Christmas at Twilight

by Lori Wilde

  The happy glow from the wine, food, and good company evaporated completely. Her knees went loose, and a hot, sick sensation slicked her stomach in the inevitable pattern—the eerie crawling sensation at the base of her neck, an invisible black widow spider spinning through Meredith’s brain. Prickles of dread plucked at her skin and the scar behind her ear burned.

  “What’s that?” she whispered.

  “The majority of them have some form of PTSD. In Hutch’s case it could be very mild, but I would be very surprised if he wasn’t dealing with some kind of fallout from what happened over there.”

  “I see.” Nausea swept over her. Dear God, don’t let her throw up.

  “I don’t mean to alarm you. Before he went into special ops, Hutch was the most honest, open man I ever met, and that’s a miracle considering how he grew up. He’s a resilient guy and I don’t mean to speak ill of him, but I feel I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you what I know about the effects of PTSD.”

  “Please.” Meredith licked her lips nervously. “I want to know.”

  Quietly, Caitlyn told her how Gideon had pulled a gun on her when she’d awakened him from a deep sleep. “It was an automatic response. He was Green Beret and trained to always be on alert, but the incident scared us both and we almost didn’t make it over that hump. Gideon was so full of remorse and self-loathing.”

  Meredith was almost afraid to ask the next question, but she had to know. “How is Gideon now?”

  A sunshine-bright smile broke over Caitlyn’s face and her voice lightened. “He’s made a complete recovery. PTSD is curable, but it doesn’t happen overnight. And Hutch’s case is more complicated because he can’t talk. It’s hard to debrief when you can’t speak.”

  “What did you do to help Gideon through it?” Meredith couldn’t believe she was asking this. She needed to pack up her son and leave, not try to help Hutch get over his PTSD.

  “We went to counseling together, but there again, Gideon was able to express himself more freely. Traditional therapy might not work for Hutch. Anything that reduces stress and anxiety will help. Exercise. Biofeedback. Deep breathing techniques.”

  “Yoga?”

  “Ooh, yes, yoga would be good. Mostly vets carry a great deal of guilt and self-blame, and with Hutch, losing his whole team like he did . . .” She shook her head. “He’s got to be feeling isolated and alone, but loathes showing it.”

  So many mixed emotions churned through her. The caring nurturer inside her wanted desperately to help him, but the part of her who’d been a victim of domestic abuse was screaming at her to open her eyes and smell the coffee. It wasn’t her place to heal him.

  “Hanging out with other veterans, someone who knows exactly what he’s going through, helps too,” Caitlyn went on. “Gideon and some of the other local vets went over to see Hutch the other day but he wouldn’t come to the door.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t home.”

  Caitlyn shook her head. “They could see him through the blinds, standing in the hallway like he wanted to answer the door, but just couldn’t make himself do it.”

  “Thank you so much for telling me this.” Meredith tried a smile, felt it falter on her lips before it reached her eyes. “I do appreciate your concern.”

  “Listen, if you ever need to talk—” Caitlyn broke off to dig a pen and piece of paper from her purse. She wrote down her phone number and passed it to Meredith. “If you ever need to talk, you can call me anytime.”

  “That’s very sweet of you.”

  “Cheer up. There is hope for Hutch. Don’t give up on him. I’m certain he’ll pull through this, but there’s a lot of bumps in the road ahead. I’m just glad he has you.”

  He doesn’t have me, Meredith wanted to say, but the truth was that as long as she was staying in his house, she did have to deal with him.

  If it wasn’t Christmas, if she wasn’t broke, she would load Ben in the minivan and take off.

  Leaving Kimmie all alone with no mother and a wounded uncle? And that was the kicker, wasn’t it? How could she, in good conscience, walk away from that little girl?

  CHAPTER 9

  After Jane attended the cookie swap, Hutch noticed a change in her.

  He caught her throwing him wary glances the way you’d eye a tame circus tiger, wondering if the day would come when the wild beast would grow tired of the game and start slaughtering the audience.

