Home for the Holidays (11 page)

“Have you forgotten that I'm an Army brat, Collier? I know some soldiers come back from combat needing medication and psychotherapy in order to function somewhat normally. The problem is you didn't trust me with your secret.”

Collier stared at her under lowered lids. “That's something I'll regret for the rest of my life. I was evaluated by a psychiatrist who prescribed Prazosin for the nightmares, but the side effects were counterproductive.”

“Do you still have nightmares?”

“Not since the one I had with you. There are times when I can go weeks without having them, and then sometimes they recur one after another. I'm in therapy, and I've scheduled weekly sessions with the chaplain who claims forgiveness is the best medicine for anything and anyone.” Holding her hands, Collier went down on one knee. “Please forgive me.”

Iris sank to her knees, pressing her forehead to his as she fought back tears. “Yes, sweetie, you're forgiven.”

“Do you mind if I come to visit you from time to time? The drive from Fort Bragg is around three hours.”

She sniffled. “No, I don't mind. I think it's time we put aside our pasts and start over. We've been given a second chance, so let's try not to mess it up.”

“I'm not going to mess it up,” Collier said quickly. He stood, pulling her up with him. His eyes made love to her face as he lowered his head and kissed her with all of the passion he could possibly feel for a woman. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

Iris clung to him as if he was her lifeline. “Merry Christmas, love of my life. I think we better get back before someone comes looking for us.”

Collier increased his hold on her hand, stopping her from leaving. “I love you.”

Iris felt like crying. And if she did, then they would be tears of joy. Her lids fluttered wildly. “I love you, too.” They returned to the living room, their arms around each other.

“Are you guys all right?” Esther asked.

“We're good,” Iris and Collier chorused together.

“How good, Sergeant?” James questioned.

“Hopefully good enough, Colonel, to convince your daughter that spending her life with a retired master sergeant doesn't have to be boring.” His pronouncement was met with applause as Esther kissed his cheek and James pumped his hand. Evan slapped his back, while Tracy clasped her hands as she mumbled a silent prayer.

Iris said her own silent prayer of gratitude. Collier hadn't proposed marriage, but they had time to right the wrongs, work through their misunderstandings, and share a love that promised forever.

Best-selling author, Rochelle Alers has nearly two million copies of her novels in print. She is also the recipient of numerous awards, including the Gold Pen Award, the Emma Award, the Vivian Stephens Award for Excellence in Romance Writing, the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award and the Zora Neale Hurston Literary Award.

D
evon Gilmore Collins stared out the side window of the taxi as the driver maneuvered up to the entrance to the Francis Marion Hotel on King Street in Charleston, South Carolina. It was the second time within six weeks she would check into the historic hotel. The first time was when she'd flown in from New York to see her client and friend, independent filmmaker Keaton Grace. Then it was to inform him she'd made the decision to become a single mother only because there had been a time when she told him she never wanted children.

However, when she found herself facing an unplanned pregnancy, Devon realized she had two options. She could give up the baby for adoption, because there were childless couples waiting to adopt a newborn, or she could keep the baby and do something no other Gilmore woman had ever done or become: an unwed mother. It had taken a lot of soul-searching, but in the end she decided she would keep her baby. She had advantages many women in her predicament didn't have, because as a thirty-six-year-old entertainment attorney, her earning power afforded her a comfortable lifestyle.

A wry smile twisted her mouth when she thought about being a Gilmore woman. Although married, her mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and aunts still thought of themselves as Gilmore women. Whenever her mother introduced herself it was as Monique Gilmore instead of Monique Collins. And when Devon overheard the mother of one of her childhood friends refer to Monique as Lady Gilmore, as if she were a member of the aristocracy, she asked her mother what she meant. Monique's comeback was “class recognizes class.”

By the time she was ten Devon was able to quote verbatim what it meant to be a Gilmore woman. They were poised, intelligent, educated, feminine, and self-reliant, but not necessarily in that order. And all had married men with comparable qualities, and while no Gilmore woman had ever given birth to a child out of wedlock that tradition was about to be shattered in seven months.

The taxi driver came to a complete stop at the same time the bellhop rushed over to open the door for her. “I'll get your luggage, ma'am.”

Lines of fatigue bracketed Devon's mouth. She'd flown into Charleston on a redeye and needed to rest up before going to Cavanaugh Island. She managed a hint of a smile for the young man. “Thank you.”

When she'd complained to Keaton about the frigid, snowy New York City weather, he'd suggested she come down to the Lowcountry for several weeks. He'd also invited her, at his girlfriend's insistence, to join them to help celebrate her birthday later that evening, because all of the invitees were her friends and family. Devon agreed, though during prior visits she found Cavanaugh Island too slow and much too quiet for someone who'd grown up in Chicago and then went on to spend the next fifteen years in New York City after graduating college.

