Johnny Darlington, Anne and Daniel’s father, had taken him on a tour of the estate. He was gruff at first but slowly warmed up to him as the evening chilled. Zack could soon see just where Anne had inherited her wry sense of the ridiculous from; not from her studiously perfect mother, but from the taciturn farmer who loved the land as much as his daughter did.
The highlight of Christmas Eve was definitely the meal. Actually, it was cooking the meal that was the most fun.
Being a family that had practically founded the American branch of the Italian Slow Food movement, they had a magnificent kitchen in the residence. Much of the day was spent in and out of the expansive room with its long counters of polished granite and multitude of burners and ovens. Beveled glass fronted the cupboards filled with china and crystal. A large pantry extended off one side. The dark hardwood shone with the high polish not from wax but rather from generations of feet crossing and recrossing the surface. The windows looked out over the estate’s lands where the food had come from.
The preparations began with Johnny carrying in a large ham clearly stamped “Darlington Farms.” But Anne and her mother were definitely the women in charge and the First Lady was soon in the midst of the fray. The three women were wearing aprons and laughing as they worked.
“I can barely barbeque,” Zack had confessed when asked.
“I’m shocked,” Anne pressed her fingers against her breast. “How did they ever let you into Colorado, never mind make you their governor?”
“I cheated, I was born there. And I never told. It’s my dirty little secret.”
“Well, it’s out now,” Anne had dragged him to a counter and pointed at a pile of carrots. “You know you to use a peeler, don’t you?”
He had to confess that he did and was soon put to work washing and peeling.
“Sucker,” Alice mouthed at him. She was in the kitchen, but had managed to stay on the sidelines as she played with the First Child. Adele Gloria Sebiya Matthews was a year old and about the cutest thing he’d ever seen. It was easy to imagine Alice playing with her own child someday.
Then he glanced at Anne as she and Genny leaned down to consult a recipe that looked as if it had been scribed generations before. Anne with a child, with their child…that too was easy to imagine. Very easy.
Anne’s mother must have read his expression and winked at him.
He leaned over to the President who had been relegated to cutting up fresh pumpkin for pumpkin pies, “What is it with Darlington women that they always know what we’re thinking?”
“Trust me, Zack, it’s not just the Darlington women. I dare you to try and slip something past Genny. I need to warn you, as President to hopefully next President, forget the Russians or the Chinese. The truly inscrutable ones are our women.”
“Love them like mad—”
“Absolutely!” Peter agreed.
“—but never understand them.”
“Not a chance.”
And then Anne looked at him as if she’d just overheard the entire conversation, which was impossible as Daniel was making a walnut flour in the food processor at that moment. Her smile said yes to so many things.
# # #
“Here, this one is for you, Pop,” Anne had been chosen as the Darlington’s Santa, which included a silly red hat and the duty of parsing out gifts from beneath the tree.
Last night’s feast had gone long into the night but Anne had little to contribute. Her awareness of Zack had grown until she’d lost her capacity for words and was content to just listen and enjoy as Genny and her mother had compared notes on handling men. The President and her father had done their best to pretend they couldn’t hear the stories that were being laughed about around the whole table.
The two women had also discussed the birth and initial year of the First Daughter, asleep in the cradle beside the First Lady’s chair, in such graphic detail that Anne had finally spoken up to forbid that topic.
Her mother, the premier social tactician, had already forbidden politics and farming from the table which had initially left the two men adrift, but they had eventually joined in on other matters.
Zack had been as quiet as she was.
Last night, when she’d finally taken him to her bed, neither of them had found any words. They’d been gentle and loving and it told her that she was only at the very beginning of learning what the future held for them both. When he’d rested his hand upon her bare belly for a long moment, she’d only been able to tuck her head against his chest and nod. Someday. Someday soon. And then their child was going to grow up in a very unique house.
This morning she’d found her voice again, “I have to warn you, Pop,” she pointed at the package’s label, “this is from my brother, so it must be a tie.” Something her father had never worn except at formal dinners.
Instead it was a fine-knit scarf of gold leaves, blue sky, and running horses—hooves raised high in the trademark Tennessee Walker stride. It had been double-knit so that both sides were finished. Alice’s handiwork.
“Oh my god, I want one. I’m going to steal yours, Pop. Watch out.”
“Not a chance, Melanie Anne Darlington.” He wrapped it around his neck and flipped it in a loose knot to make his point.
“No you aren’t,” Alice said sternly. She plucked another box from under the tree, “You’re going to open this instead.”
It was a perfect match, except for her initials worked into the sky at one end. She put hers on, kissed Alice, reminded her that she was Anne’s number one favorite sister-in-law, and went to hug her father.
He pulled her into his lap, something he hadn’t done in years, and pulled her head down to kiss her soundly on the top of it. She snuggled in for just a moment, before sitting up and holding out both of their scarves.
“We match.”
“You always were my Johnny’s little girl,” her mother sighed. “Daniel took after me but like your father, you’re happiest when you’re out on the land. I kept trying to convince you that running the estate was in your blood, but it isn’t.”