  What had she heard about him at that party?

  He might have lost his ability to speak, he might have PTSD, but he would never, ever harm her or the children. Still, he could not blame her for being cautious. She did not know him. He could reassure her until the cows came clopping home, but actions always trumped words, and she was watching his every move.

  On Saturday morning, he got up before dawn, as was his custom, to find Jane downstairs, dressed in yoga clothes and standing on a purple yoga mat, instead of on the upstairs landing where she usually practiced.

  Damn. Sweat broke out on his forehead. If she was going to do all that downward-dogging stuff in front of him, wearing those stretchy black leggings and looking all sexy and bed-rumpled, he was going to have to go back into his room and take care of his lusty impulses in the most basic way possible.

  That’s when he saw the second yoga mat. This one was blue.

  She sat cross-legged, patted the blue mat with the heel of her hand, and crooked a finger at him.

  He held up both palms, shook them and his head.

  She nodded, keeping crooking that cute little finger. “C’mon.”

  He continued to shake his head, but he walked over. Why was he walking over?

  She hit play on the boom box that sat on the floor beside her, and new agey, girly spa music curled into the room with some chick singing something about only time will tell.

  “Nothing difficult this morning,” Jane said. “Just breath work. It will help you relax. We’ll progress to poses later. Breath work is called pranayama.”

  As if he gave a crap. But he found himself sitting beside her.

  She gifted him with a soft smile that melted all his resistance. The woman was like the ocean, beautiful, calming, and forceful as hell.

  For the next half hour, she led him through a series of breathing exercises that left him tingling from his scalp to his toes and his lungs feeling clearer than he’d felt in years. Hey, maybe there was something to this yoga mumbo-jumbo.

  “You did so well.” Her eyes lit up. “I’m proud of you. We’ll do this again tomorrow.”

  He bobbed his head. Christ, Hutchinson, knock it off. You look like a freaking bobble head.

  “If you keep practicing, yoga will work miracles in your life, I promise.”

  He didn’t know about that, but he did know that her addictive smile hooked him, and he wanted more. Had to have more. And hey, maybe she was right. Maybe this breathing stuff would calm his mind, and calming his mind would release tension, and releasing tension would get him speaking again.

  “I have two massages to give this morning,” she said. “But when I get back, we’ll take the kids to Dickens on the Square.”

  She returned at noon. He had the kids dressed warmly and he braced himself for battling the town square thronged with tourists and townsfolk alike. They had to park in overflow parking half a mile away from the square and walk.

  Hutch’s stomach tightened every time someone greeted him. A lot of people wanted to talk to him, thank him for his service, ask how things were. Whenever he could, he tried to get away with forced smiling and nodding. The task of telling dozens of people that he could not speak was exhausting, and it made him feel like a shadow of his former self. He saw the pity-filled glances and that’s-such-a-shame shake of heads, and he hated it.

  After a while, sweet little Ben started doing the job for him, saving him from pulling out that damnable Magic Slate each time by automatically telling everyone who approached, “Unca Hutch can’t talkeded.”

  The kid was quickly headed up nea
r the top of the list of Hutch’s favorite people.

  After about an hour, Hutch started to loosen up and enjoy the event as he saw it through the children’s eyes. He’d long forgotten what it was like to possess such an openhearted sense of wonder.

  They took the kids on pony rides, Kimmie screaming with frightened delight as the pony moved beneath her. They ate street food—roasted turkey legs, corndogs, sausage on a stick, soft doughy pretzels, and hot roasted nuts. They drank lemonade and hot apple cider and finished off the meal with the best fudge he’d ever eaten. Local merchants were dressed in Dickensian clothing. Beefeaters and London bobbies strolled the sidewalks. They shook hands with Scrooge and Marley, Tiny Tim, Miss Havisham, and Oliver Twist. Kimmie and Ben had their faces painted and then they all participated in the Scrooge Scavenger Hunt, where everyone received a prize. The kids won coloring books and crayons.

