Home for the Holidays (4 page)

“Bite him, Uncle Collier!” Layla screamed hysterically.

“Eat, eat, eat,” Iris chanted in between peals of laughter.

Collier took two bites and then collapsed to the floor, holding his stomach and writhing as if in pain. Layla joined him on the floor, tickling him as he begged her to stop.

“Come help me, Miss Iris,” Layla shouted. “We need to make Uncle Collier tap out.”

Iris joined Layla and Collier on the kitchen floor, holding onto Collier's arm and bending it in an attempt to make him give up. They'd become combatants in a free-for-all tag team, Layla screaming for Collier to tap out as Iris labored to keep him from moving. She knew he could've easily freed himself, but he pretended to struggle. Layla's shrieking escalated to ear-piercing screams. Collier lay atop her, not permitting her space to wiggle.

Iris jumped on his back, clamping his head in a sleeper hold, a move used by professional wrestlers. She felt an instant flare of desire with her body pressed so intimately against Collier's. “Pretend you're going to sleep,” she said in his ear. He went limp, rolling off Layla as Iris continued the pretense of applying pressure to his temples. Seconds later, he laid, eyes closed, on his back.

Layla, scrambling off the floor, twirled around and around. “We did it, Miss Iris! We are the tag team champions of the world!”

“What's going on here?”

Recognizing Tracy's voice, Collier came to his feet. Her expression changed, going from confusion to shock as he closed the distance between them, sweeping her up in his arms. The last time he'd seen Tracy, she wore her hair in tiny twists. Now the twists were long enough to graze her jaw. Burying her face against his throat, she cried without making a sound.

“Why didn't you let me know you were coming home?” she sobbed, shaking uncontrollably.

Collier turned around, staring directly at Iris. She'd gathered Layla close to her side. They exchanged a subtle look of understanding.

“Why don't you guys hang out on the porch while Layla and I finish cooking? We'll call you when everything's ready.”

He nodded and walked Tracy out to the porch, settling her on the love seat and sitting down beside her. Reaching into the back pocket of his jeans, he took out a handkerchief and dabbed her moist face.

Stretching an arm over the back of the wicker sofa, Collier stared out at the encroaching darkness. Porch lights had come on and light shone through the windows of the six homes lining Coosaw Court. He'd learned to ride a bike and played baseball, basketball, and football in the cul-de-sac where homeowners parked their vehicles in driveways or on lawns in order to provide a safe space for their children to play.

Extending his legs, he pulled Tracy closer. “I wanted to surprise you,” he said after a comfortable silence. “I knew if I'd called you…”

“I know,” Tracy said, interrupting him. “I would've acted a fool like I did when you told me you were coming back from Iraq, but when I didn't hear back from you for almost a week, I had a meltdown.”

Collier tugged on her twists. “Let the choir say amen,” he teased.

Tracy slapped at his hand. “Very funny,” she drawled. “How long are you staying this time?”

“I'll be here through Christmas.”

Two deep lines of concern appeared between Tracy's eyes. “Are you on medical leave, because you've never come home that long. What are you hiding from me, Collier?”

Chuckles, beginning in Collier's throat, bubbled up as he threw back his head and laughed loudly. “I'm not hiding anything. Do you want to conduct a strip search to check for wounds?”

Tracy punched him softly in the shoulder. “Don't be gross.” She looped her arm through his. “I'm glad you're home. I've just about worn my knees out praying for you.”

Light from the lanterns flanking the front door cast a flattering glow over Tracy's face. Collier stared at his sister's profile, smiling. A boy who'd lived in the house across from the Wards used to torment Tracy saying she was adopted because she looked nothing like their Vietnamese French mother or African American father. The harassment ended when Collier caught him alone threatening to knock his teeth out if he ever bad-mouthed his sister again. The boy didn't know Tracy looked exactly like her paternal Gullah grandmother who'd been one of the island's official griots.

