A Lowcountry Christmas Read online

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  This book is for my Marine—my son Zachary Oscar Werner Kruesi. You inspire me and make us proud.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you first to my readers. You have been so gracious and kind to me over the years, I want to express how much I appreciate your letters, comments, gifts, your word-of-mouth, and for coming to meet me when I’m on book tour. I read every letter and they encourage me while writing. I hope you will enjoy this gift of a book, written with much love for you for the holidays.

  Much love and gratitude to all the booksellers who invite me to their wonderful stores and introduce or recommend my books to new readers.

  I am always grateful for the brilliant insights and encouragement offered by my editor and friend, Lauren McKenna—but for this book especially we both worked so hard and so close because we loved this story so much. Also many thanks (and congrats!) to Elana Cohen, to Marla Daniels, and Steve Boldt for all your careful edits and the quick turnaround. And to my glorious publishers, Louise Burke, Jennifer Bergstrom, and Jennifer Long, for your continued gracious and wholehearted support. I have the best team at Gallery and I appreciate all the magic you do every day. Thank you Liz Psaltis, Kristin Dwyer, Jean Anne Rose, Diana Velasquez, and Mackenzie Hickey. Love to Gallery Books!

  At Trident Media Group I’m sending heartfelt thanks and praise to my agents, Kimberly Whalen and Robert Gottlieb. Thank you for all you’ve done these past years. And special thanks to Phoebe Cramer.

  Heartfelt gratitude, love, and holiday best wishes to my stellar home team, who work with such enthusiasm and love—my treasured assistant, Angela May; the dynamic duo at Magic Time Literary Group, Kathie Bennett and Susan Zurenda; Meghan Walker at Tandem Literary Group; and Steve Bennett and the team at Authorbytes. Thank you for all you do.

  To my L.F. copyeditors, Leah Greenberg and Judy Boehm—we’ll always have Maine!

  As always, I couldn’t write my books without the invaluable help from experts in the fields I am researching. First, continued thanks to the fabulous team at the Dolphin Research Center, Florida. Working with the DRC’s Project Odyssey for Wounded Warriors (which I wrote about in The Summer Wind), I became acquainted with servicemen and their service dogs. Since then I’ve talked to many organizations across the United States that provide trained service dogs to returning veterans suffering from PTSD and/or traumatic brain injury. I am in awe of the life-changing work they do. I was particularly intrigued by the groups that rescued dogs from shelters to train, thus demonstrating the great dogs that await adoption. This win-win scenario deserves our continued gratitude and support. I was especially inspired by Clarissa Black and the amazing group she founded, Pets for Vets, a national organization. With her permission, I used her name as a character. All mistakes are my own! Heartfelt thanks to Debra Manos, whose vast experience training dogs helped me appreciate the incredible bond of trust between dog and human.

  Thanks to Luis Carlos Montalván, author of Until Tuesday and the children’s books Tuesday Takes Me There and Tuesday Tucks Me In. His insights into the struggles of PTSD and his connection with his service dog—and deep, abiding love—were brilliant and inspired me throughout the writing of my novel. To Luis, my son Zachary Kruesi, and to all the men and women who served and currently serve our country, a humble thank-you for your service.

  A special nod to Stuart McDaniel, who supported the Center for Birds of Prey in Awendaw, South Carolina (the site of my novel Skyward) with his bid for me to create a character named after his grandson Miller McDaniel. The character of the young boy came to life in my mind with great affection and I hope the real Miller likes his namesake!

  I have friends who are always a text, phone call, or hug away. You know who you are. I can’t say thank you enough or tell you too often how much I appreciate your constant support while I’m under deadline. I love you all!

