A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(79)

“But I’m leaving…”

“Now!” he snapped, turning to go.

Marcie sat for a second, thinking. The door opened again. “I said now!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, grabbing her purse and following Doc.





Ian went back to his cabin and fed the stove. He thought about splitting some logs or shoveling or checking on the old guy next door, but instead he sat at his table and did nothing. Nothing, except remember every expression on her face, every sentence she’d uttered. Then he pulled her library book in front of him and reread that romantic passage she loved, the one that got them going. He really couldn’t remember loving that sweet in his whole life. Was it just because it had been so long? Or was he right when he considered that, for two people without much practice, they sure learned how to please each other well in a short period of time. 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.