She loved the restless energy of a large metropolitan city, the bright lights, noise, and the advantage of finding someplace to eat no matter the hour, while having close access to live theater, museums, and shops ranging from miniscule storefronts to the upscale boutiques with one-of-a-kind designer originals.

Devon also liked that she was able to maintain a modicum of anonymity when strolling the sidewalks of Manhattan or whenever she rode the elevator with the other residents living in the Upper East Side Manhattan neighborhood where she owned a one-bedroom condo. This trip to South Carolina wasn't entirely for her to get away from below-freezing temperatures and relentless snowstorms, but for emotional support.

The week before she'd flown to Chicago to inform her parents about the baby, and they'd turned their backs on her the same way they did with her younger brother, while her mother claimed she'd shamed the Gilmore name. Devon hadn't wanted to argue with her parents or remind them having a baby out of wedlock wasn't a crime or as shameful to them as their son who was now in federal prison serving a fifteen-year sentence for an armed bank robbery.

If was as if her life was slowly unraveling because the father of her unborn child was now engaged to another woman and hadn't returned her phone calls; she had no close girlfriends in which to confide, while her brother refused to accept phone calls or visitors. Stepping out of the taxi, she placed a hand over her flat belly, inhaling a lungful of moist air. Devon smiled again. Even the air here smelled different. She would have to thank Keaton for his suggestion that she needed a change of scene, a slower pace, and an opportunity not to sit home alone and sink into an abyss of self-incrimination, where she blamed herself for not recognizing the signs that the man with whom she'd been involved wasn't as forthcoming as he should've been about their relationship.

First things first
, she mused. She would check in, and then order an early breakfast from the on-site Swamp Fox restaurant. Unpacking wasn't as important as food and sleep—two things she wasn't able to ignore. If she didn't eat, then she would feel faint and/or light-headed, and there were occasions when she'd found herself falling asleep while sitting up reading or watching television. Devon nodded to the liveried man holding the door open for her as she walked into the hotel lobby, the bellhop following with her bags.

Twelve hours later Devon stepped out of the cab after paying the driver, who had come to a complete stop in the circular driveway to a three-story Colonial. She checked her watch. Keaton said she should arrive by six thirty and she was ten minutes early. She walked up three steps to exquisitely carved double doors flanked by gaslight-inspired lanterns. A larger matching fixture was suspended under the portico, and strategically placed inground lighting illuminated the Tanner residence. She'd just raised her hand to ring the doorbell when the low, purring sound of a car's engine shattered the stillness of the night.

Turning around, she saw a tall man get out of a late-model Lexus sedan. He paused momentarily to slip on a suit jacket, then made his way to where she stood. The first thing Devon noticed was the cut of his dark tailored suit, then his straight, white teeth as he offered her what she thought of as a very sensual smile. Her gaze lingered on the slight cleft in his strong chin. He ran a long, slender groomed hand down the emerald-green silk tie fashioned in a Windsor knot under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. Golden light spilled over his lean dark face and neatly barbered cropped hair.

“Are you waiting to go in?” he asked her.

The sound of his soft, drawling voice elicited a smile from Devon as she tilted her chin, staring up at him through a fringe of lashes. Not only did he have a wonderful voice, but he also smelled marvelous. His cologne was a blend of sandalwood and bergamot. It was the same fragrance her father had worn for years. And there was no doubt he was a Southerner as evidenced by his drawling inflection.

“Yes,” she answered.

He rang the bell and then opened the door. Stepping aside, he let her precede him. “You must not be from around here because folks on the island usually don't lock their doors until it's time to go to bed.”

“I'm not,” Devon replied. “I'm a friend of Keaton Grace.”

He extended his hand. “David Sullivan.”

A beat passed before Devon took his hand. “Devon Gilmore,” she said in introduction.

“Well, it looks as if you two don't need an introduction.”

David released Devon's hand. “Happy birthday, Red,” he said to the tall, slender woman with a profusion of red curls framing her round freckled face as she approached them. Angling his head, he kissed her cheek. Reaching into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, he handed her an envelope.

The redhead patted David's smooth cheek. “Thank you. Everyone's here,” she said in a soft voice. Turning, she offered Devon her hand. “I'm Francine Tanner.”

Devon shook her hand. “Devon Gilmore,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for inviting me to your home.”

Francine's green eyes crinkled as she returned Devon's smile. Her eyes matched the silk blouse she'd paired with black slacks. “Any friend of Keaton is always welcomed here. He had to run an errand and should be back at any moment.” She looped her arm through Devon's over the sleeve of her suit jacket. “Come with me. As soon as Keaton returns he can introduce you to everyone before we sit down to eat. And David, I want to warn you that my father is making Irish coffee again this year. If it were up to him, he would celebrate St. Patrick's Day every day of the year just to have an excuse to make his favorite drink.”

Devon gave Francine a sidelong glance. “Is that good or bad?”

