The Christmas Key Read online

  “I just want to get through this party,” Naomi admitted.

  “One day at a time,” Terri said.

  Yes. That had been her motto for the past year.

  “Don’t worry. I know the ball is going to be a huge success with you at the helm. How could it not? You’re such a planner. Y’all enjoy the pie.” Terri wriggled her fingers. “Toodle-oo.”

  Once Terri had gone, Mom wheeled around to Naomi. “That was nice of her to bring us a pie.”

  “We are blessed to have such good neighbors.”

  “I know.” Mom bowed her head. “I don’t know how we would have gotten through this past year without them.”

  Naomi looked at her.

  Tears streamed down her mother’s face.

  She steeled herself, and sank to her knees beside the wheelchair. Wrapped her arms around her mom and squeezed her tight.

  She couldn’t think of words to ease her pain. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it was like to lose a child. Two children, if you counted Samantha as theirs. Which they had. It was horrible enough losing a brother and a sister-in-law.

  “We have to put on a brave face for Hunter,” she whispered in her mother’s ear. The little boy had been the only thing that had pulled their family out of shock and depression.

  “You’re right.” Mom tugged a tissue from her pocket, dabbed her eyes.

  Naomi leaned over to get Hunter in her line of sight. The boy was no longer in his chair at the table, but rather he squatted on the floor, coloring on the wall.

  Oh no! Sometimes she felt so helpless at the mothering thing.

  “Honey, honey.” She hopped to her feet and sprang over to the four-year-old.

  Hunter tilted his dear face. He looked so much like his daddy that it wrenched Naomi’s heart. He grinned as if to say, Aren’t I a great artist?

  She plopped down on the floor beside him. “That is such a pretty picture, Hunter, but instead of coloring on MeeMaw’s wall, let’s use the coloring book. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Hunter bobbed his little blond head, stuck the crayon in his mouth, and started chewing.

  She eased the crayon from his hand. Was his habit of chewing nonedible things normal childhood development? Or was it anxiety from losing his parents? She tried her best to create a calm, loving environment. But nothing could make up for not having a father and mother.

  “Why don’t we eat some string cheese instead?” She fished a chunk of blue crayon off his bottom tooth. Later, she’d clean the crayon marks off the wall.

  “String cheese.” Hunter jumped up and ran to the refrigerator, his socked feet padding against the tile.

  He yanked the door open so hard a jar of homemade bread-and-butter pickles fell off the shelf. The jar shattered against the floor, surrounding the little boy in broken glass and sticky juice.

  At the same moment, the potatoes on the stove boiled over. Hissing hot water onto the burner and dousing the gas flame.

  “Hunter,” Naomi commanded, a little harsher than she intended. She was terrified he might cut himself on the glass. “Do not move.”

  At the sound of her stern tone, her nephew burst into tears.

  “I’ll get him,” her mother volunteered, hitting the controls on her wheelchair.

  “No, Mom, your wheels will track the glass and pickle juice.”

  “I’m just trying to help.” Her mother sounded hurt.

  “I know, I know.” Oh Lord. She was stomping on everyone’s feelings without meaning to.

  Naomi zipped to the stove and switched off the gas. Zoomed over to where little Hunter had turned into a sobbing statue, gazing at the lake of pickle juice. Picking her way around the sticky liquid and glass shards, she leaned forward to pluck him up and plunked him down onto her hip.

  “You are such a good boy,” she said, and kissed his head.

  “I brokeded the pickles.” Tears tracked down his round cheeks.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  The refrigerator door was still hanging open. With her free hand, she grabbed a package of string cheese from the dairy compartment. Bumped the door closed with her knee and made her way back to the kitchen table. Settled Hunter into a chair and mollified him with the cheese.

  “You make that look easy,” her mother said.

  “Hardly.” Naomi snorted, returned to the mess. Sank her hands on her hips as she tried to figure out how best to tackle it.

  “How can I help?” her mother asked.

  “Keep an eye on the wee one.” Naomi turned the fire back on under the potatoes, gathered up paper towels and a trash can, and went to work.

