Holiday in Your Heart (33 page)

“Somehow,” Daphne said, “that young woman managed to see through all my guff and realize there was a rather tender heart lurking within me. I came to care for her, and she was the catalyst who urged me to follow my heart and go looking for Irene.” She glanced at Mo. “When another person sees the good in you, or at least sees the special person you could be, somehow it makes you want to be that person, doesn't it? And helps you find the courage to do it.”

Thoughtfully, he said, “Somehow it does.”

Now the question was: was he capable of it?

Chapter Twenty

This was how Christmas morning should start. Lying on her side in bed, Maribeth gazed at a still-sleeping Mo. It was past nine, late for both of them to sleep in, but they'd gone to midnight Mass with old friends of hers last night—another of her holiday traditions—and by the time they'd curled up after making love, it had been almost two.

Earlier on Christmas Eve, they'd eaten nachos at the crowded, boisterous Wild Rose bar, danced to a few country tunes, and then joined a group of carol singers who meandered around town. Who'd have expected that Mo, with his rough-edged voice, would be a good singer? But he was, though he relied on a carol sheet for the words.

Now he lay on his side facing her, his features relaxed so that she could see the man he'd been in his twenties and thirties. Such a multifaceted guy he was turning out to be. He'd been a good sport, the self-professed loner spending an entire evening immersed in crowds. She'd loved being at his side, their bodies almost always touching, whether it was in their close embrace as they'd shuffle stepped to Martina McBride's moving “O Holy Night” or the simplicity of interlocked gloved hands as they stood among other carol singers while delicate snowflakes brushed their shoulders.

This morning, however, was just for the two of them. That was the way they both wanted it. Later, she'd Skype her grandparents and introduce them to Mo, and then she and Mo would go to a soup kitchen to help out. After that, they'd dress up for a big Cousins-Kincaid-Bly-Brannon turkey dinner. The family took turns hosting, and this year's dinner was at Miriam and Wade Bly's house.

While Maribeth loved being included and starting to feel part of such a large and wonderful family, she couldn't help the occasional worry. What if she and Mo couldn't work things out in a manner that let them both be true to themselves? The more she invested emotionally, the more she had to lose if it all fell apart. She knew Mo would never be deliberately cruel to her, but if he honestly couldn't find it in his heart to tackle fatherhood again, she'd be faced with a “love versus baby” decision, and either choice would break her heart.

But those were no thoughts for an optimist on Christmas morning when her amazing lover slept beside her, naked and warm.

She reached out to wrap a wavy strand of his silver-threaded hair around her finger and tugged gently.

His hand came up like he was swatting at a mosquito.

She pulled harder.

His lips curved and he said sleepily, “Trying to tell me something?”

“Merry Christmas.”

His thick lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” The smile bloomed wider and his eyes gleamed, as excited as a child's on Christmas morning. “Merry Christmas, Maribeth.” He gave her a quick, hard kiss and then, all energy now, rolled out of bed.

“Are you coming back?”

“Breakfast.” He was pulling on the jeans he'd tossed on a chair last night. “Let's feed Caruso, have breakfast, and open presents.”

Her eyebrows rose. “No morning sex?” They didn't make love every morning, but this was Christmas, and what better way to start the day?

“Later,” he said over his shoulder as he strode toward the bathroom. He muttered something else that she didn't quite catch, though it might have been “I hope.”

Well, that was weird. She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Maybe he was making up for all the years he'd never had a proper Christmas with presents under a tree.

By the time she'd risen, Mo was out of the bathroom and hurrying downstairs.

And by the time she made it down to the kitchen herself, in her robe and glasses, the scent of frying bacon greeted her along with Caruso's happy warble. “And Merry Christmas to you, too,” she said, squatting down and exchanging cheek rubs with him.

Mo was at the stove, bacon sizzling in one pan and pancakes in another. She'd assembled two bowls of pancake ingredients yesterday, one wet and one dry, all ready to mix this morning. She had also set the table, so now she poured two glasses of orange juice and sat down to watch her man cook. It wasn't sex, but it wasn't a bad start to the day.

