The Christmas Key

by Lori Wilde

  “I gotta make a call,” Nate said after he’d introduced Shepherd to the group, and he disappeared.

  “His wife’s pregnant again,” Hutch explained. “Shannon’s over forty now and Nate’s as fussy as an old hen about her. They got a late start on love.”

  “But they’ve made up for lost time.” Ryder chuckled. “This is baby number four.”

  “You got kids?” Gideon asked Shepherd.

  He shook his head.

  “You married?” Ryder asked.

  “No.”

  “Ever been close?” Hutch inclined his head.

  Shepherd shrugged. “Married to the Marines. Does that count?”

  “This must feel like a divorce.” Gideon poured maple syrup over a stack of blueberry waffles.

  “It’s a change.” Shepherd ran a hand over his head, and started wishing he’d gone into the bar.

  “No girlfriend?” Ryder asked.

  What was with the twenty questions? Shepherd glanced around. Where had Nate gone? The former SEAL had promised him there was no pressure to talk.

  “Something wrong with your pie?” asked the waitress who’d dropped by the table to refill coffee cups.

  Shepherd stared down at the plate in front of him. Realized he hadn’t even taken a bite. “Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted.”

  “By these old lions and their war stories?” The waitress, who was of an age when her prettiness was starting to fade, nudged Hutch’s shoulder with her elbow.

  “Hey, hey, Allie June,” Hutch said, shifting away from her. “I’m younger than you are.”

  “I may not be twenty anymore,” Gideon threw in, “but I can still roar.”

  “Yes, your roar is quite impressive,” Allie June purred, and lowered her lashes.

  “I’m a happily married man,” Gideon reminded her. “All you’ll get from flirting is a twenty percent tip.”

  “Why do you think I do it?” Allie June winked again. “Give the pie a try,” she told Shepherd. “I promise you’ll like it.”

  He picked up his fork and took a bite of pie. The crust was flaky, the filling sweet, but not too sugary. “Mmm,” he said for Allie June’s benefit, and she wandered off with a mollified smile.

  Once she was gone, the conversation shifted back to their war experiences. Shepherd didn’t contribute. Listening, he took a pocketknife from his jeans. Claimed the piece of wood he carried in his coat, and began whittling.

  “What are you making?” Hutch asked several minutes later.

  “A nutcracker.”

  “From the ballet?” Hutch asked.

  “Yes.”

  “So, you’re like Drosselmeyer.”

  It surprised Shepherd that the former Delta Force operator knew who Drosselmeyer was. “You know The Nutcracker?”

  “It’s my daughter Kimmie’s favorite Christmas story. I’ve seen it half a bazillion times.”

  “You’re really good at whittling, Gunny,” Gideon observed.

  “And quick.” Ryder nodded at the curlicues of wood peeling off Shepherd’s knife.

  “Woodworking calms my mind.”

  “You should give us lessons,” Hutch said.

  “I’m a doer, not a teacher.” Shepherd didn’t look up from his work. Concentrated on forming the nutcracker’s uniform. He’d carved the figure so many times it was second nature. He carved things and gave them away.

  “What’s your story?” Ryder leaned forward on his elbows.

  Shepherd glanced up to find the three men staring at his knee.

  Should he be as open with them as they’d been with him? Shepherd’s instinct was to withdraw. Clam up. Keep everything locked tight.

  The three men were staring at him. Waiting.

  Shepherd closed the knife. Passed the carved nutcracker to Hutch. “For your daughter.”

  “Hey, thanks.” Hutch beamed. “She’ll love this.”

  Shepherd pocketed the knife, swept the wood shavings into a paper napkin.

  “Nothing you want to tell us, Gunny?” Ryder prodded. “Why are you in Twilight?”

  Nate wandered back to the table, sat down.

  “I came to bring this to Clayton Luther’s family.” Shepherd took the key from his coat, put it in the middle of the table.

  “Why?” Hutch asked.

  “Because I’m responsible for Clayton’s death,” Shepherd shocked himself by blurting out in the Waffle-O-Rama to men he did not know.

