This was good, he told himself, that she had gone. She needed to go home, where she belonged. It wasn’t his home anymore and hadn’t been since his father put the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. Ian had faced the reality—there was no one there for him anymore. No one.
Except Marcie, the girl who’d made him laugh and love.
But that had been here, where circumstances forced them together. Once things settled back into place, what they had together here wouldn’t be the same.
Still, he wondered what it would feel like to see the old man one more time before he was gone, before it was too late. Ian had no illusions; his father wouldn’t have become warm and fuzzy. In fact, he’d probably be worse, given age and illness. He was rigid and unforgiving and always had been. It had been impossible to impress him and make him proud back when he was in the Corps, it would be impossible now, after the last four years.
But, maybe facing the old man was the cure to becoming him. Marcie might be right—Ian didn’t have to forgive his father so much as forgive himself for hating his father, for letting his father’s disapproval and meanness shape him into an angry man. It might be the passage out.
How could a goofy, stubborn little redhead be so incredibly insightful? It just didn’t work in his head. It didn’t add up.
Ian remembered the something she’d left for him, but he didn’t want to see what it was; he wasn’t sure he was up to it. But then the other part of him thought if he just had something concrete to remember her by, it might bring joy to his days. He went to the trunk and there, right on top, was an envelope. It was addressed to Marcie. On the back of the envelope she had written something.
Darling Ian,
It was my plan to show you this letter. I didn’t think I could part with it, but as it turns out I want you to have it. You’ll see why. And I meant what I said, Ian. I fell in love with you. Marcie.
He stood by the woodstove and began to read the letter and then had to sit down to finish it. It was a letter to Marcie from Bobby. It was written on that thin military-issue letter paper that you fold into its own envelope—thin, pale blue tissue with the image of an American Eagle on the page. From the date on the postmark, it was very likely Bobby had been sitting right next to him while they both took a couple of minutes to dash off letters to their women in time to make the postal pickup.
Hey, Marcie, baby. I miss you, girl. I think about you every minute of every day and I’m counting the seconds till I feel you up against me again. Thanks, baby, for being so tough through all this shit. I couldn’t be with any other kind of woman. Some of these guys—their girls write ’em these terrible letters about how bad life is for them while their guy’s away and I couldn’t take it if you did that. How’d I know you were the one when we were fourteen? I must be a frickin’ genius!
I have to tell you something. I’m not chicken, telling you in a letter instead of when I get home—I just can’t wait, that’s all. See, I want this forever. You probably think I’m out of my head to say that, now especially. I mean, this place is awful. We haven’t had that much trouble, but other squads have been fired on, ambushed, run into suicide bombers, all that crap, and we know it could be us any second.
One of the reasons it hasn’t been us yet is Ian. The man’s unbelievable. I’ve never known anyone like him and I’ve known some real awesome people, especially in the Marines. This is one helluva jarhead, baby. He knows what he’s doing. He can lead you into hostile territory and make you think you want to be there. He’s the person who keeps everyone from feeling sorry for themselves. I’ve seen him put himself between a young marine and gunfire. We had an injury on the road—kid stepped in a hole and broke his ankle and Ian carried him all the way to camp, must of been five miles. Wouldn’t hand him off or share the load. I offered to take the kid for a mile, but Ian said, Keep your eye on your business, marine, so I don’t end up carrying two of you.
We found a couple of armed insurgents on a door-to-door search and I watched Ian take a guy down bare-handed. An hour later I saw Ian holding a little Iraqi baby and talking to the mother, smiling at her, reassuring her. I don’t know how he does that—goes from the strongest, meanest guy here to the sweetest. And then at the end of the day, when everyone’s pissed off and dirty and tired, he talks to every man, makes sure they have their head on straight. He doesn’t want anyone too shook or scared or lonesome not to keep themselves alive if we have trouble. One of the guys got a Dear John and he was pathetic. Ian could have told him to get a grip and act tough, but instead he kind of talked him through it and when the guy cried, Ian didn’t make fun of him or anything. He just kept a hand on the guy’s back, solid, and talked to him real soft, told him there weren’t a lot of guarantees in life and some things took a while to get past, but if it was any consolation, his brothers wouldn’t ever leave him. If the girl couldn’t stick, Ian told him, better to find out early. It takes a real special woman to put up with a marine.
He’s right about that, baby—and you’re it. I don’t know if you’re up to it, me taking on the Corps for a career, but I hope so. Thing is, if I could be half the leader and friend Ian is, I’d be a frickin’ legend. I can’t wait till you finally meet him. You’re going to admire the guy as much as I do. And then you’re probably going to coldcock him for making the Corps look so good to me. Ha ha. He won’t be surprised—I told him all about you, that you might be a little bitty thing, but you aren’t afraid to stand up and speak up.
I miss you so much, baby. I’ll be back before you know it. I love you, Marce.
Ian took a few deep breaths and then read it again. What was this? How could Bobby think that much of him? It was goofy hero worship and Ian didn’t feel he deserved that. Ian was just doing the job he was trained to do—it wasn’t anything special.