  As with all my books, I end by expressing my deepest love, appreciation, and thanks to my family, who are my rock during my long hours of writing. First and foremost to my husband, Markus Kruesi, who pulled extra duty this year with driving me on book tour and for preparing endless meals, guarding my privacy as I wrote, and reminding me that I’m loved. To Gretta Kruesi and Jordan Konow, who covered animal duty without complaint whenever I had to leave town; to Zack Kruesi for answering all my questions concerning the Marine Corps; and to Caitlin and Wesley Kruesi for your constant love. To Jack Dwyer for advising me on dialogue and all things pertaining to my young boy character, and to Claire, John, Teddy, and Delancey Dwyer for your ever-present support, love, and encouragement. You are “home” to me. I am the luckiest wife and mother in the world.

  Peace and love to all!

  Author’s Note

  The character Taylor McClellan is familiar to those who read the Lowcountry Summer Trilogy and A Lowcountry Wedding. Taylor was a Wounded Warrior in the novels. His character is inspired by a serviceman I met while working with the Wounded Warrior Project Odyssey at the Dolphin Research Center. He took the time to share with me why his service dog meant so much to him and stayed by his side. As he spoke, his hand was on his dog’s head and neck, stroking and petting as a touchstone. I could readily see the strong connection between them and was inspired.

  Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), sometimes known as shell shock or combat stress, occurs after the experience of severe trauma or a life-threatening event. It’s normal for the mind and body to be in shock after such an event, but this normal response becomes PTSD when the nervous system gets “stuck.”

  Veteran suicide rates have reached twenty-two per day according to the Department of Veterans Affairs. Fifty percent of those with PTSD do not seek treatment.

  Scientific research is just beginning on whether service dogs actually help treat PTSD and its symptoms. Anecdotal reports, however, are clear. Veterans vividly describe how service dogs have helped them recover from PTSD when they could not find relief from other interventions. Service dogs provide support and increased means of coping with such symptoms as hypervigilance, fear, nightmares, the fight-or-flight response, and impaired memory.

  A common link in my novels is the connection we share with animals. Witnessing the connection between service dogs and their masters is extraordinarily powerful. I’ve wanted to write about this unique bond for years. At last I can share with you the story of one serviceman’s return from war with PTSD, and his inspiring journey back to his home and himself through the help of his steadfast service dog.

  We all need the support and love of family—at no time more than Christmas. This is the story of one family who overcame obstacles to look deeper than the glitter and gaiety of the season to discover the true meaning of Christmas.

  I will honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live the Past, the Present, and the Future. The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach!

  —Scrooge, A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

  Prologue

  CHRISTMAS EVE 2015

  Taylor

  It’s Christmas Eve and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m happy. A cold wind rattles the shutters outdoors, but inside a gentle fire crackles in my hearth, even as one burns in my heart, warming me with serenity and peace.

  Peace. I roll the word around in my mouth. It feels as fresh and new as the soft flakes
of snow falling outside my window. And as rare. I live on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina, and I vividly remember the last time we saw snow. Peace. As a Marine who’s seen more than my share of battles, it’s a word I do not take lightly.

  I didn’t always feel joy at Christmas. In the first five years since I’d returned from Afghanistan, I’ve barely acknowledged the holiday. I have to smile now as I look around my living room—heavy boughs of pine and glossy magnolia leaves drape the mantel, the air thick with the scent of pine and burning wood. Across the room I see the two reasons for the joy in my heart—my wife and daughter. Harper, her face glowing with maternal love in the firelight, is sitting on the sofa nursing Marietta. She’s unaware that I’m standing across the room soaking in the sight, treasuring this moment, taking a mental photograph to keep forever. Many years from now when I’m old and my daughter is holding her own child, I’ll pull this memory out from a dusty corner of my mind, smile, and think, Ah, yes, that was Marietta’s first Christmas.

  Though she’s only three months old, seeing her fills me with dreams of Christmases still to come. Sitting in a wing chair by the fire, Mamaw, Marietta’s great-grandmother and namesake, pauses from her knitting to sip her rum drink. I watch as her gaze drifts over to the baby and her face eases into a soft grin of winsome pleasure. I wonder what memories the old woman is pulling from the treasure trove in her mind as she gazes on the child. More than eighty Christmases . . .

