Christmas at Twilight

by Lori Wilde

  “Jane is such a girl-next-door name. You know tomboyish, freckles, jeans and T-shirt, chatty, cute as a bug, like your neighbor Flynn Calloway. You on the other hand . . .” Raylene paused. “You’ve got a regal air about you. Quiet. Reserved. Those high cheekbones and that alabaster skin. You need a name that fits. Cassandra or Alexandria or—”

  “Cleopatra?”

  Raylene lifted a hand from underneath the covers, and pointed a finger at Meredith. “You’ve got a wry sense of humor too.”

  “Janes don’t have wry senses of humor?”

  “Hell, no. Janes lean toward self-deprecating humor.”

  “What kind of humor do Raylenes have?”

  “Why, bawdy of course.” Raylene chuckled.

  “You’ve given the topic of names and humor a lot of thought. I had no idea the topic was so complex,” she teased.

  “It’s something to do with the time while I’m lying here with nothing to do.”

  “You’re supposed to be relaxing.”

  “Easy to say, hard to do. I only started getting massages because my cardiologist suggested it.”

  “Breathe deep and just let go.” Meredith’s pulse slowed. Raylene was just making small talk because Meredith hadn’t answered when she called to her. But she was going to have to be more careful. Jane. Jane. Her name was Jane.

  A few minutes later, Meredith completed the massage. “I’ll let you get dressed now. Come out when you’re ready.”

  She stepped into the hallway, pulled her cell phone from her pocket, took it off airplane mode, and waited for the server to update to see if Ashley had texted or tried to call her while she was in the massage room.

  Nothing.

  Her heart dropped into her stomach, heavy as an iron anchor. She thumbed a text to her housemate. U OK?

  Raylene came out of the massage room and Meredith handed her a bottle of chilled water. “Be sure to drink lots of water to flush out your system.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Raylene leaned over to tuck a hundred-dollar bill into the pocket of Meredith’s uniform. “You have a merry Christmas.”

  “Wait, wait, Mrs. Pringle, this is too much,” Meredith protested, and fished the bill from her pocket. Shut up and take it. You can get Ben’s presents out of layaway with this.

  Raylene folded her hand around Meredith’s. “Accept it, please. I know what it’s like to be broke at Christmas.”

  “You?” It was Meredith’s understanding that Raylene and Earl Pringle were among the richest people in Twilight.

  “Honey, I was raised on the wrong side of the tracks. It wasn’t until Earl’s family struck oil on their land that we had a pot to piss in. Go on. Take it.”

  “What makes you think I need the money?”

  “You’re a single mom renting a room from Ashley Hutchinson. ’Nuff said. Now let’s not hear any more about it.”

  Meredith straightened. “While I do appreciate the gesture, please donate the money to the Christmas Angel charity that you’re a part of. Plenty of people need this money much more than I do. In fact, hold on a minute.”

  She darted into the employees’ lounge, got her purse from her locker, and opened the worn brown wallet to find a twenty-dollar bill and sixteen ones. She gulped. She never kept a bank account—not since, well, never mind that—and this was all the money she had. But there had been times when she didn’t have a quarter to her name, and Friday was payday. She had groceries in the house, gas in the minivan, and probably six or seven dollars’ worth of coins on top of her dresser. She’d get by. Not so the mothers of children whose names were on the Angel Tree.

  Resolutely, she plucked the twenty from her wallet and took it back to Mrs. Pringle. “Here, please add this to the fund.”

  Raylene wrinkled her forehead. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. I just wish I had more money to give.”

  “That’s so kind of you.” Raylene touched Meredith’s shoulder and looked at her with a mixture of sympathy and you-got-guts-girl admiration. “Are you planning on coming to our annual Christmas cookie swap this Friday evening? We’d love to have you join us. The party is at my house. I’ll e-mail you directions.”

  Raylene was the fifth person to invite her to the party. She couldn’t go. That meant money for cookie ingredients and a babysitter for Ben. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m a bit of a homebody.”

  “The Christmas cookie swap has only five rules,” Raylene said in a cajoling tone.

  “I wasn’t aware cookie swaps had rules.”

