by Lori Wilde
For a moment, it seemed they were all caught in the same web. Suspended in time and space, the five of them. Destinies intersected. Lives crossed. Even though the Luthers did not yet know it.
He felt his apprehension mount. Felt the weight of the white key in his pocket. The special key that had brought him here. Would they know the key when they saw it? What did it open? What did the key symbolize?
So many questions that needed answering. And he didn’t know how or when to broach the topic.
“Looks like you got it all,” Tom Luther said, breaking the spell by clamping a hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. “I don’t believe that floor has ever been so clean.”
Shepherd straightened.
Naomi took the mop and disappeared without looking back.
Mrs. Luther welcomed him. Introduced herself as Irene. Apologized for not being able to shake his hand, or get up from her wheelchair.
“It’s been a rough day for the arthritis,” she said. “A cold front blew in this morning.”
For the life of him, Shepherd couldn’t help thinking that he was that cold front.
“You’ve been in the military,” Irene said, peering at him with a sorrow-filled gaze. “That’s why Hunter thought you were his daddy.”
“I was. The Marines.”
“Like our boy.” Irene’s eyes watered, and she blinked away the tears.
Now was the time. An opening. He should say what he came here to say. Show them the key. All he had to do was open his mouth, and let the words drop out.
“Thank you for your service,” Naomi said. The light shone off her curls, creating a halo effect above her head.
He knew people meant well when they said that, but he hated it. He didn’t want thanks. It felt wrong. “Thank you for yours.”
An awkward pause.
A long silence.
He darted a glance at Naomi. Caught her studying him with wistful eyes. His heart chugged as he felt a corresponding hankering. What was going on here?
Tom gripped Shepherd’s shoulder again. “Let me show you where you can wash up for dinner.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and followed the pastor down the hallway to the washroom.
Once inside, he closed and locked the door. Sank his head against the wall beside a shelf filled with cheerful seashells. He took several long, deep breaths.
As he breathed, his head steadied. He glanced down. Focused on his boots. Black. Military issue. He stared at his feet. Pretended he was a tree. Solid roots extending into the earth. Grounding down. Warding off the influx of memories waiting to tumble in on him, and send him to the floor.
He would not have a PTSS flashback at the Luthers’. He gritted his teeth. Changed his breathing pattern again. Sucked in cooling air through clenched teeth. Hissing as if burned. Exhaling through his nose.
Even now, his past still troubled his restless dreams. Forgive yourself. Shepherd stared at his reflection. Let it go.
Peering into his own dark eyes, he struggled against the dogged riptide . . . that current that towed him down into the muck of memories. Caging him in the despair of his childhood. The loss flooded over him as it often did. In a tidal wave of sensory overload. The smell of cheap whiskey on his father’s breath. The sight of his mother in handcuffs. The sounds of the traffic whizzing by the highway apartment where he shivered alone and forgotten for days before policemen knocked at the door and he let them in.
Turning to the sink, he spied more seashells. Pretty, cheerful things. Met his eyes in the mirror. Dark eyes. Accusatory eyes. He clenched his jaw. Splashed water in his face.
The very last thing he wanted to do was sit at the Luthers’ dining room table, eat pot roast, and make idle chitchat.
You owe them.
You let their boy die.
You left a man behind.
Shepherd gulped. He was still caught in that horrible dilemma. Trapped between the Marine motto and following orders.
Guilt was an anchor tied around his neck, and he couldn’t saw it loose.
Get in your Jeep. Drive away. Get out now.
“Shepherd?” There was a knock at the door. Pastor Tom’s voice. “You okay? Dinner’s on the table.”
Dammit. The man was too considerate. Too caring. He saw where Naomi got it. The kindness. The sincerity.
“Fine,” he mumbled. “Be right out.”
“Take your time. No rush.”
He heard Tom’s footsteps pad away. Splashed more water into his face. Got a grip. Returned to the kitchen. Found the family sitting around the dining room table, waiting on him.