  They studied him with even expressions. None of them reacted. Or judged him.

  Shepherd felt a rush of acceptance that he needed, but couldn’t quite embrace. They might be fellow military men. They might have shared similar experiences. But he was the stranger in their midst and Clayton had been one of them.

  “What do you mean?” Gideon ventured. “We understood that a terrorist took Clayton hostage after he went AWOL to deliver toys to kids at an orphanage.”

  “That’s true,” Shepherd admitted. “But here’s the kicker. Clayton asked my permission to go. Asked me to go with him. But I wouldn’t break protocol. I didn’t have the stones to go against the rules. If I had, I would have saved his life. I knew what the terrorist looked like. He was wounded and hiding out in the orphanage. If I’d seen him I would have dealt with him before he could harm anyone.”

  The men stayed silent. Emotionless. Waited.

  “But Clayton, the dumb kid, had no idea what he was walking into. If only I had followed my gut instead of the rules.” Shepherd gulped and told the rest of what went down last Christmas morning in Kandahar. How he’d taken a team to go find Clayton, and they’d been set upon by the terrorists who’d come after their injured man. How he’d left Clayton behind in order to save his other men.

  His voice cracked. “I’m not supposed to leave a man behind.”

  “Gunny,” Hutch said. “You gotta stop beating yourself up. You were rank-and-file. Following orders is drilled into your brain. Black and white. It’s only when you get into Special Forces that, hey, wait, you discover there’s twelve hundred shades of gray.”

  Shepherd ran a hand over his head. “Well, guys, I’m breaking the rules now.”

  “What do you mean?” Nate asked.

  Shepherd told them the significance of the key. How he’d come to Twilight to confess to his role in Clayton’s death to the Luthers. How he’d gotten mistaken for the church’s new handyman. How he’d gone along with it.

  “I let the Luthers believe what they wanted to believe.” Shepherd steepled his fingers, shook his head. Still not quite certain how he’d ended up here.

  Until Clayton, he hadn’t lost a single man under his command. The kid’s death was a yoke around his neck that he could not shake off.

  “Why do you think that is?” Hutch asked.

  “I don’t really know.” Shepherd raised his shoulders to his ears. Let them flop back down. “Hoping to make some kind of amends I suppose.”

  It sounded like a lame excuse, hearing it out loud.

  “Maybe doing some repairs around the place will make a difference. Help out any way I can. But if I do that, the more time that passes, the harder it’s going to be to come clean.” Shepherd drummed his fingers on the table.

  “Don’t do it,” Ryder said. “Don’t tell them who you are.”

  Shepherd eyed the former military policeman. “Why not?”

  “Your impulse to confess is about clearing your conscience.” Hutch dumped a spoonful of sugar into the coffee that Allie June had refreshed. He stirred in lazy circles. “That’s what you need. Been there. Done that. I stirred things up for the families. Brought their grief back. I felt better for confessing, but at what cost?”

  Shepherd bobbed his head. His palm was sweaty against the warm coffee cup. Yes. Hutch was right.

  “The pastor and his family have been through hell and back,” Gideon said. “What they need is to heal. They’re trying their best to move on.”

  “If you lay your soul bare, you’re going to rip off the banda
ge, and expose their wounds.” Ryder took the motorcycle jacket off the coat hook beside their table and slipped it on.

  “If you feel compelled to tell them,” Hutch said, his dark eyes unreadable, “at least wait until after Christmas.”

  “How do I make up for what I did?” Shepherd asked, disturbed at the thought of upsetting the Luthers. The men were right. If he confessed, he’d be doing it for selfish reasons, not because it was what the Luthers needed to hear right now.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself.” Ryder took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the table.

  “Terrorists killed Clayton,” Hutch said. “But we get why you feel responsible. It’s impossible not to feel responsible when you lose men under your charge.”

  “I have to make amends.” Shepherd tightened his hand around the coffee cup.

  The three other men exchanged a look. As if they were giving Shepherd some kind of test that he was on the verge of failing.

