Home for Christmas by Lily Everett

Author:Lily Everett
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466885608
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter Sixteen

Libby waited until the end of Caitlin’s lesson only to be told by a barn worker that Owen would be catching a ride home with his sister and having dinner over there. Aching with regret and hurt, Libby climbed into her car and started the drive back to her grandfather’s house alone.

She hadn’t meant to upset Owen so much, but at the same time, she couldn’t be sorry for pointing out that there was another path he could at least consider. One that might not let him be a hero to his men, but would make him the hero of his daughter’s story … and who had more of a claim on Owen than Caitlin?

Libby was still turning it over and over in her mind obsessively when her cell phone rang. A sharp pang of foreboding pierced her chest when she glanced down at the screen and saw her boss’s name flash across it.

Pulling over to the side of the narrow country road, Libby stared out over the expanse of brown cordgrass waving out toward the ocean as she steeled herself. Then she answered her phone.

“Mr. Downing? Hello.”

“Great news,” her publisher said briskly. “I’ve secured us some extra publicity for the Christmas article you’re doing with that war hero.”

A chill skittered down Libby’s spine. “Extra publicity?”

“On Christmas day, I’m bringing a camera crew from the Good Morning Show to your house to shoot some video of the meal, maybe a couple of sound bites from the soldier and the kid. Rhonda Friend is coming in person to do the interviews.”

He actually sounded pleased. Libby felt faint. “Mr. Downing, I can’t agree to this.”

“It’s only B-roll for a short follow-up piece,” Downing said, impatient. “Not an in-depth documentary or something. Just wear something pretty, smile a lot, and fake it. You’re good at that.”

“I’m really not, though,” Libby protested. “Writing is one thing—I can use my imagination. But no amount of imagination is going to make this meal anything but a disaster. Having a TV journalist there to document the whole thing is going to be terrible publicity.”

“There’s no such thing as terrible publicity,” Downing countered ruthlessly. “All publicity is good publicity. That said, I expect you to carry this off. Remember our deal. I looked into that uncle you told me about. Ray, wasn’t it? With early onset Alzheimer’s. A diagnosis like that, at his age—just tragic. And it means round-the-clock care for the rest of his life. That kind of thing is pretty pricey, Ms. Leeds. I would keep that in mind when Rhonda Friend shows up with her cameras.”

Downing hung up before Libby could control her quick, shallow breaths enough to answer. A camera crew scanning around, zooming in on every tiny expression and catching her every mistake—and there were sure to be plenty of mistakes. Libby had been practicing, but every time she set foot in the kitchen there seemed to be some sort of catastrophe.

There has to be a way out of this mess. Slumping, she bonked her forehead on the steering wheel hard enough to honk the car horn.

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