  I wonder, too, if memories aren’t a part of the magic of Christmas. Not the shiny, new excitement of children. Rather, the muted memories that stir during this season to bring alive Christmases past—the smiles of departed loved ones, the voiceless carols sung in our hearts, and the exclamations of welcome, joy, and love. These treasured memories—captured moments from times long gone—envelope us in that matchless spirit of Christmas one season after the other, year after year, until we ourselves fade and become part of the memories. I stare at my daughter and know that through her, I will live on.

  I have journeyed the hard path of Scrooge to reach this insight. My heart was once so cold it chilled every room I entered. No smile could soften me. My face was so foreboding people didn’t approach and children crossed the street when I approached. Christmas was just another day to endure. The New Year wasn’t something to be anticipated, but rather something to dread. I confess, some fearsome nights I didn’t want to see the dawn break the darkness.

  These memories still have the power to chill me. I can feel their weight settle in my heart. I shake my head to free myself from their icy grip.

  My dog, Thor, raises his head, and then climbs from his place by the fire to stand by me. He nudges my thigh with his nose. I look down to see his dark eyes watching me, so intently that I stop thinking and focus on him. Thor is my service dog, attuned to my every mood. Even while he was resting, he was monitoring my breathing, my body language. He sensed the anxiety that swept over me. I have PTSD and Thor knows all the danger signals, and how to deflect me before I slip into the abyss. I smile reassuringly and lay my hand on his broad head, finding comfort in his closeness. Thor is not a dog to be ignored. Part–Great Dane and part-Labrador, he’s a whopping 120 pounds of devotion. I’m okay, I tell him with my eyes. Comprehending, Thor sits at my feet.

  I stroke Thor’s head as he leans against me and register the change in the music. Now Frank Sinatra is singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” a song that always tugs at my heart and sends my mind drifting back to my Christmas homecoming five years ago. I let my gaze travel to the imposing eight-foot white fir tree dominating the far corner of the room. It stands tall and proud, as I do looking at it. I cut down this tree myself, drove it home strapped to the roof of my car as proud as any hunter would be of his trophy elk, and I basked in Harper’s praises when she saw it. It’s a looker, for sure. Harper claims I’ve set a high standard for every year to come. That’s okay. I’m up to the challenge. Not because I’m six feet two inches tall and have the power to chop down a tree twice my size. But because I know in my heart I will track down one special tree and cut it down every year that I’m able to swing an ax in honor of that one tree that miraculous Christmas. It was a small, spindly tree, but it had the heart of a redwood.

  It was the Christmas tree that changed everything.

  Men’s courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change.

  —Scrooge, A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 1

  WASHINGTON, DC

  NOVEMBER 30, 2010

  Taylor

  I’m going home for Christmas. Back to McClellanville and the ocean. Back to my family.

  I’m proud to be the son of a shrimper. While some men look at wide-open fields and think of planting, we McClellans stare out at the water and think of shrimp. Shrimping is hard work—long hours laboring under a relentless sun, straining muscles against nets dragged from the sea bulging with shrimp. My hands bear scars from years of separating shrimp from bycatch. Backbreaking work . . . and exhilarating. It’s in our blood. Out on the water we’re saltwater cowboys, untamed, unbridled, and free. Mavericks riding the water. I’m proud to bear the McClellan name. For as long as I can remember, my father, Alistair—everyone calls him the Captain—has steered the Miss Jenny, named after my mother, the largest shrimp boat in the fleet. I worked on the Miss Jenny as soon as I could walk. That’s the way it is in the business—family pitches in.

  I’m proud to wear the ring. I graduated from the Citadel in Charleston, the first man in my family to graduate from college. It’s a rare sight to see one’s father so proud his eyes tear up. Especially a sea-hardened man such as the Captain. I’ll never forget it.

