Holiday in Your Heart (29 page)

“I wanted a sibling and couldn't have one,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But I did have my parents and they were wonderful—and then they were taken away. I thought I'd fall in love and have kids, have the big, happy family I'd always wanted, but years passed and it never happened.” Another sob caught in her throat and she forced it back, staring down at her clasped hands rather than letting Mo see her face.

“I'm an optimistic person,” she went on, “and I kept telling myself that one day it would happen. But now I'm thirty-nine, and so I thought that even if I hadn't found Mr. Right yet, I could have a child. I could fulfill that dream and start building my family. I was taking action, being positive, con-controlling my l-life.” More sobs came out, breaking up her words. “B-but then I met you, fell for you, and I d-didn't realize—didn't let myself truly understand—how you felt. I was b-being optimistic, too optimistic. Unrealistic.” She drew a long, shuddering breath, trying to regain control. But it was hopeless. Tears flooded down her cheeks as she wailed, “I thought for once I could have it all. But I can't, can I?”

She raised both hands to cover her face, embarrassed by her outburst. If she'd set out to drive Mo away, she probably couldn't have made a better job of it. “I need a tissue,” she said from behind her hands, her voice muffled. She rose and hurried to the downstairs powder room where she blew her nose, splashed her flushed, swollen cheeks and eyes with water, and tried to regain her self-control.

Over the noise she made, she didn't hear sounds of Mo leaving, but she was sure he'd be gone when she returned to the living room a few minutes later.

So it was a surprise to find him still sitting in the same place. She had to give him points for that.

Slowly, she sank into the same seat on the couch that she'd occupied before. “I'm sorry for that meltdown.”

“Don't apologize. I can see how much all of this means to you.” His expression was pained. “So what are you saying, Maribeth? Do you want to end things now?”

“I . . .”
Want?
No, of course that wasn't what she wanted. But he wasn't going to give her what she wanted. “I don't see how we can stay together,” she said slowly, regret shading her voice. “Next time I'm ovulating, I'll be inseminated. Yes, I'm a little old, but I'm in excellent health. My doctor is optimistic that even if it doesn't happen on the first try, I'll get pregnant. I'll have a baby, which is what I most want in the world. You don't want children, so what kind of relationship could we have?”

Her question hung in the air between them. What was she hoping for? That miraculously he'd find words that would fix everything?

What he did say, again, was, “I'm sorry.” He said it heavily, finally. When he pushed himself out of the chair, he moved without his usual agility, like an arthritic man whose movements caused him pain. He walked across the room toward her, stopping on the far side of the littered coffee table. “Does this mean you don't want to see me again? Even as a friend?”

Not see him again. How could she bear it? Tears welled again and she tried to force them back. But how could she bear seeing this man—the only one who'd ever come close to claiming her heart—and not sorrow for what might have been? She dropped her head, staring at the floor rather than at Mo. “I don't know. I need to think about it.”

Slow footsteps on the wooden floor told her he was leaving the room. She gazed teary-eyed at the Christmas tree. The lights were blurry, as if she were looking at them through a rain-streaked window.

A door opened down the hall, and then closed.

She loved Mo. What a fool she'd been. The first time she'd met him, she'd felt that tectonic shift she'd been waiting for all her life. She'd told herself she was being sensible, taking time to get to know him, to see if her brain and heart agreed with that first gut instinct. And they did. Everything about Mo: how he'd turned his life around, his connection with the abandoned dog, how hard he worked on reconciling with Brooke and Evan, even the way he'd been so patient with her as she insisted on hanging lights and ornaments in exactly the right spot. The way he made love, so fierce and passionate and yet so tender and reverent.

She loved him, but that hadn't meant that everything would fall neatly into place. If Mo was the love of her life, then it seemed she'd be living the rest of her life without love.

Farther away, another door shut. He had collected Caruso and left via the sunroom. She was alone.

A sob burst from her. As if that first one had cleared the way, more followed until she was wailing like a child who'd lost her beloved stuffed animal. Or a woman who had lost her one chance at true love.