He slipped into the spot across from Naomi. He could feel her energy surging across the space, melding with his. Eerie. Weird. This sense of instant connection. As if they’d known each other in another life.
Except that he didn’t believe in such stuff.
Shepherd settled a cloth napkin in his lap. It had been a long time since he’d sat at a dinner table with a family. Used a napkin that wasn’t paper. It felt unfamiliar, but nice.
“Mark, would you please say grace?” Tom asked.
Grace? Fear clutched him. Shepherd had no idea how to say grace. He looked over at the pastor and shook his head. Thanks, but no thanks.
But Tom had already closed his eyes, brought his hands together, and bowed his head. Irene closed her eyes and bowed her head as well, her misshapen hands clenched at her heart in two fists. Naomi lowered her head too. Followed by little Hunter.
A pious family.
He didn’t belong here with these good people.
They waited on him to start the prayer. Not opening their eyes. Not peeking. Not even the kid.
Shepherd shifted, stared down at his hands. Finally pressed them together in a gesture that felt so foreign he wasn’t sure he was doing it right. He mimicked the Luthers, pressed the knuckles of his thumbs against his sternum. Heaved in a deep breath. Exhaled. Cleared his throat.
Stalling.
He had no idea what to say or how to sound reverent.
“Just speak from the heart, son,” Tom murmured.
Son.
That word again. A barb. A burning sting. A sharp reminder. He was here and their son was not.
A bitter taste filled his mouth, like the astringent chalkiness of persimmon skin. One of the foster homes where he’d lived had had a fruit orchard. The children were forbidden to eat the produce without permission.
One September afternoon, lured by the bright orange fruits, he’d scaled a tree. Picked one of the soft ripe persimmons and bit into it. The sour residue of the peel coated his tongue. He spat it out so forcefully that he’d fallen backward off the tree limb. Landed hard on his back. Breathless and in pain from a broken rib.
Staring up at his foster mother’s angry face. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me,” she scolded. “Follow the rules and you won’t end up in prison like your parents.”
Follow the rules.
Toe the line.
Do what you’re told.
Time after time, he’d received that message—from foster families, from his teachers, from the military. He’d had it drilled into his head. And he’d learned his lesson well. If you don’t buck the system, you won’t get punished. Keep your head down. Don’t make waves. Obey orders.
For the most part, that winning strategy had defined his life. The Marines had loved him for it. He’d been so good at following orders that he’d gotten promoted above men who’d been in the service far longer than he. Shepherd had found his credo. Don’t color outside the lines.
Until last Christmas morning when that credo he’d come to rely on failed him. He’d lost his moral compass then, and he was still adrift. Uncertain of what to do with the rest of his life now that he was out of the military.
Across the table, Naomi made a noise of encouragement, sweet and supportive.
Oh yeah, he was supposed to pray.
He wanted to open his eyes and look at her. Study her face in the glow of the chandelier. To a
dmire the fall of soft chestnut-colored hair over her slender shoulders. To meet those intelligent blue eyes and get lost in them.
To stare at those pink lips he wanted so badly to kiss.
But he did not.
“Dear Lord,” he began, his voice sounding as creaky as the rusty cemetery gate. Dear Lord, what now? His foot tapped fast, itching to run. He quelled the urge, marshaled up the Marine. “Um, thank you for the roast beef.”
Lame.
Say something more. But what?
“And the mashed potatoes and the gravy and green peas and rolls.” Officially the worst prayer in the history of prayers, Gunny.
“And um . . . thanks for the good company at the table.”
Better. Marginally.
“Thank you for . . . thank you for . . .” He was unable to think of anything else he was thankful for. How did you know to end the prayer?
Just say what’s in your heart, Tom had told him. Fine. He could do that. “Dear Lord, thank you for putting a woman as pretty as Naomi here on earth.”
Ugh! Had he actually said that out loud? Shepherd swallowed a groan, and his eyes flew open.
Naomi’s eyes were open too and they stared at each other. Wrapped in a strange magnetic force field. The same strange pull that ensnared them when she’d landed in the passenger seat of his Jeep. Breathless and red-cheeked.