  I’m proud to be a Marine. I’m the son of a sailor and the most recent in a long line of men who’ve served their country in foreign wars. After graduating I immediately entered the Corps as an officer. “Dare to Lead” the Citadel challenged us, and that’s what I did. After training I shipped off to the Middle East to lead a platoon. Our mission was to maintain a defensive perimeter in Afghanistan. We patrolled a vast area of desert, seeking out contraband and insurgents, racing across burning sand in hot pursuit of smugglers with small caches of weapons and ordnance. Small villages yielded the same.

  You might not believe me, but the desert and the ocean are similar. They’re both immense in a way that defies comprehension. I’ve ridden in a Humvee across miles of endless sand under a merciless sun and sailed a shrimp boat on the dark sea when the dawn broke across the horizon, and in both places I felt the vastness. It made me feel small and insignificant. Isolated and alone. Both desert and sea are unforgiving terrain and don’t tolerate fools.

  I’m proud that I’m a good leader. I don’t say that with conceit. I say this so you understand why I feel the burden of guilt for being sent home while some of my men will never make it back.

  The Bible says that pride goeth before a fall. I’m here to tell you that’s true.

  Thanksgiving is over and the Christmas season is beginning. Instead of joy, however, I feel the terror of my war memories lurking inside my brain like one of those damned IEDs just waiting for the right trigger to explode and tear me apart, the way one did on a dusty Afghanistan road. The bomb shattered my bones and burned my body and soul. Yet they call me lucky.

  I’m going home because the doctors say I’m recovered. I can only shake my head and think, What fools. My fractured bones might be healed, but my brain certainly isn’t. The scars in my mind are the wounds that cut the deepest. I didn’t want to leave the hospital—I felt safe there. I’m more comfortable with other injured servicemen like me than I am with my family. But they said I had to leave, so I did. I got a cheap apartment near the hospital. I holed up, afraid to go out, to deal with the public. I grew isolated, lonely. The doctors told me to go see my family for the holidays. Where do you go but home when there’s no place else to go? So, as the song says, I’ll be home for Christma
s.

  I feel as if I’m heading for a fall.

  “A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!” cried a cheerful voice. It was the voice of Scrooge’s nephew, who came upon him so quickly that this was the first intimation he had of his approach. “Bah!” said Scrooge. “Humbug!”

  —A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 2

  MCCLELLANVILLE, 2010

  Miller

  There’s magic in Christmas. How else can you explain how excited everyone gets when December rolls around? Or the smile that pops on people’s faces when they hear a favorite carol or see Christmas decorations in shop windows? I don’t believe in Santa. I mean, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m ten. But I’m not ashamed to admit I still get excited about Christmas.

  And I’m not the only one. As soon as Thanksgiving was over, before the smell of turkey had even left the kitchen, Bubba, Tom, Dill, and me started arguing about what was better to ask for for Christmas—an Xbox or a PlayStation. Personally, I’m on team PlayStation. But I’d be happy with either. All I’ve got now is my older brother Taylor’s hand-me-down Xbox. He’s been in Afghanistan and is letting me use it while he’s away. Dad said he doesn’t like those video games and I should play outdoors, but I know it’s because they’re expensive. Mama said those games cost the moon. Bubba’s dad is some big shot at the power company. They live in one of the fancy new houses on Jeremy Creek. Not that I’m jealous. But, see, Bubba knows he can ask for either game and get it. The rest of us just kinda hope.

  Well, not all of us. I don’t even hope. My dad is captain of a shrimp boat. I guess I have to get used to saying was. Times have gotten tough for shrimpers. He held on as long as he could, but he couldn’t fight the high costs of fuel and the low cost of imported shrimp any longer. So after Thanksgiving he docked the boat for good. We don’t talk about it at home, but it’s what we’re all thinking about. What are we going to do now?