* * *

Monday evening, Maribeth sat in her living room, trying to read. The fire crackled, the Christmas tree sparkled, Anne Murray was singing “O Come All Ye Faithful,” the novel was the latest by one of her favorite authors—and Maribeth felt like crap. A sense of loss had settled deep in her bones, in her heart, almost as painful as when her parents had died.

When the phone rang, her heart kicked. Mo? Had he changed his mind?

She rushed to answer and tried not to be disappointed when the caller turned out to be Jess Kincaid.

“Thanks again for yesterday,” Jess said. “We all had a terrific time.”

“I'm glad you came.”

“MB, are you okay? Is Mo there?”

“No.” No Mo. Hey, how about that, it rhymed. “We broke up.”

“Oh, no. I'm so sorry.”

Maribeth's brain wasn't functioning all that efficiently, but now it dawned on her that this wasn't a normal courtesy call. “You suspected, didn't you?”

“Not exactly. But he said something yesterday, and I thought you should know.”

“About never wanting kids. I overheard. That's why we broke up.”

“I'm so, so sorry. So it's over? Completely?”

“It's pretty black and white. No room for compromise when we want things that are completely opposite.” As her grandmother had said, some problems were insurmountable.

“I guess. But you seemed so good together. I didn't expect that in the beginning, but he's a better guy than I thought he'd be, and you complement each other.”

“
Did
complement each other. I thought so, too.”

On the radio, Kellie Pickler was singing the sassy “Santa Baby.” Maribeth muttered, “Oh, shut up,” and clicked it off.

“What?” Jess said.

“Not you, the radio. Sorry.” Maribeth sighed, feeling about a hundred years old. “Mo asked if we could still be friends, but I don't know if I can do that.”

“You've stayed friends with a number of guys you've dated,” Jess said neutrally.

Maribeth sighed again. Deliberated. And then decided, because that's what girlfriends were for. “I love him.”

“Oh, MB. I thought maybe you did. You had a glow I've never seen before.”

“All those years of waiting for the right man, and then he came along. I really thought he'd come along. But obviously I was wrong.”

“I sure don't know Mo very well, but it looked to me like he has strong feelings for you, too.”

“I think he does. And that would make it even tougher to be friends.” She glanced over at the Christmas tree. “I've only known him five weeks, and already so many things remind me of him. Of what might have been. It's depressing.”

“Want to have a girls' night? We'll drink too much, commiserate, and call him bad names?”

Maribeth mustered a small laugh. “Tempting. Except I don't want to drink alcohol because I'm going to get inseminated soon.”
Get inseminated
. It sure wasn't the most romantic way of creating a new life, but it was the only avenue open to her.

“You're sure about the insemination?”

“Yes, of course. I'd already decided on a sperm donor, and Mo just delayed the process by a month.”

“True love versus having a child. That's just so damned unfair, MB, that you have to choose.”

“Tell me about it.”

* * *

“This is really impressive,” Mo told Robin on Sunday afternoon, a week after the open house at Maribeth's. A week after they'd broken up. He had a hard time thinking of anything but her, and a hard time mustering enthusiasm, but he gave it his best shot as Robin completed giving him a tour of Riders Boot Camp.

The operation included a big barn, a riding ring, a picturesque lodge, log guest cottages, and a bunkhouse. It was designed for weeklong residential programs aimed at teaching serious riders more about horses and helping them improve their skills. Evan's stepdaughter called it “no frills” and he supposed she was right if you compared it to fancy dude ranches with spas. To him, rustic worked just right in this part of the world.

“It was Mom's dream,” Robin said. “And we all made it happen.” She directed their steps along the road that led to Evan and Jess's house. A few inches of snow covered the landscape, but the road had been plowed.

“Who's the ‘all'?”

“Me, Dad, Evan, all my grandparents, plus this cool couple from New York who're on the board of directors.”

“That's nice. All of you working together.”