  “So then be the Luthers’ handyman. Stay through the holidays. Fix things up for them. Donate the money they pay you back to the church. Then be on your way.” Gideon rested his artificial hand on the table.

  “And if you feel the need to talk, come find one of us,” Hutch offered. “We get what you’re going through.”

  “You’re not alone.” Ryder met Shepherd’s gaze head-on. “Remember that.”

  “What happens when the real handyman shows up?” Shepherd wanted to believe them.

  Hutch winced. “Then you cross that bridge when you come to it. And who knows? Maybe he won’t show.”

  Shepherd didn’t like that option. It left too much to chance. He wished now that he hadn’t opened up to this group. Wished that he wasn’t stuck waiting for Nate to give him a ride to the church. Wished he’d stayed in bed and dealt with his insomnia.

  Shepherd glanced outside. A slow spiral of snowflakes had started to fall. The ground was too warm for it to stick, but he thought of Naomi. She lifted his hopes like the promise of snow.

  And that was a dangerous thing. For them both.

  “You’re ready to go?” Nate asked, speaking for the first time since he’d returned to the table.

  Shepherd exhaled, relieved. He’d appreciated being with the group for a time, but now he yearned to be alone.

  “Hey, Nate, did you see what Shepherd made for Kimmie?” Hutch bragged, showing off the nutcracker.

  Nate eyed Shepherd with new respect. “You carved that?”

  “While you were yakking on the phone with your fine wife.” Hutch snapped his fingers. “Just that quick.”

  “It’s a stress-relieving hobby.” Shepherd shifted, uncomfortable with the attention. He’d started whittling when he was eight, with the knife his father gave him. Done it to pass the time on the drive to the Kentucky Correctional Institute for Women in Shelby County.

  “Impressive.” Nate examined the nutcracker Hutch passed him. “Do you paint them too?”

  “When I have the time.”

  “You could do this professionally,” Nate said.

  “Not much of a market for hand-carved toys,” Shepherd said.

  “What do you plan to do now that you’re out of the military?” Hutch asked.

  “Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “I gotta get home, fellas. It’s been real.” Nate left money on the table. Shrugged into his peacoat.

  Shepherd, chilled from the long walk over, hadn’t even taken off his coat. He left cash for his pie and coffee, stood up, shook hands. “Nice to meet you all.”

  The men bid him good night, welcomed him back anytime. Reminded him not to tell the Luthers who he was.

  Shepherd followed Nate to a late-model minivan. Raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t laugh.” Nate laughed himself. “Minivans are awesome.”

  “You’ve got kids.”

  “Three,” Nate bragged. “Four-year-old twin boys and a two-year-old girl and another one on the way.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “I wasn’t always. It takes some of us a while to find the people we belong with. But man, on the other side of the shit.” Nate laughed like he’d won the Powerball. “There’s heaven.”

  “For some people, I guess.”

  “For you too, if you want it.” Nate said it as if life were that simple. Decide what you want. Go after it. Get it.

  Shepherd didn’t even bother commenting. Climbed into the passenger seat. The minivan smelled of kids. Juice boxes. Cheerios. There were three car seats in the back. Two blue. One pink.

  As he looked at the car seats, a strange yearning pierced Shepherd’s chest. What was this? A kid was the last thing he needed.

  Nate started the minivan, sat there letting it idle.

  Shepherd glanced over.

  The older man was studying him with a level gaze, half curiosity, half wariness. “You serious about getting rid of those nightmares?”

  “Yes.” Shepherd swallowed his pride. He needed help and it was being offered to him. “More than anything.”

  “Then stop thinking about yourself.”

  “What?” That caught Shepherd by surprise. He was not thinking about himself. He’d been thinking of Clayton Luther nonstop for the past year. “I’m not—”

  “You are.” Nate’s voice cut sharp, no-nonsense. “Your guilt is going around and around in your head like a carousel. You’re telling yourself what you did wrong. How you failed Luther. What a terrible gunny you are.”

  Shepherd stared at the vet, both stunned at his insight and offended by it. He dropped his gaze, rubbed his knee. Nate was right.