  It was a perfect day, and by the end of it, the mood between him and Jane shifted again.

  On the way back to the minivan, they took a shortcut through Sweetheart Park. The children raced ahead of them, playing tag, the sound of their running footsteps and high-pitched giggles echoing throughout the park.

  Twilight sewed up the sun, and quaint, faux glass lanterns came on as they wandered down the path side by side. The urge to take her hand was so great that he had to stuff his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

  While keeping the kids in their line of sight, they crossed the wooden footbridge spanning a fingerling tributary of the Brazos River. As they neared the end of the bridge, Jane’s shoe caught on a rough section of planking, and she lost her balance. Before Hutch could grab for her, she tumbled over the railing to the water below.

  Instead of a splash, he heard a soft thump, and Jane cried, “Oh!”

  He peered over the edge of the bridge to see she had landed on a wheeled wooden platform covered in red carnations. Someone must have parked it under the bridge after the morning’s parade.

  Laughing, she peered up at him, wide-eyed. The impact of her sudden weight caused the back of the float to tilt forward sharply and carnations rained down in flush cascades, blooming the front of the platform with red, fluttering petals, the flowers dripping into puddles at the corners, kissing her body with crimson blooms, coloring her ebony hair and pale skin with dark cherry froth until only her eyes and cheeks peeked out at him.

  What were the chances? What were the odds that a cart of foliage would be there to catch her when she fell? In that moment, the float embodied the spirit of Christmas and everything it represented—generosity, kindness, love—and she was at the heart of it, the creative fount from where all goodness sprang.

  It was a romantic thought. Poetic. And totally out of character for a man who spent his life steeped in war, struggle, and strife, but something came over him like an out-of-body experience. It was she. Jane was the one who lifted him to heavenly heights, the one who raised him from the mire of base human behavior. He had no name for what he was feeling because he’d never experienced an emotion like this.

  Transfixed, he cocked his head, studied her, saw radiant delight in her eyes, saw the flowers move up and down on her in waves as she breathed, and it took every morsel of willpower he had not to race down to the water’s edge, haul her from the cart, and kiss her.

  “Mommy!” Ben called, breaking the sweet silence of the simple now. “Where are you?”

  “I’m taking Ben to church tomorrow,” she said after the children fell exhausted into bed that night. “Would you like me to take Kimmie with us?”

  Hutch had no idea what possessed him. He’d never been a religious man, but he picked up the Magic Slate and posed a question that seemed to surprise her as much as it did him. MAY I COME TOO?

  Jane gifted him with a smile that sucked the air right out of his lungs. “Yes,” she replied, her eyes softening at the corners. “We’d love that.”

  So Hutch went to church. He sat in the pew beside Jane, Kimmie to his left, Ben on Jane’s right, acutely aware of how close they were. Almost touching. During the service, he sneaked a sidelong glance over at her.

  The morning sun through the stained glass window backlit her profile and he’d be damned if she didn’t look exactly like an angel, all soft and ethereal. Happy. She looked happy.

  Her scent, a homey smell of soap and sugar cookies and raspberry shampoo, cuddled up in his nose, driving a dangerous impulse to move his right leg over half an inch and rest it against her outer thigh.

  Hutch savored the moment like fine aged whiskey, comparing where he was now to where he’d been a few short months ago. He’d lost a lot, sure, but look what he’d gained.

  She’s not yours. You’re fooling yourself.

  What was he doing here? What fantasy was he playing with? He was too messed up to do anything about his impulses. He had nothing to offer her. Not as long as he could not talk. Not until he got his speech back. Not until he made his pilgrimage to visit the families of the brave men who’d fought beside him and died. Until then, he was too broken, fragmented, and she deserved better than that.

  Yeah? So you want her? Then start talking. For Kimmie’s sake if not your own.

  If Gupta and Jenner were right, if his loss of speech was due to psychological mutism and it was not rooted in something physical, then he did have the power to speak again. What would it take to get there?

