Home for Christmas (15 page)

 

Chapter Thirteen

Whatever Libby might have said in response was interrupted by the kitchen door slamming open again. Owen sat back in his chair as the maid swept in and removed their soup bowls with more efficiency than courtesy—in fact, she grabbed Nash's bowl out from under his nose as he was leaning in to spoon up the last bit of his soup. He barely had time to sit back and avoid getting clocked in the face with his soup bowl.

“Next course,” the French maid declared, dispensing plates around the table. “Poached skate with warm oysters and a bacon and Brussels sprouts mignonette, served with Dijon mustard sherry emulsion and potatoes roasted in duck fat.
Bon appétit.
”

Owen stared down at the plate in front of him. It looked like modern art, as if it belonged in a museum. Every element the maid had described was perfectly balanced in a precarious tower on top of a brushstroke smear of something sticky and rusty red across the center of the plate. “This is … very pretty.”

“Tasty too,” Nash said cheerfully, tucking into his plate as if he was used to getting served stuff like this. Well, of course he was. He was married to the cook.

“Um, thank you.” Libby had her lips pressed in a tight line as she stared down at her plate. “Dig in, everyone.”

The silence that fell around the table should've been warm and companionable—the happy quiet of a group of people coming together to enjoy good food. But instead, there was a thin wire of tension running through the atmosphere, like the fuse of a bomb. Owen took a few bites, and it was good. Of course it was. But the more he ate, the more he wished it were a little less fancy and a little more like the homey, hearty dishes Libby had described in her column.

The maid banged into the room again, hands on her hips and an expectant frown on her face. “Well? How you like?”

Libby darted a glance at Owen before he could smooth away his confusion about why the maid would be asking if they liked the food. Cheeks burning red, Libby said, “Um, Genevieve helped me. In the kitchen. With the cooking.”

“Everything has been wonderful so far,” Owen said to Libby, with a nod of thanks at the maid, who harrumphed.

“Next course is
poulet au vinaigre
.”

While the maid went around the table grabbing plates and balancing them on her arm, Owen cleared his throat awkwardly. Was he the only one who felt uncomfortable? He was more used to chowing down on MREs in the front seat of a Humvee than being served by an actual French maid, but he didn't think that was it. There was something weird going on here.

He looked to the head of the table, where Mr. Leeds sat. That odd, calculating gleam Owen had noticed when he was introduced was back. Noticing Owen's scrutiny, Mr. Leeds lifted his wine glass in a toast. “Welcome to our humble home.”

Of course, Owen thought, relieved. All this extra fancy food was meant as a welcome for him. Which he appreciated, but … “I hope you don't feel you have to go to this much trouble on my account. Tonight has been great, don't get me wrong, but honestly, I'd be just as happy with the fried chicken dinner you talked about in your last column, Libby. Maybe even happier. “

She smiled, twisting her napkin between her fingers. “Oh! That would be … I'm sure we could have fried chicken tomorrow.”

The crash of a china plate on the floor made everyone at the table jump. Adrenaline surged through Owen's blood and he was on his feet before he'd registered moving, his hypervigilant senses scanning the room for the threat.

But all he saw was a livid French maid sneering at them with lips white with rage. “Fried shicken,” she hissed. “You dare compare that garbage to my
poulet au vinaigre
! Insult. Outrage! I cannot work like thees. I quit!”

“That was my great-grandmother's china,” Mr. Leeds bellowed, rising shakily to his feet and brandishing his cane at the maid like a baseball bat.

“Oh, no,” Libby moaned, darting out of her chair and scurrying to gather up the shattered pieces of porcelain, as if she might be able to fit them back together, jigsaw style.

“Grandfather, keep calm,” Nash cautioned, hurrying to the old man's side. “Your heart.”

“My heart is fine! And if this French floozy thinks she can commit property damage…”

“I am not floozy, I am world-class chef! But I cook for you no more. Philistines!” With that, the Frenchwoman turned on her heel and marched back into the kitchen, presumably to gather her things.