He had the meal plated quickly, and while she was inclined to linger and enjoy the combined flavors of oatmeal pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup, Mo seemed in a rush to eat and get on to the next stage of the day. He almost flung the dishes into the dishwasher and barely let her pour a second mug of decaf coffee before urging her into the living room.

There, she found that he'd turned on the tree lights and was hunkered down getting a fire started. She clicked on the radio to hear Bing Crosby dreaming of a white Christmas—and sure enough, outside the window sun shone brightly on a fresh layer of snow. A handful of neighborhood kids were happily engaged in a snowball fight.

If Mo was eager to get to the gift-giving, Maribeth wouldn't stand in his way. The collection of wrapped presents under the tree was huge, but most would be going along with them to the turkey dinner. The two largest, however, were the ones she really hoped would work out.

“Caruso,” she called, and a moment later the dog trotted into the room. Maribeth plunked down on the rug by the fire and urged Caruso to sit next to her. “Mo, I think we should start with his present.”

Mo gave the fire a final poke. “Sure.” He hauled out the big box wrapped in reindeer-printed paper and dropped to the rug, too. “If he hates the gift, at least he'll have some paper to play with. You open it for him, Maribeth.”

She did so, to reveal the cushy new wicker bed and green-and-red plaid blanket she and Mo had bought. “Caruso,” she said as the dog sniffed tentatively at the gifts, “we figure you deserve something new and fancy, not the makeshift beds we've been giving you.” She spread the blanket out, fluffing it to make a nest.

Caruso stepped into the bed, circled, pawed the blanket into a more satisfying shape, and then curled up with his head on his paws, watching them.

“The stamp of approval,” Mo said.

“Yours next,” she said, and extracted the gift she'd stashed behind the tree. The parcel, wrapped in gold paper with silver snowflakes, was about two feet by a foot and a half, and quite narrow. “This is from Caruso and me.”

“Interesting,” Mo said, hefting it. “It looks and feels like something framed. Artwork? A photograph?” He undid the tape, unfolded the paper, and pulled out the painting. The expression that slipped across his face looked like wonder, and Maribeth relaxed.

“It's us,” he said. “Us, painted by Mary Cantrell.”

A few weeks ago, they'd walked by a gallery and Mo had admired a cluster of paintings in the window. Maribeth had told him that the painter was a friend of hers, and she'd introduced the two of them at her Sunday open house earlier in the month.

This watercolor was a scenic, set in early winter. Tree branches bore a light kiss of snow and the sun gleamed palely through clouds. The painting was impressionist more than true-to-life, and it had the artist's distinctive Native Canadian flair, but there was no mistaking the threesome. The man on the palomino had black hair under his Stetson and a red scarf around his neck. The woman rode a bay horse and her red hair spilled from beneath a red knitted cap. Ranging along beside them was a cinnamon-colored dog.

“I asked Mary to do it,” Maribeth said, “and I gave her the photos I took with my cell the last time we went riding.” Her request had been a last-minute one and she'd been ecstatic when Mary fit her in.

“Wow. I'm stunned. It's a memory
and
a work of art. I've never owned anything so amazing. Maribeth, thank you. It's such a thoughtful gift.”

It was also too big to fit in his backpack, but the man who'd previously toted all his possessions on his back didn't comment on that.

“Okay,” he said, sounding nervous. “It's my turn. And it's not so much a gift as kind of a story.”

“A story? That sounds intriguing.”

“First, go look out the window.”

She rose and obeyed, seeing a similar scene to the last time she'd looked, except now a couple of girls were making snow angels in a neighboring yard. Behind her, she heard a jangle, and Mo came up beside her.

“See that silver minivan?” he asked.

“The one parked in front of my house?” She'd noticed it last night and assumed it belonged to someone who was staying with one of her neighbors. “It's hard to miss.” She turned to him. “Mo?”

He pressed a key ring into her hand. “No, I'm not giving you a minivan, just a spare set of keys to the one I bought yesterday.”

“I didn't know you were planning on buying a car.”

“It's time I stopped borrowing Hank's truck from the garage. I need my own wheels. One of Hank's clients brought in the minivan to get it all tuned up because he planned to sell it, and he gave me a good deal.”