When was the last time he wanted something as much as he wanted her? He couldn’t remember.
Unnerved, he squeezed his eyes shut. How did he end this freakish prayer?
“Thanks for everything,” he blurted. “Amen.”
“Amen,” the family echoed.
Shepherd dropped his hands to his lap. His fingers going for the comfort of the cane propped against his chair. If he needed to, he could push up from the table, walk out the door, and never come back.
But he didn’t do that.
Slowly, he opened his eyes again, but this time, he avoided looking at Naomi.
Platters and bowls went around the table. Naomi dishing up food for both Hunter and Irene. She carried a lot of responsibility on those slender shoulders. But she handled it with grace, and a quiet dignity that stirred something inside him.
He hungered for what he could not have. It was an overwhelming throb of need that began in the center of his chest and pulsed outward. A woman like her. A family like this. A place to call home.
Stop it, Marine.
“So, Mark,” Tom said, apparently not inclined to call him Shepherd as he’d requested. “Where are you from?”
“All over.” It was true enough. Once he’d left Kentucky.
“You’re a Southern boy.” Irene managed to slip a spoon between her gnarled fingers. “I can hear it in your drawl. I’m originally from North Carolina myself. Mecklenburg.”
“No kidding.” He wasn’t sure what to say.
Irene tossed him a conspiratorial wink and a we’re-gonna-be-great-friends smile. He could see where Naomi got her upbeat spirit. “You can take the boy out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the boy.”
“No, ma’am.” He shot a look in Naomi’s direction. He noticed the small pearl earrings nestled in her lobes. The gold cross on a chain around her neck. She was dishing up a spoonful of peas on Hunter’s plate.
The four-year-old wrinkled his nose. “No peas, please.”
“Just a few bites.” Naomi chomped the air, pretending to chew. “And I’ll read you The Magic Christmas Cookie before bed.”
Hunter smashed a pea with an index finger, peered up at Naomi from beneath long eyelashes. Gauging her reaction.
In the home that Shepherd had grown up in before foster care, he would have gotten whacked for such defiance.
Naomi laughed, a light and happy sound.
A sound that wrapped around his spine and pulled him headlong toward her. Engulfed. He felt engulfed. Surrounded. Enveloped by desire and pining. He yearned for her. On the cellular level. Each atom in his body vibrated with need. What would it feel like to hold her in his arms? To taste her? Bury his face in her hair?
“Okay, wee one. I get the message. Peas are not your fave. Tell you what. For each pea you eat, you get to smash one. I’ll do it too, and whoever has the most smashed peas at the end wins.” Naomi squashed a pea with her thumb, and then popped one into her mouth.
Hunter giggled and stuffed three peas in his mouth. Then he pounded three peas in succession—smash, smash, smash. Giggled again.
Fascinated and impressed, Shepherd watched Naomi beguile the boy into eating half the peas on his plate.
“She is so good with him,” Tom murmured. “I don’t know what we’d do without her.”
Naomi beamed. “Luckily, you’ll never have to find out.”
Irene and Tom shared a look that Shepherd couldn’t decipher. An uneasy glance. Was it related to having tragically lost their son and daughter-in-law?
“Is something wrong with your food?” Naomi asked him.
“Huh?” Shepherd blinked.
“You haven’t touched a thing on your plate.”
“Nothing wrong, sorry.” Shepherd smiled. Or tried to. It felt crunchy. Brittle. Fragile. “I was watching you charm the boy. You’re amazing. Do you work with children?”
“No,” she said.
“Well, you’ve got a knack.”
“Naomi runs her own business,” Irene said, pride combing her voice. “She’s a personal shopper. This time of year, she’s hopping.”
Ahh, that explained all the boxes she’d dumped into the backseat of his Jeep. He thought she’d been on one heck of a shopping spree.