Libby jumped up and ran after her, crying, “Oh, please, Genevieve! Don't go! We can work something out…” while Owen sat staring at the commotion and wondering what the hell just happened.

“Why would you hire a world-class chef when you have America's Favorite Cook in your house already?” he muttered, mostly to himself, but Nash looked up from resettling his grandfather in his chair.

“She's not a chef, she's a maid with delusions of grandeur,” Nash insisted as he fished a bottle of pills out of Mr. Leeds' coat pocket and palmed a couple.

“I need to splash some water on my face,” Mr. Leeds said, reaching an imperious hand for his grandson's arm. Nash helped him stand up, a little shaky on his feet. Owen wondered if it was old age or fury that had given him the shakes. From the way he bared his teeth at his grandson, who was only trying to help, Owen had a good idea it was the latter.

Libby reappeared in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room just as Nash escorted his grandfather out into the hall toward the bathroom. “Is he okay?”

“Don't worry,” Owen said. “I'm pretty sure he's not about to go into a rage coma. And Nash gave him some pills—hopefully for his blood pressure.”

Slumping against the wall, Libby wrapped her arms around her torso. “I couldn't talk her out of leaving,” she said, her breath catching in something like a sob, and Owen couldn't restrain himself.

He stood and rounded the end of the table to stand beside her. Everything in him wanted to take her in his arms, but he was intensely aware that her husband and grandfather-in-law might return at any moment. All Owen could do was to put a hand on her shoulder and say, “Let her go. You don't need her help—you're a better cook without her.”

Libby's face screwed up like she couldn't believe her ears, and Owen huffed out a laugh. “I mean it. I'd rather eat your old-fashioned family style food any day of the week. I don't know why you hired that crazy Frenchwoman in the first place.”

“I wanted to impress you,” she admitted, staring down at the floor.

“You don't have to do anything special to impress me. I'm already impressed. I was impressed the minute I met you.”

It was nothing more than the truth, but the way it lit Libby up made Owen feel like he'd suddenly developed a knack for epic poetry.

“That's kind of you to say.” Libby tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, exposing the delicate pink shell and making Owen's fingers itch to trace it. “I'm not used to being impressive.”

“That can't be true. You have thousands of fans, readers who love what you do and the way you write. You must get dozens of letters—they publish at least one in every issue of the magazine.”

“Strangers I'll never meet, who don't know the real me,” Libby dismissed, a complex spasm of emotion twisting her pretty mouth.

“It can be tough, showing your true self to people and trusting them to accept what they see. I know a little something about that.”

“Right, you have fans, too,” Libby said. “After that interview on Rhonda Friend's show, and all the others. But you managed to be so … authentic. Even when I watched that interview, before I ever met you, I felt as if I knew you.”

All those probing questions, the shallow sympathy and equally shallow admiration for his so-called heroism.… Owen grimaced, his stomach churning. “Trust me. Nothing about those interviews was authentic. Rhonda Friend didn't want to hear the truth about what happened, about what's still happening, over there in Afghanistan, Iraq, and places like it—the real price of freedom. No one does.”

“I do.”

Owen studied her solemn expression. All the fluttery softness and anxious fear had disappeared, swept away by the force of her conviction. Owen looked into her steady eyes and, for the first time since he woke in that hospital bed, he thought he could tell someone the whole story. Libby was strong—stronger than she even realized. She could take it.

But Owen couldn't afford to open up to her. To another man's wife, a woman who could never be his. Telling her would be giving her a piece of his soul. And the thing was fractured badly enough as it was—he couldn't go leaving pieces of it on Sanctuary Island when he went back into battle.

So he smiled at Libby and dropped his hand from her shoulder. “I appreciate that. It's nice to know not all civilians want to stick their heads in the sand and ignore the sacrifices military men and women are making.”

It was a surface answer, and Libby obviously knew it. She dropped her gaze, soft and anxious once more. “I, for one, am eternally grateful. And I'm sure you're right. We can get along without Genevieve's help, as long as our guests are all as understanding as you.”