  She picked up the glass first. Luckily, it had broken into big chunks, and she threw those away. She was elbow deep in sopping up pickle juice when the back door opened. She heard the sound of boots scraping against the welcome mat.

  Oh dear, it was almost six and she was nowhere near ready to put dinner on the table.

  “There’s a hack for that,” a deep male voice said.

  “What?” Naomi looked up.

  It was the man from the Jeep. Standing in her parents’ kitchen staring down at her.

  All the air left her lungs. Every nerve ending in her body roared to life. Sang. Spun. Electric. A fire station of heat.

  He met her gaze. His dark eyes mysterious. The set to his mouth amused and intrigued. He wore the same brown leather jacket and black jeans he’d had on earlier. Same red plaid flannel shirt that stretched so nicely over his broad chest.

  Dumbfounded, Naomi couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to look away. It was as if the two of them had teleported to a whole other planet. Nothing around them. No one else in the room.

  The air crackled from the energy that surged from him to her, and back again.

  “And what hack is that?” she asked, amused and lured in, oddly anxious to hear him speak again. She wanted to luxuriate in the sound of his sexy voice. Which was not like her. Not at all.

  “Baking soda.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “I’m serious.” His smile was like a light coming in underneath the door of a dark room, full of hope and relief from an endless night. “Got any? I’ll show you.”

  They kept a box of baking soda in the fridge to absorb odors. Naomi cracked open the fridge, grabbed the orange box of baking soda, and handed it to him.

  Their fingertips touched.

  The briefest of brushings. But that same electrical impulse passed through her again. The one that had shot up her arm and into her heart when he touched her fingers on the package she’d dropped.

  She stared at him.

  In a blur of inexplicable white light, she saw him as she had in her kismet cookie dream. Standing before her, wearing a Marine uniform.

  Her jaw unhinged. Her heart was an elevator. Plummeting to the ground. Hitting. Splitting. Breaking open.

  What was this feeling? Her hand was trembling, and she stuffed it into her armpit so he wouldn’t see.

  “Naomi?”

  Someone said her name. Not the stranger, though. He was still staring at her, eyes narrowed, lips thinning out.

  “Naomi?” her father repeated.

  She blushed, half expecting to wake up in bed. Hoping that she would wake up to discover the past terrible year was nothing but a dream. That Clayton and Samantha were both still alive and they were all a happy, intact family.

  Wake up to learn that she and her parents hadn’t had to sit Hunter down and try to explain as best they could to a three-year-old boy why he would never see his mommy and daddy again.

  The memory of that awful time was burned into her brain. Hunter had cried for his mommy every night for weeks, even as Naomi and her parents promised him they would always love him and care for him. No matter what.

  Somehow, they’d all made it through.

  She inhaled, pulling herself back to the crush of reality.

  “This is Mark Shepherd,” her father said. “He’s our new handyman.”

  “Oh,” Naomi
said, and then, because she didn’t have time to process what that meant, she said again, “Oh.”

  “You can call me Shepherd.” His smile was a cushion, as if he understood her confusion. “All my friends do.”

  Was he telling Naomi that he considered her a friend?

  Aww shucks, said a recalcitrant part of her brain. Friend-zoned.

  Shocked by her silly, wayward thoughts, she stepped back. Embarrassment flamed her cheeks hot. Why was her mind misbehaving? She was already in a relationship.

  Sort of.

  Shepherd was smiling at her, his eyes tender and gentle. An easy, open smile that belied the severity of his clipped haircut and the regimented way he moved. Erect spine. Stiff shoulders. Even with the limp, he exuded a regal bearing.

  Her pulse leapfrogged, took off. She felt dizzy. Thrown, she jammed one hand in her pocket, waved the other at the spilled juice and the baking soda in his hand. “Have at it.”

  He sprinkled baking soda over the floor, and it absorbed the juice. “Broom?” He raised one inquisitive eyebrow. “Dustpan?”