  “Oh yes. No men. No kids. No store-bought. No chocolate chip. And no gossip.”

  “Why no chocolate chip? Aren’t they everyone’s favorite?”

  “The rule exists precisely because they are everyone’s favorite. The upstagers. Christmas is the time for other cookies to get their due.”

  “I see.”

  “Don’t be alarmed by the rules. Someone always breaks the no gossip rule, usually it’s me.” She gave a saucy wink. The woman was a firecracker. “Ye Olde Book Nook holds a pajama party for the kids during our cookie swap. They serve cookies and hot chocolate and read Christmas stories aloud. Your boy would have a ball.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You need to get out more,” Raylene urged. “You’ll love Twilight once you get to know everyone. We’re an easy bunch to fall for.”

  Truth was, Meredith already loved the quaint little lakeside community she’d had the good fortune to land in when her minivan broke down on the outskirts of town the week before Halloween. With its interesting boutiques, great restaurants, colorful local history, and quirky townsfolk, if she allowed herself, this place could so easily feel like home.

  But she couldn’t do that. She would never have a permanent home. Not as long as—

  The ringing of her cell phone cut off that thought.

  “I’ll let you take your call,” Raylene said as she headed toward the reception area. “But please come to the party. It won’t be the same without you.”

  Meredith lifted a hand in good-bye and immediately glanced at her phone’s caller ID. Ashley. Thank God. Relief thrust her breath from her lungs in a long sigh and she leaned one shoulder against the wall to help hold her up.

  “Where are you?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Oh Jane! I am so much more than all right!” Ashley exclaimed. “I’ve been swept off my feet.”

  The hairs on Meredith’s arms raised, an internal alarm system backing up the sick feeling in her gut. “That’s not a good sign. It sounds good, it sounds romantic, but when it comes to men, you need to keep your feet firmly planted on the ground. No sweeping allowed. Do not be swept.”

  “Pfft. don’t be such a spoilsport.”

  “Listen to me on this,” Meredith cautioned, her throat constricting around the words. “You can’t trust what you’re feeling right now. It’s lust and hormones, nothing more.”

  “Is that what happened with you and Ben’s father?”

  A cold chill blew through Meredith’s body like February wind across the Siberian tundra. She tightened her grip on the phone. Ashley’s warm, airy laugh was in sharp contrast to the polar ice cap of fear freezing her bones.

  “Yes,” she said. “Ben’s father swept me off my feet and it ended badly. Come home. We’ll talk it through.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not you and Eric isn’t your ex-husband.”

  “You’re idealizing the guy.”

  “And you sound jealous.” Ashley voice turned petulant.

  “I’m not jealous, honest—”

  “Then be happy for me. I’ve found my Prince Charming. He’s headed to Acapulco on a business trip and he’s taking me with him.”

  “When?”

  “Right now.”

  “What?”

  “We’re at DFW Airport about to board the plane.”

  “You barely know this man!”

  “One look in his eyes and I knew everything there was to know. He’s my sou
l mate.”

  “Ashley, do not get on that plane!”

  Another masseuse, who was passing in the hallway, paused. “Is everything okay, Jane?”

  Meredith forced a smile, mouthed, Fine.

  “After last night, I know him better than you might imagine.” Ashley’s chuckle turned sultry. “Anyway, could you please watch Kimmie until I get back? I’ll pay you, of course. I know you need the money.”

  “No, I won’t enable you—”

  “Thanks so much,” Ashley said breathlessly. “You’re the best.”

  Clearly, scolding her housemate wasn’t going to work. “Wait, wait. Don’t hang up. When will you be back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Before Christmas?”

  “Oh sure. I wouldn’t miss Christmas for the world.”

  “Where will you be staying?”

  “A private villa owned by Eric’s company.”

  “What company is that?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Ashley—” Meredith was about to scold her again, but stopped. She’d learned in counseling that you couldn’t control what other people did. But knowing something intellectually and accepting it emotionally were two different things.

  On Ashley’s end, a feminine voice announced the boarding of an American Airlines flight to Acapulco, interrupting their conversation.