“Don't think of me as a guest,” Owen suggested. “Think of me as…”
A lover.
No! Dammit, Shepard.
“… a friend of the family.”

A bittersweet smile flickered across Libby's face, making Owen's gut clench. “I'll try,” she murmured, drifting ever so slightly closer as if she had no idea she was moving. “But it's hard. I'm not that used to having that.”

“A friend? Or a family?” How recently had she and Nash gotten hitched, anyway? Owen tried to remember how long he and his team had been fighting over those columns, but he couldn't. More than a year, less than five, maybe.

“Either. Both.” Libby shook her shoulders like a she had a chill. “Sorry, ignore me. I'm not complaining. I know how lucky I am.”

“It's not luck. You're a good person. You deserve to have good things in your life.”

Instead of reassuring her or comforting her, Owen's words seemed to hit Libby like a slap to the face. She actually flinched and squeezed her eyes shut for a second, and Owen's protective instincts overrode every other consideration. He lifted his hands to frame her face, frowning at the cool chill of her skin and rubbing gentle thumbs over her pale cheekbones. “Why is it so hard for you to believe me?”

A nameless fear was growing in Owen's chest, gripping tight and refusing to let go. Libby's lack of self confidence, her constant apologies as if she felt guilty for any momentary happiness.

“I'm not the person you think I am,” she said, her hazel eyes wet with unshed tears.

Owen dropped one hand to her shoulder and used the other to tip her chin up, forcing her to meet his stare. “Libby. If you're in trouble, I hope you know you can come to me. I'll help you, no questions asked, no strings attached.”

For a moment her expression cleared, like a strong ocean breeze blowing clouds away from the sun, but a sound from the hallway startled her and she jumped. Her gaze darted toward the door, and Owen tightened his grip on her unthinkingly. Maybe he was way off base, but he had to at least ask …

“Libby, if your husband is hurting you, if you're afraid of him—”

Her eyes widened, tears trembling in her lower lashes, but the look on her face was complete and genuine shock. “What? Nash? No, no, he's never laid a hand on me. I swear, Owen. Please don't think that.”

Now that he'd started down this road, Owen was grimly determined to see it through. “But things between you aren't perfect.”

She squirmed in his grasp, awkward and embarrassed, but Owen didn't let her off the hook. He had to know what was going on here, before he got in any deeper.

“There's no use pretending,” said Nash from behind them.

Libby squeaked in surprise, but Owen refused to leap away from her as if they were a couple of teenagers caught necking. Nash leaned in the doorway and regarded them thoughtfully. He didn't look much like a jealous husband, but people could be unpredictable.

“What do you mean?” Owen demanded, angling his body to keep Libby slightly behind him.

“You've obviously figured out that Libby and I are having problems,” Nash said lightly even as Libby made a vague, protesting noise at Owen's back. “In fact, we're separated. We'd be divorced already if it weren't for Grandfather's health. I'm afraid it would be too much for him.”

Owen's mind was racing, putting together details and making connections the way he did in the midst of battle. He turned to Libby. “Not just for Mr. Leeds—the magazine, too. Your image as a blissfully married woman is part of what they're selling, and you think they wouldn't like it if you were divorced. That's why you said you might not be writing for them much longer.”

“I'm trying to be realistic about the future. But all I want is to tell the truth.” Libby didn't meet Owen's eyes—in fact, she seemed to be pleading with Nash, who shook his head regretfully.

“You can't. Not yet,” Nash said, and at least he sounded truly sympathetic about it.

At his side, Libby's shoulders slumped in weary resignation. Owen hated to see it, but what could he do? Push her to blow her life to pieces on his account … and then ditch her to go back to the Rangers?

So he kept quiet as Libby stepped away from him and joined Nash at the door. He watched them conferring together over Mr. Leeds, who'd gone to bed, and Owen wondered how he hadn't seen before that they acted more like friends than husband and wife. Owen kept his mouth shut, even when they all trooped upstairs and Libby cast him a sidelong glance as she slipped into a separate bedroom, one not shared with Nash. Owen clamped his jaw shut and said nothing.