Page 74 of Take Me Home for Christmas

He was glad to see her regain her composure almost instantly.

“Where did you get them?” she demanded. “Are they yours?”

All three children moved closer to get a look at the leather-bound journals in his lap. They were tied together with a piece of red-and-green ribbon he’d found at the inn.

“They belonged to my wife.”

“You’re married?!” they all seemed to say at the same time.

“I was. Once.”

Henry’s face went pale. “Did she die?” he whispered.

Everett didn’t know much about kids. He believed it was best to lead with the truth, though. At any age.

“She did,” he replied.

He watched as Henry swallowed roughly. “My dad died, too.”

“I didn’t know that,” Everett replied. Perhaps he should have thought this conversation through a bit more. “I’m sorry.”

The little boy nodded. “Do you still miss her?”

Everett returned the nod. “Every day.”

“My dad died before I was born, but I miss him.” Emily and Whitney each took one of Henry’s hands.

Christ.Everett had waded into a minefield.

Henry flicked his chin toward the journals. “I keep the flag from my dad’s funeral in my bedroom. It’s good to have something of theirs ’cos then they are a part of you still.”

Now, it was Everett’s turn for a painful swallow. The little boy was likely parroting words the adults in his life had fed him. Still, Henry was spot-on.

“It is.”

“She must have been really special,” Whitney said.

Out of the mouths of babes.

Unbidden tears burned the back of Everett’s eyes. “She was.”

“Did she write books like you?” Emily, ever the inquisitor, asked.

“She wrote stories for magazines and newspapers.”

“Like Aunt Elle,” Emily said.

“Exactly like your aunt Elle.” He placed his palm on the top notebook. “These are her books that tell the story of her life.”

“Are you going to let other people read them?” Henry asked.

Let other people read them . . .

That was the million-dollar question. Everett had only gotten the courage to read them himself this past week. They were eloquent and brilliant and so transparent, it hurt. They also told her story of why she was so determined to free her interpreter and the many others who aided Western journalists.

Other people needed to read the message of her grit and devotion. He just didn’t have the guts to take on the job himself. But he was beginning to get an idea of who might be best for the task.

“Yes, Emily. Someday, I will. I’m not ready to share her with the world just yet.”

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