He smiled. “You can continue to pray for me but not on your knees. I've been told I'll be stationed stateside unless—”

“Please don't say it,” Tracy said, interrupting him again. She rested her head on his shoulder. “I love you, Collier, and I worry about you. I know you've made the Army your career, but what about your personal life? Do you ever think about having children?”

Collier closed his eyes for several seconds. “Not really.”

“What happened to our promise that if I made you an uncle you'd make me an auntie? Layla will be eight next year and I'm still not an auntie. How long do you expect me to wait?”

“Two years. Max.”

Tracy hugged his arm. “I'm going to hold you to that.” A flash of humor crossed her face. “What's with you, Layla, and my friend rolling around on the kitchen floor?”

“We were having an impromptu wrestling match.”

She made a sucking sound with her tongue. “What would folks say if they found out that Scrappy challenged a little girl to a wrestling match?” Tracy teased.

Collier smiled. “Layla loves wrestling.”

“Layla loves having you home.”

Collier sobered up. “I like being home.”

Tracy sat straight, giving him an incredulous look. “Who is this stranger masquerading as my brother? The last time you came back you complained you couldn't wait to leave. What changed?”

He pondered his sister's question for several seconds. Two days before celebrating his thirteenth birthday, he'd sat in the lecture hall for an orientation at the elite military school, certain he was going to hate being away from home and all that was familiar. Collier resented his father's decision to send him to what he thought of as a quasi-juvenile detention center, but a month into his stay he realized he found his niche. He'd fallen in love with all things military. He knew he disappointed his mother when instead of enrolling in college he enlisted in the Army. His father had secretly wanted him to apply to West Point, but Collier redeemed himself when he followed in his father's footsteps and became a Green Beret.

Life in the military wasn't colored in shades of gray, but in black and white. He loved the success he had achieved and knowing he'd protected his country. But what would happen when Master Sergeant Ward returned to civilian life? What, if anything, would give him as much satisfaction? It was something he thought about constantly. And so far he hadn't come up with an answer.

“I've changed, Tracy.”

She frowned again. “How?”

“I only have two years left in the service. I have to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life.” He didn't tell her he also had to focus on taking care of her and Layla, although Tracy constantly reminded him she wasn't his responsibility. That she was able to take care of herself
and
her daughter.

“Is getting married and having children in your future plans?”

Collier successfully concealed his annoyance behind a closed expression when he met Tracy's accusing eyes. “I'm in no rush to get married.”

“How old do you want to be before you become a father?”

His jaw tightened as he clamped his teeth together. Tracy was like a dog with a bone whenever she wanted to prove a point. “I didn't know there was an expiration date on fatherhood.”

“There isn't, and I shouldn't have to remind you that you're the last male Ward on Cavanaugh Island.”

The tense lines on Collier's face relaxed. “I can't concern myself with situations I can't control at this time in my life. Did you finish your thesis?” he asked, changing the topic.

“Why do you always change topic when you don't want to talk about yourself, Collier?”

“Changing the topic is the alternative to telling you to mind your business.”

“Oooo-kaaaaay,” she said, drawing out the word into two long syllables. “We'll talk about me, then.”

Tracy launched into a lengthy discussion of the impact of nineteenth- and twentieth-century women's literature on their respective epoch. She'd chosen Mary Wollstonecraft, Toni Morrison, Agatha Christie, Edith Wharton, and Anaïs Nin. As a child, Tracy had spent all her free time reading, and Collier knew she would eventually choose a career involving books. They sat on the porch talking until Layla announced it was time to come in and eat.

A short time later, Collier refilled his plate with a second helping of rice, cabbage, and oxtail stew, smiling at Iris across the dining room table. “This food is amazing.”

Layla wiped her mouth with a napkin. “I told you she cooks good.”

He wanted to tell his niece Iris was better than good. “If I eat like this every day, I'll have to run at least five miles to burn off the extra calories.”

Iris glanced up at him through her lashes. “Well, you better prepare yourself since I've invited your family to join mine for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.”