  Jane dampened two fingers with her tongue and smoothed down Ben’s recalcitrant cowlick, such a deep expression of love for her son on her face that Hutch felt compelled to touch her. But he had promised not to do that. Instead, he slipped the comb from his back pocket and passed it to her to use on Ben’s tuft of hair.

  She took the comb from him, transferring that loving smile to him, and for one split second, they were both touching the comb, joined briefly by a slim piece of plastic.

  The minster was talking about faith. How it could move mountains. How all it took to change your life was faith the size of a mustard seed.

  “But true faith,” said the minister, “is not about control. It’s about release, the turning loose of those mistaken beliefs that do not serve us. To find peace, we have to trust that peace is possible. To find love, we have to trust that it’s within our reach.”

  Hutch turned to look at Jane just as she turned to look at him.

  Their eyes met and he could almost hear the sharp snap of lightning hitting the ground, sizzling and hot. Her eyes widened and her lips parted and he could see her straight pearly teeth. Her breathing was fast and shallow, but so was his.

  “Trust,” crooned the minister. “Trust that everything will be all right. Trust that your life is working out the way it’s supposed to.”

  The choir stood and started singing “Trust in Me Now.” Everyone around them stood up, eyeing the words to the hymn that were projected on the screen at the front of the church.

  Call him blasphemous, but he had eyes only for Jane. She looked at him and he looked at her and it was as if his entire life finally made sense. Everything he’d done had led him here with her, and nothing had ever felt so right. If Hutch lived to be two hundred years old, he would never forget this moment of stunned wonder.

  Jane did not speak to him on the way home. Was her silence out of respect for the fact that he could not hold a conversation while driving? Public service announcement: Don’t Magic Slate and Drive? Or was she as staggered as he was by what had passed between them in church?

  Either way, it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. In fact, he was really starting to like silence. In comparison to the noises of war, silence truly was golden.

  But he couldn’t get too used to silence or like it too much. He refused to allow his handicap to weaken him. He was going to speak. He couldn’t get better until he did. If he wanted to lay claim to his growing feelings for Jane, he had to find a way to say—not write—the words. I like you. I want you. Let’s throw those damn rules out the window and see where this thing leads.

  For the fi
rst time since leaving the hospital, Hutch’s focus was clear, his goal front and center again. No matter how long it took, no matter what he had to go through, he was going to speak. He was going to keep his sworn duty and make that sojourn to the families of his team members.

  And when he returned, he was going to restart his life. Clean slate. That’s what he craved most—a sound mind, a clear voice, a strong body, and a clean slate.

  For the next three days, Hutch practiced yoga with Jane. After she went to work and the children were at school, he did his morning routine. One hundred push-ups, fifty pull-ups. Light exercise, just enough to get the blood pumping. Then he practiced trying to speak. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, glowering darkly at himself. All he needed was one syllable to start with, just one sound. The speech therapist at Walter Reed had told him that the easiest sound to make was baa.

  He inhaled deeply—already his lung capacity was improving with pranayama—and pushed out from his diaphragm, expelling air through his lungs and up his trachea, where it stalled. It was as if his own throat muscles were battling against him, shutting down, seizing up, refusing to cooperate. He could feel his larynx vibrate, trying to do what he asked, but there was a disconnection between his voice box and his mouth, as if an electrical plug had been yanked from a socket.

  One, two, three, four times he attempted it. A pitiful strangling noise emerged, more choke than real speech, and then his throat convulsed and he couldn’t shove another sound through it. He snorted air through his nose, felt it shiver on the way down.

  Three days it was always the same. More. He needed to push himself harder.

  On the fourth day, he tried a dozen times. When he saw no improvement, Hutch tried a dozen times more. The next day, he added a session at night, before he went to bed. Never mind that his throat was raw and his neck muscles achy. He’d survived Delta Force training. In comparison this was like being fanned and fed grapes by a dozen harem girls.