He was sure right about Marcie, though. She was a little pistol. A beautiful little pistol who brought sunlight and laughter with her everywhere she went. One determined little girl. She didn’t quit early; she’d have made a good marine. Bobby was lucky he found her in the ninth grade. It wasn’t easy to find a woman that strong, that powerful, that sure of herself and what she wanted.
After all she’d been through, after everything they’d shared, what kind of a guy doesn’t at least say “I love you, too”?
Doc took Marcie on a wild ride out to a farm in the foothills and snapped at her to help him with the gurney. Then Doc climbed in the back to administer to their patient, a farmer who’d taken a donkey’s hoof in the head. His head was split open and he was seeing double, but he was conscious. So while Doc took care of his patient he yelled at Marcie about her driving, which she couldn’t understand because she thought she was doing very well considering she wasn’t used to a vehicle that size.
When they got to Valley Hospital they had to wait around for X-rays before Doc would leave the farmer. Then Doc made her drive back to Virgin River so she could experience this vehicle without the yelling in the background. By the time they pulled into town, she was a wreck.
“Come on,” Doc said. “I’ll buy you a drink. You earned one. You did just fine.”
“Well you’d never know it from the way you yelled at me,” she grumbled.
“Nah, you were half as good as Melinda—which is good. She’s had practice. She slings that thing around like it’s a skateboard. Come on. It’s time for a drink.”
“Really, I was going to be out of here five hours ago.”
“Well now, don’t you feel good that you were able to help? Lend a hand? If you hadn’t been sitting right there, I’d have had to take Paige or maybe the patient’s wife, who wouldn’t have been able to keep her eyes on the road. It was a lucky break for all of us. Have a drink and some dinner. You can drive in the dark, can’t you? We’ll fill you with food and soak you up in coffee before you go.”
“Yeah,” she said wearily. “Sure. Why not. I’m already too late for Christmas Eve dinner in Chico.”
“There you go. Another break.”
“My sister might not see it that way….”
“What would be even better,” Doc said, “is if you had two drinks and spent the night in the spare bed at my place. That would be even better.”
“No,” she said. “Really, I have to go. I can’t hang around here. It just makes me sad.”
“Whatever you think you have to do,” Doc said. “It’s an open offer.”
The bar was packed with people, gathering for their little program around the tree. There were trays of snacks sitting all around—from hot hors d’oeuvres to Christmas cookies. People whom Marcie had never met introduced themselves, asked her where she was from and if she would stay for the carols. She did accept a brandy from Preacher, then sampled the snacks and finally she migrated to the kitchen and called Erin. “I apologize, but I’m running late…”
“What?” Erin nearly exploded. “What are you thinking? You promised to come home!”
“I’m coming,” she said. “Listen, there was an emergency—a guy from town got kicked in the head by his donkey and Doc needed someone to drive to the hospital so he could tend the head and…Well, I got delayed by five hours and I’m sorry. So I’ll be catching Santa in the act, but I’ll get there.”
“It’s dark! I don’t want to worry about you!”
She took a breath. “I drive in the dark all the time, but go ahead and sit up and worry if you want to. I’m going to have some food and some coffee—then I’ll be on my way.”
When Marcie migrated back into the bar, she was worn down. She felt as though she had disappointed everyone, not the least of whom herself. She’d grown tired. No doubt it came from the long day, the emotion of leaving Ian, the wild ride with Doc. But most of all she felt the disappointment that the thing she’d started with Ian didn’t seem destined to go further.
But then, what could she expect? That they’d laugh together, love together for a week or so and he’d change everything about himself? And for all her big talk—that she’d stay in that cabin forever—she wasn’t at all sure that after a year of that she wouldn’t be out of her mind. Besides, she had brought him some relief, but she hadn’t healed him; he had lots of healing left to do. And he probably knew what he needed—to split and sell his logs, feed the deer, sing in the morning and ease slowly back into the world.
Inside, she began to grieve. She couldn’t help that her heart ached. But she reminded herself that what she wanted most was for Ian to see his own way, to find peace and happiness. With or without her. Marcie knew she had her faults, but being selfish was not one of them.
People were starting to move out of the bar and gather round the tree. She followed. On the porch someone said, “Here, Marcie,” and handed her a candle. She thought it wouldn’t make much difference if she stayed to sing a couple of carols before starting her drive.
The tree was splendid; it sparkled and shone in the clear night. The star beamed a path down the street. There were many more people gathered outside than there had been in the bar. Clearly they’d been arriving for a while. There was a lot of mingling and chatting, laughing and lighting candles. No one seemed to be in charge. Then someone finally said, “Away In The Manger.” Slowly, haltingly, singing began—a little clumsy at first. By the time they were halfway through the first verse, and this was only a first-verse kind of crowd, their voices had become stronger. Then someone else shouted, “Silent Night!” and they began again. Next, “We Three Kings!” and then came “Silver Bells,” which they stumbled through badly until everyone, including Marcie, was laughing. There were a lot of mumbled suggestions and milling around when a voice, clear and strong and beautiful, came from the back of the crowd. Softly. Slowly. Mellowly.