Collier swallowed a bite of corn bread. “It looks as if I came home just in time to get my gobble on.”

“Brother, that's so lame,” Tracy said while shaking her head.

“Gobble. Turkey,” Collier intoned.

“We get it, Collier.” Tracy laughed.

“Killjoy,” he mumbled under his breath. “Iris, do you need me to help you with anything?”

Smiling, Iris shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “I'm
very
sure.”

An expression of supreme triumph flitted across Collier's face. When he left Iris's apartment, he wasn't certain if he would run into her again. Now he was assured of at least three consecutive days with her.

“I need you to get the card table out of the storeroom and put it in Iris's truck,” Tracy told him.

“My dining room table seats six; I'll need the card table for Layla and my niece,” Iris explained when he gave her a questioning look.

“Where do you live?” Collier asked.

Iris had to give it to Collier. He was giving an award-winning performance. “I have an apartment above the sweetgrass shop.”

His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth, lingered on her chest, and then back to her eyes. “Will you be able to carry the table up the stairs by yourself?”

Iris met the bold stare with one of her own. “It can't be that heavy.”

Collier's eyebrows lifted a fraction. “You're going to carry a table
and
chairs?”

She gave him a smile usually reserved for placating young children. “I don't need the chairs.” When she'd moved to the island, she'd used a tray table, two folding chairs, and a sleeping bag for two weeks until a moving company delivered the furniture she'd stored with a Baltimore storage company.

Tracy looked at her brother, then Iris. “Collier can follow you in his car and carry it up for you.”

“He can bring it tomorrow,” Iris said in a quiet voice she didn't recognize as her own after a noticeable silence. The notion of being alone with Collier would prove much too tempting, given her prolonged period of celibacy, much too easy for her to get caught up in sex and not the man.

Growing up on the base left Iris behind her civilian counterparts socially when it came to dating. The boys of the noncommissioned officers adopted a hands-off approach when it came to dating an officer's daughter, while the sons of the officers were as appealing to Iris as a case of poison ivy. It wasn't until she enrolled in college that she had her first serious boyfriend. Sleeping with the second-year medical student wasn't as exciting as it was satisfying. Then there had been Derrick—her loving, moralistic ex-husband who'd refused to sleep with her until their wedding night. He called it rough sex. She called it rape.

Collier angled his head, a grin parting his lips. “What time do you want me to come by tomorrow?”

“I've planned for everyone to sit down around three, so can you drop by anytime between two and two thirty.” Pushing back her chair, she picked up her plate and stood.

“Nah, nah, nah,” intoned Tracy, waving a hand. “Put that plate down. You've done enough. I'll clear the table.”

Iris hesitated. “I don't mind.”

Tracy stood. “But I do. You're on your feet all day baking at the Muffin Corner; then you come here and cook some more. I'm sorry, girlfriend, beginning now you're banned from the premises until Monday.”

Tears welled up in Layla's eyes. “Why can't Miss Iris come here, Mama?”

“Wrong choice of words, sis,” Collier said under his breath.

Iris tugged gently on one of Layla's braids. “Your mother's joking, sweetie. I'll see you tomorrow when you come to my place. I have a niece who's eight, so you'll have someone to play with.”

“What's her name? Is she going to sleep over?”

Iris hadn't thought about her niece spending the weekend. After all she didn't have to go back to the Muffin Corner until Tuesday. She didn't work the weekends and the bakeshop closed on Sundays and Mondays. “Her name is Allison, but we call her Allie.”

Layla gave her mother a pitiful look. “Can I sleep over at Miss Iris's, Mama? Pul-lease.”

Tracy and Layla spent a week at Iris's apartment over the summer in the spare bedroom when Tracy had the floors in the house replaced. Iris had taken a week's vacation, and the three of them spent the time touring the Sea Islands visiting historic plantations, botanical gardens, and soaking up Gullah culture when a weaver taught them to weave sweetgrass baskets. It ended with everyone several pounds heavier and blissfully relaxed.