  Naomi stepped over the carpet of baking soda drying into a paste. Snagged a broom and dustpan from the closet in the mudroom. Brought it back to him. Stood closer than she should have. Wished she could back up but didn’t know how without being obvious. She couldn’t let him know how much he threw her for a loop.

  She didn’t like feeling so out of control.

  With smooth, efficient movements, Shepherd bent over and swept up the crumbly powder, whisking it into the dustpan. Mesmerized, she watched. Fascinated by the veins on the backs of his hands. The thickness of his wrists. The length of his long fingers.

  “The paste picks up any lingering broken glass too,” he said.

  “You’re right. It’s a great hack.” Her breathing was shallow and too fast. Slow your roll, Naomi.

  “We’ll need to mop, of course.” His gaze was direct. Steady. Here was a man that a woman could count on.

  “Of course,” she echoed, unable to hold on to that gaze.

  We’ll. As if they were a team. Big question. Why did the idea of them being a team appeal to her so much?

  “I’ll mop,” she said, surprised by how much emphasis she put on I’ll.

  They weren’t a team. She did not know him. Okay, yes, she’d had a dream about a man who looked a lot like him last Christmas Eve, but it didn’t mean anything.

  How could it?

  But what if it did? a voice at the back of her mind whispered.

  For the first time in twelve long months, her illogical ragtag heart opened a crack. Aching to let someone new in.

  Encouraged, but nervous, she stepped into the mudroom. Retrieved a mop and a bucket. Returned to find that Hunter had slipped back into the kitchen.

  He stood eyeing Shepherd. Tilting his head as if puzzling out something. Then his face dissolved into a happy smile. The boy flung himself across the room, tackled the stranger in a bear hug around his knees.

  Cried, “Daddy!”

  Chapter 5

  Staggered, Shepherd sucked in his breath. Stared down at the little boy wrapped around his legs. The impulse to turn tail and run ate him alive.

  What should he do? Crouch down to the child’s eye level? Tell him who he was? Would the child understand? He knew nothing about kids. Except this one was yanking at every heartstring inside him.

  Should he wait and see what Naomi would do? He shot her a glance, but her eyes were on the kid.

  Thrown, Shepherd just stood there, listening to his pulse pounding through his ears. Feeling the boy’s body against him. His battle-weary heart skipped, skittered.

  He’d come to dinner with a solid plan. Over the meal, he would tell Tom Luther and his family who he was. Take his licks. Give them the Christmas key. Be on his way.

  Duty done.

  But that was before he locked eyes with the breathtaking beauty. The same dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty who had jumped into his Jeep by mistake that morning.

  What were the mind-blowing odds that she was the woman he’d dreamed about last Christmas Eve and she was his buddy’s sister? His angelic dream woman who’d been his sole comfort this past miserable year as he recovered.

  One in a billion?

  C’mon. The dream was a year ago. How could he remember the tiny details of a dream woman’s face?

  How? Because that sweet face was right in front of him now.

  He met her eyes.

  Eyes the color of a Kentucky summer sky. Gently curving, well-shaped eyebrows. Long, thick lashes. A celestial nose, petite and pretty, the tip turned slightly upward to heaven. Soft, round face. Small, firm chin. Saintly cheekbones. Balanced, harmonious features.

  She stood transfixed.

  Unchained lightning blasted through his body. It was as if he’d touched a downed power line and lived to tell about it. And was grateful to be alive. His feet welded to the spot, and his heart liquefied in his chest. Was this what fate felt like? Foregone and inescapable.

  Yes. This felt like the truest truth he’d ever known.

  She was one in a billion.

  He didn’t know her, and yet her scent was already familiar to him. As if imprinted in his brain millennia ago. As if she was the very thing he’d never known he’d spent his entire life searching for.

  Indelible.

  Enduring.

  His breath was shallow, and no matter how hard he tried, Shepherd could not deepen it.

  Naomi looked as surprised as he felt. Her eyes burned fever-bright flame. The tip of her pink tongue brushed her upper lip.

  If only he had met her under different circumstances. If only she wasn’t the sister of the man he’d left behind to die. If only the little boy wasn’t her dead brother’s child. Who, apparently, she was helping raise. If only he wasn’t busted and lame with nothing to offer her.