  “Beating yourself up isn’t going to change what happened. Your guilt is tripping you up. Holding you back from healing. As long as you’re wrapped up in it, you’re not ever going to be happy.”

  Wow. It was as if Nate had peeled off the top of his skull and peered down into his brain. How did he know?

  “I know,” Nate said, leaving Shepherd to wonder if he’d spoken out loud. “Because I was the same way when I came back.”

  “You were?”

  “If it hadn’t been for other military men in this town offering me a hand up . . .” He shook his head. “And the people of Twilight. Let’s just say they know how to forgive and forget. If not for them, I don’t know if I could have snapped out of the self-recrimination in time . . .”

  “Time for what?” Shepherd asked when Nate didn’t go on.

  “To save my life.”

  Shepherd studied the craggy vet who was being open and honest with him. “You were suicidal?”

  “War screws with a man’s head.”

  “Amen,” Shepherd muttered.

  “Get the hell out of your head and do something for someone else. We need all hands on deck for the annual Angel Tree and toy drive for needy kids. You game?”

  Noncommittal, Shepherd fiddled with the zipper on his coat. “I don’t know if I’ll still be here by Christmas.”

  “You will if you give your word.”

  Shepherd raised his chin. “How do you know that?”

  “You’re a Marine. You keep your promises.”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Collect the donated toys. Or hell, you’re a crackerjack whittler. Make some toys. Sort ’em, wrap ’em, then on Christmas Eve, put on a Santa suit and hand ’em out.” Nate eyed Shepherd’s flat belly. “We’ll have to stuff you with pillows, but you can pull it off.”

  The idea brought last Christmas into sharp focus again. How Clayton had begged Shepherd to go with him to the orphanage to hand out gifts. He should have gone. Clayton would be alive if he’d been brave enough to break the rules and go. Shepherd was certain of that.

  “I know it’s tough, considering your history,” Nate went on. “But being among kids might just be what you need to get over this.”

  Feeling contrary, Shepherd said, “I don’t need help.”

  “All right. You might not need help, but the kids do. Are you in?�
�

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, but—”

  “You’ll do it. Great.” Nate kept one hand on the wheel, stuck out the other one. “Handshake’s a binding contract in this town.”

  Shepherd hesitated. “I—”

  “Do you want to stop feeling like shit or not?”

  “I do.”

  Nate kept his hand extended. “Can we count on you, Santa?”

  It seemed as if Nate was not going to retract his hand until Shepherd shook it.

  “I’m in.” Shepherd hoisted a sheepish grin, took the man’s hand. Sealed the deal.

  For a flash of a second, he felt like his old self again.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, Naomi got up at six as usual. Immediately, she thought of Mark Shepherd and wondered if he’d come back last night.

  But she didn’t have time to keep track of him. She had a full schedule.

  Except her silly mind wouldn’t obey. It kept conjuring images of that moment when their hands had touched—the look in his eyes, his enticing scent, the curve of his cheekbones, the shape of his mouth.

  Enough.

  She woke Hunter. Helped the boy get dressed. Fed him breakfast. Overnight oatmeal with bananas and brown sugar. Combed his hair. Walked him to the sidewalk with his backpack. Practiced his colors with him while they waited for Sarah Walker to pick him up for preschool carpool. Sarah was the author of The Magic Christmas Cookie. She was also the granddaughter of the woman who’d created the kismet cookie recipe. Naomi needed to talk to her about those cookies . . . and the dreams.

  “What color is Santa’s suit?”

  “Wed,” Hunter sang out, hoisting his backpack up on his shoulder.

  “What color is Frosty the Snowman’s nose?”

  “Cawwot!”

  “And what color are carrots?”

  “Ow-ange.” He drew out the first syllable and grinned. “Like Goldfish cwackews.”

  “Smart boy!” She kissed the top of his head.

  Sarah pulled to the curb, her four-year-old son, Justice, strapped into the backseat. Hunter and Justice were the best of friends.

  Naomi approached the minivan and Sarah rolled the window down. “Good morning.”