“No, it’s in Daniel’s,” the President noted. “I promise, I’ll give him back in just a few more years. Anne was right, this is where he’s supposed to be, but I still need him for a while.”
“How didn’t I know that?” Anne slid onto the footstool and turned to face her father, resting her elbows on his knees. Her build and coloring, even her accent was from her mother. She’d always thought she was destined to be just like her. “How did I miss that?”
Her father, always a man of few words, reached out to brush a hand down her cheek and tap a finger on her nose as he always used to, “Weren’t paying attention, were you? You were always bigger than this place, always thinking outside the box.”
“Your cookies,” her mother groaned. “I’ll never forgive you, Johnny, for getting her started on those cookies.”
And Anne realized that’s where she’d gotten it from. She’d never thought about it, but could remember her father teaching her how to make cookie boxes with “airholes” in them and a reindeer antler sticking out through one. And it wasn’t just the cookies; it was the whispered wry comments, the off-kilter observations, that had only been between them.
Her mother was regaling the room with the trials and tribulations she’d suffered when Anne and her Johnny were collaborating on any number of projects. She and her father were left in a small moment of space. She looked up into his deep blue eyes, the only physical thing she’d inherited from him.
“Love you, Pop.”
“You’re glowing, honey. All I ever asked for.”
“I’m happy. Maybe for the first time since I last rode Mephista to the steeplechase.”
“About to get better, honey. Turn around.”
And there was Zack. Somehow he’d absconded with her official Santa hat and now sat on the fl
oor at the foot of the tree.
“There are two presents for Queen Anne, one big and one small,” he intoned as if announcing something to a royal court. “Which would she like first?”
“Big one, duh, Mr. Vice President!”
“A wise choice, my queen,” he winked at her before calling out. “Bring in the big present.”
And Alice came in carrying what Anne first thought was a stuffed toy dog—until it squirmed in her arms, released an ear-shattering yip of excitement, and licked Alice’s face.
“Eww! No fair. You’re not mine, you little terror. Here, sister-in-law, I think this troublemaker must be yours.”
Anne held up her hands, “Oh, gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” The puppy had no qualms about transferring to her arms. It nestled happily in her lap and licked Anne’s nose. Her—Anne lifted the dog’s front legs to check—her fur was one of the softest things Anne had ever felt.
“She’s a Sheltie,” Zack reached out to scratch the dog’s head and received a nipped finger for his troubles. “Big enough to be a real dog and keep up on hikes, small enough travel with you or even to be trained to ride in a saddlebag when you go horsing about the countryside.”
Anne poked her nose against the dog’s cool one and got a happy tongue loll as a reward. “She’s perfect. I’m going to name her Zackie, because she’s probably going to be just as much trouble as the man who gave her to me.”
“And if you call her Zackie, what are you going to call me?”
“I think that should be obvious, Mr. Vice President.” At his groan she waved a hand at the big box she’d tucked around the side of the tree. “That is your big present.”
“He’s going to love this,” she whispered into the dog’s fur and hugged it tight on her lap. They’d never spoken of it, but he’d known she was a dog person. Maybe he knew about farms. On a working farm a cat wasn’t a pet, it was a furry form of rodent control that occasionally condescended to scratch a little girl for petting it. Dogs were what kept a person company. And the White House did have a long tradition of canine residents.
Zack sat cross-legged before the tree. He began methodically unpeeling one of the back flaps of his gift and she sighed.
She scooted down to sit on the living room carpet in front of him, keeping Zackie in her lap. Anne reached out, grabbed a corner of the paper and yanked at it, creating a massive rip.
Everyone leaned forward to see what it was. But she didn’t care about them. She just watched the man she’d come to love so easily as her gift registered. It was with almost reverent hands that he peeled back the rest of the paper.
When he looked up at her, it wasn’t the man’s eyes that looked at her, it was the boy’s. But this time they were filled with hope.
“A fresh start. For the whole family. For you, for me, for our children. Maybe not for this scamp,” she waved one of the puppy’s paws at him.
He looked back down at the train set.
“The train shop—who knew there was such a thing—said it was the very best starter kit. I bought it in N-gauge, one size bigger than the one you had as a child so there could be no borrowing. A true fresh start.”
Again he looked at her with his soul bared before her. He pulled her in and kissed her. The puppy barked loudly then licked the bottom of both of their chins from where it was confined between them.
“Okay, maybe I need to rethink the dog gift,” Zack muttered as they parted.
“Don’t you dare,” she hugged the puppy close which made it wriggle with delight.
“You make my small present almost irrelevant, my dear Anne.”
“Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” She repeated her earlier call earning her a laugh from her family and the First Family except for Adele who was happily asleep on the belly of a stuffed bear that was larger than she was.
He reached into his jeans pocket and extracted a square blue-velvet box and opened it. Inside was a simple, yet elegant ring. It had a single emerald the color of the forest set in a twisted band of silver and gold. No chill diamond of ice or frozen hearts. Two precious metals combined to grow together, becoming a luminously green future larger than either of them could imagine.