  If only, if only, if only.

  Worthless words. Things were what they were, and no amount of wishing could change it.

  And then that amazing little kid had wrapped his arms around Shepherd’s legs and called him Daddy.

  The boy was still holding on. Looking up at him as if some prayer had been answered. The child’s adoration was too much to process. He gulped, unnerved.

  Everyone was staring at him. The room filled with clumsy silence. They were waiting for him to react.

  Holding on to his cane, Shepherd squatted in front of the boy. Met the child’s big blue eyes, the same color as his gorgeous aunt’s. And his late father’s.

  “You must be Hunter,” he said. “My name is Shepherd.”

  The little boy interlaced his fingers. Tucked his joined hands underneath his chin, and studied Shepherd with somber eyes. “Daddy?”

  A question this time.

  The child was so young. He probably couldn’t remember what his father looked like. Shepherd and Clayton had been the same height. Similar build. They had the same color hair and military cut.

  Naomi knelt beside Hunter, wrapped her arm around his waist. “Daddy’s in heaven, remember? We talked about this.”

  Hunter grinned shyly and shook his head. He placed a hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. Beamed at Naomi, said emphatically, “Daddy.”

  “I’m sorry about this.” Naomi raised her eyes to meet Shepherd’s gaze. “Sometimes, he mistakes other men for his father. His dad died in the war last Christmas.”

  “Your father told me,” Shepherd said, swallowing a boulder of guilt for not being honest with her. “It’s okay if Hunter wants to call me Daddy.” His heart broke for the kid. “I don’t mind.”

  “No, it’ll just confuse him.” Her tone was firm. To the boy she said, “Hunter, this is Mark Shepherd.”

  Hunter cocked his head, wrinkled his brow. “Shepherd?”

  “Shepherd,” he and Naomi said in unison. They shared a look. It felt weighted and intimate. Weird. But nice. He wanted more looks like that from her.

  “Not Daddy?”

  “No, sweetheart. Not Daddy,�
�� Naomi murmured and extended her hand to the boy. “Let’s go wash up for dinner, okay?”

  “O. K.” Hunter took her hand and followed her from the room. But he glanced over his shoulder at Shepherd.

  Breathless and befuddled by the child’s sweet look, and charmed by the way he said O. K. instead of okay, Shepherd wiped away the sweat that popped up on his brow.

  “I’ll mop the floor while you’re gone.” He levered himself to his feet with his cane. Reached for the mop and bucket that Naomi had gotten from the mudroom.

  Watched by the curious gazes of Clayton Luther’s surviving family members, Shepherd mopped their kitchen floor.

  He was aware of the mother in a wheelchair. The joints of her misshapen hands twisted into distorted fists. She had what appeared to be a severe case of rheumatoid arthritis. He winced. She couldn’t be more than sixty, far too young for such a disability.

  He was aware of Pastor Tom standing in the doorway. Observing him with a keen eye and a bewildered tilt to his head, as if he were expecting a different Marine, his son, to be working in the kitchen.

  He was aware of the little boy who’d come back into the room with Naomi, studying Shepherd with an unabashed stare.

  But most of all, he was aware of her.

  The woman he’d dreamed about. The woman he’d been unable to get out of his head. The woman he’d believed imaginary. Until this morning when he’d stopped at the detour around the town square and she’d climbed into his Jeep.

  Naomi.

  Winsome, gorgeous Naomi Luther. Her dark hair pulled back off her forehead with a festive red-and-white striped barrette. As if she had a bit of peppermint candy cane caught in her hair. The sides tumbling to her shoulders in big, soft curls.

  Clayton Luther’s older sister.

  What cruel trick of fate was this?

  If she knew who he was, it would destroy any blooming hope he had of getting to know her.

  As if.

  A deep sense of yearning spiraled through him. A poignant longing for something he could not have. Shepherd continued mopping. Cleaning an area bigger than where the pickle juice had spilled. As long as he was mopping, he didn’t have to talk.