind, the latter.
Which should he trust?
Lance leaned slightly sideways to watch while Christy poured their coffee. She added a generous portion of cream and a spoonful of sugar to hers. Cutting the blackness. Tempering the bitterness.
The very thing he needed to do with his past.
But if he took the leap, if he trusted her with his secret, would that lead to healing . . . or more regret?
He had no idea.
She opened a tin of cookies and began to arrange them on a plate. Soon she’d rejoin him. He needed to make a decision. Fast.
All at once, her earlier advice echoed in his mind.
“Maybe you should recultivate that habit of prayer you had growing up.”
He’d dismissed that notion at the time. With all his baggage, it would surely take more than a few words to reconnect with the God he’d abandoned long ago on some distant battlefield.
On the other hand, what did he have to lose by attempting to reopen the conversation?
For tonight, though, a simple plea would have to suffice.
Lord, please help me with this decision. And if I end up sharing my story with Christy, I ask that you let her listen with an open and compassionate heart.
10
Christy added the last cookie to the plate, replaced the lid on the tin, and blew out a breath. The dinner had gone so well after those first few awkward minutes—why had she ruined it by dwelling on Lance’s combat experience, which he obviously didn’t want to discuss?
She risked a peek at him. He was checking messages, brow puckered. He hadn’t said a word since she’d come into the kitchen.
Not a positive sign.
Maybe he’d down his coffee in a couple of swigs, grab a cookie or two, and hightail it out of here. Why hang around someone who’d put him on the spot twice tonight, first with her prayer before the meal and then by bringing up the Middle East?
The prayer, she didn’t regret.
The other . . . big mistake. She’d read enough about the situation in that part of the world to know it left las
ting scars on soldiers—physical, psychological . . . or both.
And it was clear Lance bore his share.
Perhaps the best way to salvage the situation would be to introduce some lighter subjects and hope he hung around through dessert.
Balancing the plate of cookies in one hand, she grabbed his mug with the other and rejoined him.
He slid the phone back on his belt as she approached and inspected the cookies. “Are those really homemade?”
“Yes. My mom’s secret recipe. They may not be too healthy, but they’re great comfort food.”
“I’m all for comfort food.” He reached for one.
“Let me grab my coffee and some dessert plates and we’ll dive in.”
“Would you mind bringing the cream too? I’d like to tone down the black tonight after all.”
“Coming right up.”
She retrieved the items from the kitchen, keeping tabs on him through the shelving. He hadn’t bolted—yet—but his posture was tense.
Because you blew it, Christy. Now see if you can fix the damage.
Pasting on a smile, she set the cream and a plate in front of him and took her seat. Time to introduce a safe and innocuous topic, see if she could get those broad shoulders to relax. “So tell me about your furniture shopping expedition tonight. Sounds like you were having loads of fun.”
He took a sip of his lightened brew. “Not. In fact, it bumped winter nighttime surveillance down a notch on my top-ten list of least favorite civilian activities.”
Interesting how he’d included the word civilian.
But no way was she touching that.
“I bet your future sister-in-law wasn’t happy about being deserted.”
“Lisa’s a peach—though if you saw her on the job, you’d never know that. She is one tough lady in uniform. You don’t get to be a detective with the Chicago PD or a police chief by being soft.” He took a sip of coffee, but his cookie lay untouched on the plate. “You don’t get to be a Delta Force operator by being soft, either.”
She looked at him over the rim of her mug. Did he want to talk about his military career now?
“Is that a warning about your character?” She tried for a teasing tone.
“Only if you’re a bad guy—and you’re neither.” He gave her a quick grin and took a small bite of his cookie.