Francine laughed. “It all depends on your tolerance for alcohol. Yours truly learned a long time ago to pass, but most folks who've drunk Daddy's Irish coffee swear they're the best they've ever had.”

“I'm also going to pass, because I don't drink,” Devon stated firmly. It wasn't that she hadn't in the past, but because of her pregnancy she'd sworn off alcohol, caffeine, processed foods, soda, and salty snacks.

David held back, watching Devon as she walked with Francine through the entryway and into the family room, his gaze lingering on her slender legs in a pair of sheer blue nylons and matching leather pumps. It'd been a long time since a woman caught his interest within minutes of meeting her. The last one he'd dated for five years, but that was nearly two years ago in his past. He shook his head as if to banish the memory of the woman with whom he'd pledged his future.

He enjoyed celebrating Francine's birthday because the Tanners always combined it with a St. Patrick's Day theme. It would also be the first time wherein he would socialize with Keaton Grace. Francine had introduced him to the filmmaker, who now made Sanctuary Cove his home, when David came to the island to visit his aunt. After Keaton purchased the abandoned Webber property, no one could've imagined that Cavanaugh Island would eventually claim a movie studio.

David had to admit he was just as shocked as most of the island's inhabitants, but unlike some who complained it would bring an unsavory element to their cloistered sea island, he knew it would serve to boost the island's economy. The shopkeepers in the three towns making up Cavanaugh Island relied on the snowbirds to keep their mom-and-pop stores from going out of business while they awaited the influx of tourists during the summer months to make them economically viable for the following year.

It would be a while before the studio would be up and running, but in a matter of weeks those living in Sanctuary Cove, Angels Landing, and Haven Creek would have something else to talk about once David revealed his plan to set up his own practice in Haven Creek to provide legal services to the underserved Cavanaugh Island residents.

The decision hadn't been an easy one for him. In fact he'd been kicking around the idea after celebrating his thirty-eighth birthday. Then he'd asked himself whether he wanted to continue to work at a law firm where he existed in his father's shadow. He was either D.J. or Junior. Even the clients the firm had on retainer called him D.J.

Once he opened the office in the Creek his clients would have the option of referring to him as David or Mr. Sullivan. And the distinct difference between his prospective clients on the island and those he'd represented at Sullivan, Matthews and Sullivan would be the billable hourly fee. Although his father and his father's fraternity brother had established a sliding scale for clients unable to pay the prevailing rate, it was still far beyond the reach of some of the islanders—many who were self-employed, had retired on a fixed income, or were living at or just above the poverty line. David loved the practice of law, yet for him it was never about billable hours, and as the most recent junior partner, his caseload made it almost impossible for him to find time to have what would pass for a normal relationship with a woman.

Pushing his hands into the pockets of his suit trousers, David walked into the family room. His gaze swept over Morgan and Nathaniel Shaw sitting together and talking quietly to each other, while Jeffrey and Kara Hamilton stood at the open French doors, she gesturing to the birds that had gathered to eat the seeds that had fallen from a feeder attached to a pole on the patio.

A smile crinkled the skin around his eyes when David realized everyone wore green: shirts, blouses, sweaters, and dresses. It was March seventeenth, St. Patrick's Day, and nearly every resident on Cavanaugh Island celebrated the holiday even if they didn't claim a drop of Irish blood.

Mavis Tanner was the first one to notice him. “David,” she crooned softly. “Thank you for coming. I know you were tied up in that case where if that lying heifer had her way that poor boy would've spent at least twenty-five years in prison.”

Lowering his head, he pressed a kiss on Francine's mother's salt-and-pepper twists. When she'd sent him an invitation, David wasn't certain whether he would be able to come. His last case had gone to trial, and he'd spent every waking hour in an attempt to keep his client from going to jail for a crime David knew he did not commit. And at the last possible moment before the case went to the jury for deliberation the prosecution's eyewitness recanted, claiming she'd lied in an act of revenge because the defendant had rejected her advances. That was only yesterday, and after the judge dismissed the charges, David went home, turned off his phone, and slept for twelve uninterrupted hours.

“Thankfully for my client the prosecution's witness had a change of conscience, but now she's locked up because she's been charged with perjury. She recanted at the right time because I truly didn't want to miss Red's birthday celebration.”

He and most of the people in Sanctuary Cove referred to Francine as Red because as a little girl she'd had bright orange-red hair. The nickname stuck even though her curls darkened to a hue reminiscent of a shiny copper penny. David stared at the petite woman with a dark brown complexion and distinctive Gullah features. He claimed his own Gullah birthright, not from his father but his mother. Although raised in Charleston, he'd always felt more of a kinship with his relatives living on the island than those on the mainland. Perhaps it had something to do with their unpretentiousness. There were a few exceptions, but most of the islanders were down-to-earth, more trustful, and usually willing to share what they had or to extend a helping hand to those in need than the people who lived on the mainland.