  “I gotta go. Tell Kimmie Mommy loves her bunches.”

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “You worry too much, Jane. You’ve got to trust your instincts more.”

  “My instincts are what’s telling that this is a terrible idea.”

  “I’ll try to call you when I get there, but Eric says the cell reception is really spotty.”

  “Stop and think. What if this guy is a serial killer?”

  “You watch too many movies. I’m fine. Eric is fabulous. The best lover, so kind and attentive and utterly charming.”

  “Sociopaths are utterly charming. That’s how they lure you in, and then once you’re caught they show their true colors.”

  “You really do have some serious trust issues, Jane. Chill out. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  “But what if it’s not and you never come home? What will happen to Kimmie?” Meredith asked.

  “I’ll be fine, but just to indulge you Miss Worrywart, if something happens to me, my brother will take care of Kimmie.”

  Disoriented by this information, Meredith shook her head. “You have a brother? You never told me you had a brother.”

  “We don’t get along. He’s too bossy, but he loves Kimmie more than anything else in the world.”

  “What’s his name? Where is he? How do I contact him?”

  “Oops, final boarding call. I really do have to go now.”

  “Don’t get on that plane!” Meredith beseeched.

  But Ashley had already hung up.

  CHAPTER 2

  Walter Reed

  December 1

  Three of them came at him at once.

  Hutch’s surgeon, Dr. Yani Gupta; his squadron commander, Colonel John Finetti; and the shrink, Major Thomas Jenner. Hutch had just returned to his room on the rehab wing, following an intensive round of speech therapy, when a knock sounded on the door and the three men scudded in.

  The second Hutch saw the men, he knew something serious was afoot. This wasn’t a social call. He stood up, put steel into his spine.

  “Take your seat, Captain.” Colonel Finetti waved at the chair Hutch had just vacated. Finetti was a hatchet-faced Iowan, and everything about him was sharp—his tone of voice, his oversized nose, his elbows, and the pointy incisors that caused the guys in The Unit to dub him Colculetti (a creative morphing of “colonel,” “Dracula,” and his real name) behind his back. From just looking at the man, no one would suspect he was a damn good dad to six kids, raised labradoodles, and home-canned the heirloom tomatoes he raised in his backyard garden.

  Hutch shook his head.

  The three men exchanged glances.

  There were three chairs in the room and four men, but there was an empty bed as well; Hutch’s roommate had been dismissed that morning.

  “This will be easier if we’re sitting down,” Finetti said.

  Easier for whom? Aw shit, this was gonna be bad. Hutch tried for a smile, but it fell off his face, broke.

  Dr. Gupta and Colonel Finetti sat on the chairs while Jenner perched on the foot of the vacant bed. Hutch kept standing.

  “Please.” Gupta waved him down into the remaining seat like he was one of Finetti’s rambunctious labradoodles. Gupta was a brilliant surgeon with a forehead like a mad scientist, oversized and shiny. He wore break-apart magnetic-clip reading glasses around his neck, and he had a purple stethoscope sticking from the pocket of his white lab coat.

  Warily, Hutch joined the other men, sinking down into the drab gray chair positioned beside his bunk, muscles coiled tight, ready to spring up at the first hint of trouble. He didn’t like being ganged up on.

  No one said anything.

  Gupta met Hutch’s challenging stare. Finetti was actively avoiding looking at him.

  And Jenner? That asshole was smiling.

  Normally, Hutch wasn’t a contentious guy. He started off assuming everyone deserved his respect until they proved otherwise. Not only had Jenner proven otherwise, but ever since the ambush, Hutch had not been himself. Resistance had become his default mode. He didn’t like it, but there it was. Negative personality change. Ugly aftermath of war.

  Gupta tugged at a fleshy earlobe.

  Uneasiness rippled over Hutch like a professional piano player tickling the ivories. He picked up the Magic Slate. Penciled: WHAT’S UP?

  “We’re dismissing you,” Gupta said.

  Hutch relaxed. He lifted the top sheet of the Magic Slate, causing the words to disappear, and then wrote: GOOD. READY TO GET BACK TO WORK.

