Robyn Carr - My Kind of Christmas

“No one can make you go to medical school.”

“I so hate to disappoint them. But I might be looking for something more.”

“Going to become an adventurer?” he asked.

“That’s not really what I mean. I think watching the snow fall in candlelight and cuddling a baby—those can be watershed moments, too.”

She stood up from the bar. He stood, as well. “For today, I chased down an interesting guy—something I’ve never done before. I’ve had a nice cup of coffee, and now I’m going back outside to watch the decorating of the tree. I’m also going to try to talk my way into one of those cherry pickers, but I might have to get my uncle Jack drunk first.” Then she laughed.

“I gave you a hard time, Angie,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Paddy. You have stuff to work out, too. Big stuff, and again, I’m sorry for your loss. And,” she added with a shrug, “I’ve been told I can be a lot to take. Especially lately…”

He grabbed her hand before she could leave. “No, you’re not,” he said. “Maybe you should have another cup of coffee.”

She shook her head, but the look in her eyes said she was tempted.

“You started it,” he accused.

“Aw, I think you did, with your green eyes and that look.”

He put his right hand against the side of her head in an affectionate gesture and suddenly time stopped. He had a strange look on his face. His fingers rubbed against a raised, hairless spot behind her ear. She had long, thick, pretty brown hair streaked with blond but there was no mistaking a scar. He pulled away from her to look into her eyes.

“A shunt,” she said. “I don’t know why the hair doesn’t grow there, but I guess it’ll grow back someday. I think.”

“Shunt?” The word was not completely alien to him, but he wasn’t making all the connections.

“My brain swelled while I was in a coma. They fixed it with the shunt to drain the edema but then they leave it in. It’s not working anymore but they don’t remove the shunt unless it creates a problem. We don’t do brain surgery unless we have to.”

He watched her eyes. “Coma,” he said, still gently touching that lump. “Brain swelling. You had a head injury. A serious head injury.”

“But really, I’m fine. Completely recovered. I mean, I think I am. Even given my chasing dangerous men into bars…”

“It was a bad accident,” he confirmed. “Very bad.”

She nodded. “Which explains why my mother thinks I have a personality disorder and wants me in a padded suit for the rest of my life. And maybe it also explains my resistance to that idea.”

He smiled gently and said, “I like your personality.”

“Thanks,” she said, some confidence restored. “That actually means a lot to me.” She gave him another smile, then turned and headed out to join the festivities.

Three

Once Angie left the bar, Patrick felt a little short of breath. Meeting her was the last thing he expected. Or intended. He was still feeling emotionally wounded by Leigh. Leigh, who was a sophisticated, thirty-year-old society girl, the daughter of a rich, widowed senator out of Charleston. Leigh, so stunning and brilliant she made men gasp when she strolled by.

So perfect and, ultimately, so cold.

Patrick threw a couple of bills on the bar for their coffee and went outside. There was still a lot of activity around the tree, but he didn’t see Angie. He left town to go home, but all the way there he found himself thinking about the differences between this young, warm, optimistic woman who’d cheated death and Leigh, who had everything and was grateful for nothing.

How had he not noticed that Leigh was so unfeeling when he’d been involved with her?

Patrick had only one picture of Leigh Brisbain with him, although there were still many in his Charleston home, a house Leigh had decorated to suit her tastes. In the picture he kept in his wallet, taken on a sailboat, she lounged against him, both of them hanging on to the rigging, windblown and smiling. She’d been out of his life for six months; all the pictures at home should at least be packed away somewhere. Maybe when he got back there, he’d do that.

Leigh had a place of her own in Maryland, a place he’d only visited when he was available to attend charity or political events with her. When Patrick deployed, Leigh spent all her time near the nation’s capital, working full-time for her father. She never stayed in Patrick’s Charleston house without him, though Patrick had always thought of it as theirs, together. Leigh loved D.C. and planned to make her life there. Her ultimate ambition was to follow in her father’s footsteps. She’d run for office one day and split her time between D.C. and Charleston.

How had he managed to miss that they were so unconnected? It had ended so suddenly. He had come home from sea to find a picture of her in a newspaper where she was dancing with a smiling man. Not exactly a smoking gun—she attended so many political and charity affairs that this didn’t alarm him in the least. He had casually asked, “Who’s the guy?”

And she had replied, “I guess it’s finally time for us to have this talk, Patrick. Our lives are so out of sync—you’re committed to the Navy and I’m going for a career in civilian politics. You’re going to transfer around and I’m going to have to establish roots to support my constituency and political career. You’ll be flying—I’ll be here or in Washington.”

“Haven’t we had this conversation many times?” he said. “You’re not running for office right away, probably not for years. We have plenty of time.”

She merely shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she had said. “I’m not going to be a Navy wife. I’m building a career. I need a partner.”

“To do what? Go to dances?” he asked. “You seem to do just fine, attending with your father.”

“That’s not working for me,” she said.

“Are you asking me to get out? After ten years plus four in the Academy? Is that what you want?” he asked.

And clear as a bell she had said, “I’m afraid that won’t work for me, either.”

That had pretty much summed it up. Oh, they’d talked it to death for a while, but the actual conclusion had been reached in the first two minutes of conversation. She was done. It didn’t matter how he viewed the future, she was done. That was six months ago and he wasn’t sure if he missed her, was angry with her, wanted her back or wanted to send her hate mail.

He began to ask himself why they’d been together in the first place and was stunned to find the list of reasons was incredibly short. She loved dressing him up in his Navy mess dress for formal events in either D.C. or Charleston; she praised him often for being a quality escort. He loved looking at her, talking to her, touching her. She loved being connected to a decorated aviator who had been to war many times and he loved the convenience of having someone there for him when he returned to port. Had he loved her? He’d thought that was love.

Maybe what he felt more than anything was foolish and inexperienced.

He’d always been a one-woman man and playing the field held no interest for him. Even if she hadn’t been there full-time, neither had he. The end of their relationship was probably as much his fault, as Leigh’s. Not only had she taken the path of least resistance, but so had he.

Patrick had always known, even if he hadn’t admitted it, that he didn’t have the kind of relationship with Leigh that Jake had had with Marie. Jake was a frothing mess when he got home from a mission, grabbing Marie up in his arms like the wild man he was, going missing for a few days while he immersed himself in every possible ounce of her and even then being reluctant to let her get too far from his side. That was real love, and that was what Patrick had always wanted.