Her cheeks pinked and she lowered her eyelashes. She leaned over to ruffle Hunter’s hair. Light from the Christmas decorations on the porch came in through the dining room window. Chandelier prisms threw rainbows over the table. It felt to Shepherd as if Naomi was bathing her nephew in happiness. Gilding him with her golden smile, nourishing him with her caring touch. Wrapping him in a protective cocoon of love.
Woman and child looked into each other’s eyes and laughed together. Naomi kissed his forehead and murmured, “Such a good boy.”
Nostalgic for something he’d never had, Shepherd thought, She’s a born mother.
Naomi and Hunter were so lost in each other that he couldn’t help feeling like a voyeur. He shifted his gaze to his plate, speared a piece of roast beef. Chewed. It was delicious, but he barely tasted it.
He didn’t belong here. He was an interloper. Why was he here? Oh yes, to deliver a key. A key that opened what? And for what? To stir up the past when the Luthers were working so hard to let go of their pain? He felt small and selfish. He’d come here not for them, but rather to ease his own guilt.
And he was jealous.
Of their connection. Of their faith. Of the peace they’d found in the face of so much tragedy. Of the fact that he’d had no one like Naomi in his life when he was growing up.
Shame bit into him. A hard, cold bite.
Let it go. Water under the bridge.
Forget about the past.
Sweep it under the rug.
Tamping down his feelings had worked for thirty years; why change tactics now? Trouble was, shoving the past into the past left him with . . .
Now.
And right now, he should be telling the Luthers who he was and why he was here. Give them the key. Brace for their condemnation and outrage.
He was responsible for the death of their son, and he had the audacity to sit at their table and break bread with them. It’s not your fault, Dr. Fox had told him. But he wasn’t sure the Luthers would buy the argument. He didn’t buy it.
“The food is delicious,” Shepherd said. “I don’t often get home-cooked meals.”
“Stick around.” Tom winked. “Naomi is an excellent cook.”
“Where do you find the time?” Shepherd asked her, falling back on polite chitchat. Scrambling to figure out a way to bring up the topic he’d come here to discuss. “Between running after t
his little guy, and shopping for other people.” He nodded at Hunter, who was mixing the smashed peas with the mashed potatoes on his plate.
“Oh, that’s not all she does. Naomi is the current president of the First Love Cookie Club, and spearheading their first annual Christmas charity dance to benefit military men and women suffering from post-traumatic stress.”
“The First Love Cookie Club?” Shepherd asked, picking up the easy part of that topic.
“Our little town has lots of clubs,” Irene explained. “We’re joiners. Each year, the First Love Cookie Club has a cookie swap the second Friday in December. Their mission is to preserve, perpetuate, and celebrate Twilight’s traditions.”
“Um,” Shepherd said, not getting it at all. “Okay.”
“The club sends cookies to our troops overseas every Christmas,” Irene said. “That’s what the club is really all about. Making sure our military personnel don’t get forgotten.”
Shepherd should keep them talking about cookies. It was the easy way out. Leave his confession to another day.
But the time had come. The meal was almost done. Soon the family would be doing dishes, winding down, getting ready for bed. Shepherd couldn’t delay this any longer. He steeled himself. Ignored the dread tromping up his spine.
Once he said this, any hope of kissing Naomi was gone. As if you had any hope to begin with.
He was a Marine. Man up.
Shepherd placed both palms on the table, framing his plate. “Mr. and Mrs. Luther . . . Naomi.”
Everyone turned to him, smiles pregnant with possibilities. Kindness in their eyes.
“Yes?” Tom set down his fork.
Shepherd cleared his throat. “There’s something I must tell you.”
“What’s wrong?” Irene sank back in her wheelchair. “You look so serious.”
This was harder than he thought it was going to be. “I’m not who you think I am.”
“Hold it right there.” Tom held up a stop-sign hand. “You don’t need to confess anything to us.”
“Yes, sir, I do,” Shepherd corrected. “You need to hear what I have to say.”
“We don’t judge people,” Tom said. “In our church, we strive to practice unconditional love and acceptance.”