  The three superior officers exchanged those looks again.

  Colonel Finetti cleared his throat. “Not just from the hospital, Captain. You’re being dismissed from the Army.”

  He stared. Surely he’d misheard. He was being kicked out of the military?

  This can’t be easy for them, whispered a glimmer of the old, naïve, rally-round-the-flag-boys Hutch. Cutting a guy loose who’s done so much for his country. But the new, cynical, war-in-Afghanistan-makes-hell-look-like-a-Sunday-tailgate-barbecue Hutch, who had lost everything, wasn’t buying into it.

  “The medical board has reviewed your case. You’ll receive an honorable discharge for medical reasons and retain your full benefits,” Gupta went on. “We thank you for your service.”

  Hutch’s ears started ringing the way they did whenever he’d been too near an explosion. The only thing he’d ever wanted to do was serve his country and he never did anything half-assed. Best of the best. That had been his goal, and he’d achieved it. If he wasn’t part of The Unit, who in the hell was he?

  Furiously, Hutch scribbled on the Magic Slate. PTSD IS TREATABLE. FULL RECOVERY POSSIBLE. YOU CAN’T DISCHARGE ME FOR THAT. He shoved the drawing board at Gupta.

  Gupta slid a glance at Jenner and then returned the Magic Slate to Hutch. “If it were just PTSD we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  Finetti’s eyes were full of pity. Jenner’s face was unreadable.

  Hutch wrote: MISSING FINGER.

  “It’s not the finger,” Gupta said, not unkindly. “It’s your inability to speak.”

  Hutch held up the tablet for them all to see what he’d written. SHRAPNEL TO THE THROAT. LINE OF DUTY.

  “I know. I removed the shrapnel. But it missed your larynx. I thought by the time the swelling went down, you’d have your voice back.” Gupta’s head moved back and forth like windshield wiper blades set on slow.

  ONLY BEEN TWO MONTHS, Hutch wrote.

  “The last tests we did showed there is absolutely no reason why you’re incapable of speaking. The speech therapist concurs. Your problem isn’
t physical,” Gupta continued.

  “It’s mental.” Jenner piggybacked on the physician’s statement. “You’ve got selective mutism.”

  Mental? How could it be mental? Whenever he opened his mouth, no words came out. He wanted to talk. Tried his best to speak. Didn’t they get that?

  They let him stew on that for a minute. No one said a thing. All right. He thought they were wrong, but just in case they were right, he’d consider it. Losing his team might have turned him into an irritable prick, but he’d stay open-minded. He picked up the stylus. PART OF PTSD?

  “After extensively reviewing your medical and family history, we”—Gupta’s windshield-wiper head swiveled from Finetti to Jenner and back to him—“don’t believe that to be the case.”

  A strange sensation pulled at the center of Hutch’s solar plexus, as if he were belted into a centrifuge just starting to spin and he couldn’t reach the brake to stop the damn thing.

  “You have a family history of borderline personality disorder.” Jenner picked up the conversation. “Your mother, your sister. BPD does have a genetic component. Although in men, the malady usually manifests as antisocial personality disorder, and those are the behaviors you’ve been presenting.”

  Hutch stared at Jenner, unable to believe what he was saying. Before the ambush, he’d been Mr. Effing Congeniality. He had more friends than he could keep up with. He got along with everyone. A team player, they’d called him in basic training, an asset to the military. Ah, but now . . . now he was broken and they weren’t interested in spending the time, money, and effort necessary to put him back together again for combat.

  Legally, they couldn’t kick him out of the army for having PTSD, but they could boot him for a personality disorder. That’s what this frame-up was really about. It was easier to break into Fort Knox than it was get into Delta Force. The military had known about his family history when they’d allowed him in. It hadn’t been a deal breaker then. It shouldn’t be one now.

  Not wanting to give weight to their accusations, but not willing to take this lying down either, he calmly wrote: BULLSHIT!

  Gupta studied his shoes. Finetti’s mouth pulled flat in a sorry-about-this expression. Jenner’s gaze remained steady, but his nose twitched. They knew it was bullshit and they didn’t care.