“That's how it is in my family. We've all got, like, different skills and ideas, and when we put them together, we can do anything.” She cocked her cowboy-hatted head toward him. “You're part of the family now, Mo-Mo. What do you bring to the table?”

Her question, like the running commentary she'd delivered as she took him around Boots, as she called it, seemed to him a little mature for a twelve-year-old, but what did he know about kids? She'd also caught him off guard, including him as part of the family. He rather doubted that Evan and Jess would want him to be part of the business they'd built from scratch, but he had to admit that the prospect, though foreign to him, had a certain appeal. To be part of a team. A family. Working together toward a common goal. “I can fix anything that has an engine,” he told the girl, “but I'm afraid horses aren't my area of expertise. I've got a strong back, though. If you need some manual labor, I'm your guy.”

“We
always
need manual labor.”

He smiled at her vehemence. Robin was a charmer, not in that precociously flirty way some girls had but in her confidence and enthusiasm.

As they approached the nicely designed wooden house where Evan and Jess lived, Mo noted that Brooke and Jake's Toyota was parked outside. It was the only new addition. Either Miriam and Wade Bly hadn't arrived yet, or they'd walked over from their own ranch house, which was situated down the road on the same huge chunk of property.

He wasn't looking forward to meeting Jess's parents, fearing that they'd hold his past against him. After all, they were the ones who'd been there for young Evan when Mo and Brooke failed as parents, and they were the people who'd reported Mo to the police for suspected child abuse. He'd been glad, last Sunday, when Wade Bly's flu had prevented them from attending Maribeth's open house.

And there he was again, thinking of Maribeth. He hadn't spoken to her in a week. It constantly amazed him how he, a man who'd lived a lone-wolf life for more than twenty years, could miss someone so badly. For a short time, his life had had color, warmth, and a sense of possibility. Much as he told himself how lucky he was to be reconnecting with Brooke and Evan, and getting to know their families, Maribeth's absence left a hole in his heart.

Robin flung open the front door and they entered, shedding their outer clothing. She was faster, already at the entrance to the front room by the time he'd taken off his boots, hung his coat in the hall closet, and put his Stetson—the one Maribeth had given him—on a hook beside Robin's.

“Oh, good,” Robin called to him. “Gran and Gramps are here. You haven't met them yet, Mo-Mo.”

Jess's parents. “No, I haven't.” Another hurdle to cross.

Mo had put some thought to this encounter and knew how he wanted to handle it. “Robin, would you mind asking them to come out into the hall so I can have a word with them privately?”

Her brown eyes round with curiosity, she said, “Okay.”

A minute or so later, a man and woman around his age emerged from the front room holding hands. They were ranchers, Mo knew, and were attractive in a natural way. Miriam Bly had the same slim, fit build as her daughter Jess, an attractive face, and shoulder-length sandy hair streaked with silver. Wade, gray-haired, looked rugged, distinguished, and also very fit. Neither was smiling.

Nor did Mo when he said, “I want to thank you for all you did for Evan.”

Surprise flickered in Miriam's eyes. Wade said in a rather grim voice, “I'm not sure it's your place to be thanking us. Seems like that's something a parent would do, and you weren't much of a father to that boy.”

“I did him more harm than good,” Mo said. “But all the same, I am his father and that's something I take seriously now. I'm very grateful that you two were there for him when he was growing up.” He squared his shoulders. “And I'm grateful you called the police.”

Miriam let out a tiny gasp. Had she figured he didn't know or wouldn't mention that?

Mo went on. “You were the reason I left town, and that was the right thing for Evan. And for Brooke.”

“But now you're back,” Wade said flatly.

“Wade,” Miriam said quickly, warningly. “Jessica and Evan say he's changed, and so does Brooke.”

“I have,” Mo said. “And I respect that you're still looking out for Evan as well as for your daughter and, I'm sure, your grandkids. I also hope you'll give me a chance. One day, I'd like to sit down with you and tell you the whole story, and then you can see what you think. But this isn't the time or place.”