“That's great. Though I'd have taken you for more of a Jeep man—or of course a motorcycle in summer.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He caught her hand and pulled her back to their seats in front of the fire. “Like I said, it's a story. Here's the second chapter.” He reached under the tree and handed her an envelope.

She was expecting a greeting card, but instead found an appointment slip. For the women's clinic. In Mo's name, for right after New Year's. “Mo, I don't understand.”

He licked his lips as if they were dry. “If you want to go the sperm donor route, that's okay. But I thought we could look into options, so I did some research. My vasectomy was so long ago, they may not be able to reverse it.”

What? Was he actually thinking that—

Heart fluttering, she listened as he went on. “There's this other process where they can extract a guy's sperm”—he winced slightly, but went on—“even after he's had a vasectomy and fertilize the woman's egg. They fertilize it outside the body and then implant it in the uterus, and there's a pretty good chance of it working.”

“M-Mo?” Her voice quivered. “Are you thinking . . . I mean, have you decided . . . ?”

“Guess it's time for chapter three of the story.” He stared into her eyes, his blue-green gaze mesmerizing. “Maribeth, I've thought long and hard. Something Daphne said on Sunday was the final piece of the puzzle. She talked about when someone sees you for the person you're really meant to be, the one who's hiding inside because you don't have the guts to let them out. And how that can give you the courage to be that person. Maribeth, I've been afraid, guilty, just downright messed up.”

“Lost,” she whispered. “A lost soul.”

He nodded. “That's who I was. But I'm not that man anymore. You've helped me find my way to being the real Mo.” He took a breath and gazed steadily into her eyes. “The real Mo wants it all, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure I deserve it.”

“A-all?” she stammered.

“This,” he said.

She hadn't been able to look away from his eyes, which was why it took her a moment to realize that he was holding something else out to her. When she finally glanced down and saw the ring box, she let out a squeak. Her eyes felt so wide they could pop out of her head, and her heart pounded so fast she couldn't think straight. “Mo?”

“Will you marry me, Maribeth Scott? I love you, I want you, and I want our babies, however they're created. I want to be part of your life, to meet your grandparents and all your friends. I want you to be part of my big, messy family. I want us to build a future together and I want us to be happy.”

Was this really happening? It was all she'd dreamed of, so maybe she was still asleep.

He gave a rough laugh. “And that's a whole lot of ‘I wants.' What do you want, Maribeth?”

Whether this was a dream or reality, there was only one possible answer. “You! I want you, Mo.”

“I am the luckiest bugger in the entire world,” he said gruffly as he opened the box to reveal a lovely ring—an emerald set off with sparkly little diamonds.

As Mo slipped the ring on her finger, Caruso sat up, lifted his head, and sang them a long, warbly ballad.

Maribeth stared at her finger, tears of joy glazing her vision. It seemed like she'd waited for this moment all her life. It was every dream come true, to be engaged to a man she loved deeply, a man with whom she'd create a family. “Oh my God, I can't wait to tell my grandparents!” The words burst out.

Mo looked a little startled, and she hurried to explain. “They're my only family and they'll understand how much this means to me. I want them to be the first to know, and I want to introduce them to you. This is going to give them such a happy Christmas, too. And oh, Mo, just imagine the expressions on the faces of your family when we walk in this afternoon and I flash this ring!”

He shook his head, giving her an amused smile. “You want to tell the world?”

“I do! The whole entire world. I'm so happy, so excited, I just can't believe it.” Euphoria, that's what this feeling was. “I'm the happiest woman in the world!”

“D'you think there's maybe a couple of things you could do before you call your grandparents?”

“Like what?”

“Say, ‘Yes, I'll marry you, Mo,' and then kiss me.”

Laughter bubbled out. She couldn't complain about her man's priorities. “Oh yes, Mo, I will most definitely marry you.” Kneeling, she captured his head between her palms and leaned forward to kiss him. In her enthusiasm, she lost her balance and tumbled him down to the rug, landing on top of him.

Gazing into his stunning eyes—knowing she'd be seeing those eyes every day for the rest of her life—she said, “I love you, Mo, and we're going to have the most amazing life together.”