“I think you’ve struck her speechless,” Alice called from somewhere behind her.
“Yes, there are times that a man can do just that,” Genny whispered softly.
Anne heard a sniffle from her mother, but couldn’t look away.
Zack remained sitting before her, complete Santa hat in front of the family Christmas tree, holding aloft the incredible gift of his heart.
“You said your answer might be different if I asked again?”
Anne could only nod. It was all so fast, but it wasn’t, because it was also so perfect.
“Well?” he whispered to her.
“You have to ask if you want an answer,” she whispered back.
“Oh, right.” Zack rose to kneeling on one knee and spoke up. “Melanie Anne Darlington, before these good friends and family, will you make me whole for the rest of our days? For everyone knows I am incomplete without you. Please marry me.”
“Oh god yes, Mr. Vice President.” No need to hold her breath for even an instant to be sure of that. He understood that she couldn’t say yes while she’d only been half a person, but neither could she be whole without him.
Once he’d slipped the ring onto her finger, she threw herself at him, knocking him flat on his back among the piles of torn up wrapping paper.
She kissed him under the Christmas tree while everyone else cheered and clapped, and a puppy chased a small blue velvet box across the rug beside them.
About the Author
M. L. Buchman has over 40 novels in print. His military romantic suspense books have been named Barnes & Noble and NPR “Top 5 of the Year,” nominated for the Reviewer’s Choice Award for “Top 10 Romantic Suspense of 2014” by RT Book Reviews, and twice Booklist “Top 10 of the Year” placing two of his titles on their “The 101 Best Romance Novels of the Last 10 Years.” In addition to romance, he also writes thrillers, fantasy, and science fiction.
In among his career as a corporate project manager he has: rebuilt and single-handed a fifty-foot sailboat, both flown and jumped out of airplanes, designed and built two houses, and bicycled solo around the world.
He is now making his living as a full-time writer on the Oregon Coast with his beloved wife. He is constantly amazed at what you can do with a degree in Geophysics. You may keep up with his writing by subscribing to his newsletter at www.mlbuchman.com.
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Chirstmas at Peleliu Cove
(excerpt)
Striding up the wide steel bow ramp of the LCAC hovercraft, Petty Officer Nika Maier patted the ugly beast on its big black numbers—316—painted on the Navy-gray hull.
“Morning, baby.” It was 1800 hours, an hour past sunset in the southern Mediterranean, the start of their day. Ever since the Night Stalkers had come to fly helicopters off their ship, operations had been done in a flipped-clock world of night. Even in their second year aboard, she really wasn’t used to sleeping through the day, but that choice was made way above the pay grade of a Navy enlisted woman. Despite the warm December evening, there was a familiar damp air-and-steel chill down in the bowels of the USS Peleliu where Landing Craft Air Cushion 316 was typically parked.
“You got a soft spot in you,” Chief Petty Officer Sly Stowell’s deep voice echoed about the steel cavern that was the sea-level Well Deck of the ship. The Peleliu’s massive stern ramp was currently raised, blocking out both the sea and the last of the sunset. In the shadows of the worklights she hadn’t spotted him. The Craftmaster was perched in the window of the hovercraft’s starboard two-story control station, but after four years aboard his craft and four tours in the Navy, she’d lost her the ability to be surprised and simply waved a greeting.
&
nbsp; “Only before a mission,” she looked up at him. “Other than that…”
“…hard as steel,” he finished for her. “In a mood to go kick some ass, Petty Officer Maier?” He offered his ritual start-of-shift greeting.
“Two boots better than one, Chief Stowell,” her ritual reply before she climbed up into her Loadmaster’s portside tower to prep the hovercraft. Even on days with no mission or exercise planned, they always made sure their craft was completely ready.
Sly dropped down the ladder and headed off to the evening briefing as she started checking over the LCAC—spoken like you were about to throw up—El-Cack! Some part of her warped Lower East Side Jewish sense of humor laughed every single time she heard it…or even thought it. The LCAC was homely as a New York bum, and so powerful that riding in it felt like an outing in the Lord’s personal chariot. The juxtaposition got her every time. Probably made her completely sophomoric, but since no one could hear inside her head she figured no harm—no foul.
The portside lookout on Sly Stowell’s hovercraft had become Petty Officer Nika Maier’s favorite assignment since joining the Navy eight years before. In just another month she’d have been four years on old Lady 316.
Her first tour had been aboard the USS George H. W. Bush—then on its own first tour—but a girl could get totally lost in the five-thousand person city that was a newly commissioned aircraft carrier. The largest ship afloat in any navy, and still the crowd was worse than Times Square on New Year’s Eve. She’d been a “red”—a red-vested serviceperson—in charge of loading and securing aircraft weapons and munitions systems. She was no aviator, but eventually grew sick of watching others burn into the sky on the hottest rides while she stood on the deck, ate exhaust fumes, and wished she was someone else.
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