Home for Christmas (8 page)

His attempt at humor failed to make her smile. She felt compelled to defend her reasons. “He married Viv. One. Month. Less, evidently. After he called off
his wedding to me
. I must’ve done something terrible to turn him away.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Hunter assured. “You didn’t do anything. He was content, happy. Committed to you and eager to take you to wife.”

She heard the tightness in his voice and wondered why the confession was difficult--was he embellishing the truth?

His wistful smile twisted in her stomach. “At first, I didn’t know why he’d grown restless, what had happened to upset him. It took me awhile to realize why he’d thrown such an incredible gift--
you--
aside.”

Miranda witnessed the agony on Hunter’s face and marveled at it. He knew a great deal, and whatever it was, it had hurt him. The realization stunned. Was he grieving….for her loss?

He fell silent, lowering his gaze. He lifted Miranda’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Her heart stumbled, racing and tripping.

She witnessed something indefinable in his eyes, something she’d thought she’d never see again. She wasn’t certain Warren had ever looked at her with such appreciation. Or was it reverence?

A moment passed before he spoke. “I’d never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?”

She drew in a tremulous breath, closed her eyes, and felt the comfort of his hold on her hands. An odd ache formed in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, of course.”

“My brother made his promises to you and intended to keep them.” Hunter cupped the side of her face, smoothing a thumb over her cheek, leaving fire in his wake.

“
Why,
then?”

“He met Viv again in late September. Their paths had crossed a couple times during the summer, but then when he met her again, something happened to him.”

She noticed he wouldn’t look her in the eye. Her stomach felt weightless, falling, unable to right itself.

“Warren fell in love with her. He fell hard and found himself in a great deal of trouble.”

Miranda considered the final weeks before the wedding, seeing Hunter’s story fit perfectly over her memory, filling in the gaps and making perfect sense with Warren’s behavior.

“He wrestled with it for weeks. I don’t think he slept much. He fought it, I assure you. But it tore him up inside, knowing he’d made promises he couldn’t keep. I suppose there’s nothing worse than realizing you must act or lose the right one forever.”

Hearing the truth of Warren’s betrayal, after all this time, left her with an odd mixture of regret and overwhelming inadequacy. She supposed betrayal wasn’t the right description any longer. It was simply his choice. An agonizing, deliberate choice. The only right choice, for all three of them--himself, Vivian, and for her.

She swallowed, trying to process the new information. “Why didn’t he simply tell me this?”

He’d fallen out of love with her, and into it up to his eyebrows with Viv. All in the space of a few days. Until the terrible moment in the church, she’d believed he’d loved her. She’d believed he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

“When I realized he’d finally reached a decision and canceled the ceremony,” he continued, “I figured he’d told you himself. It was the only honorable thing to do.”

“I guess he couldn’t bring himself to tell me.” Hearing the truth from Warren, on the day of their canceled wedding would have been awful, but the ensuing years might have been,
would have been
so much easier.

“He should have explained and begged your forgiveness. I
know
he regrets the way he handled it.”

“I don’t suppose he could marry me, not when he loved Viv.” Her throat felt tight, strained with emotion. Whether relief at finally hearing the truth, or realizing she might have married Warren and lived a lifeless, loveless existence with him, she wasn’t certain. How awful it would’ve been, to have married Warren and never held his heart.

For the last thousand-plus days, she’d assumed Warren had found her lacking in some elemental, critical matter. If she’d ever once considered he’d fallen in love with someone else, she had no recollection of it.

The truth worked through the tightness about her heart. It seemed so much easier to breathe. The unbearable burden she’d carried these past years….it was dissipating. Already, she felt so much freer.

“Thank you, Hunter.”

Now, it seemed, she could look beyond herself. “Are they happy? Warren and Viv?”

“Yes.” He paused. Seemed to gather his thoughts. “They’ve moved on. It’s time for you to move on, too.”

She nodded, hearing no pity in his voice, no hint he condemned her for clinging to a part of her past that had altered the course of her life.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes.” She met his gaze, elementally pleased by the affection warming his expression. “Yes, I’ll be all right.”

CHAPTER SIX

<><>

With his stomach comfortably full after the traditional Christmas dinner, Hunter lounged on his mother’s best parlor furniture and stared out the window.

The grandfather clock in the front entryway chimed twice, echoing in the silent house.

He wondered how much longer he could bear to wait until he visited Miranda.

He wanted to see her, wanted to absorb the noise and celebration and watch the children play with their toys. Where her house bustled with activity, the rooms so packed with family a body couldn’t turn around without bumping into someone, his house was disturbingly quiet.

Viv was napping. Dad and Warren had taken Matthew sledding. Mother worked in the kitchen, preparing their evening meal.

All Hunter could think about was Miranda and their late night talk.

He wanted to see her beautiful face, to see the peace and happiness on her features and know he hadn’t imagined her acceptance of Warren’s reasons.

She’d clearly been relieved to know the truth. But not hurt. Joy sparkled within him.

Now that she was through grieving for Warren, he finally had a chance. A real chance, unfettered by Warren breaking their engagement so long ago.

He stood and paced to the window. A light snow began to fall, sifting through the gray skies like powdered sugar. It seemed surreal, beautiful, weaving Christmas magic into the familiar scenery surrounding his home.

He paced back to the fire, past the gifts left unwrapped and displayed beneath the tree. His family’s Christmas celebration was essentially over. Supper would be an informal affair.

He figured the Finlays were still in the thick of things. He wondered what they’d think if he showed up, uninvited and unexpected.

He smiled. Maybe not entirely unexpected. He’d spent enough time there enough since Miranda’s arrival home that they probably thought he’d moved in.

<><><><>

Each and every Christmas Day since Mother and Daddy’s Christmas wedding thirty-four years earlier, the entire Finlay family gathered in the parlor for a family portrait.

The photographer had a standing appointment for each Christmas Day at three o’clock, and none of the Finlays--except Miranda, during the Denver years--would consider breaching tradition and find themselves anywhere else.

In the confusion of the crowded parlor, Miranda hadn’t heard Hunter knock. But she felt the cold air creep across the floor when someone let him inside, and thrilled to see him again. Her smile came quickly, easily, warmly.

Separated by more than a dozen other people, Hunter mouthed, “Merry Christmas.” He returned her smile, the connection midst chaos doing strange things to her equilibrium.

He seemed as though he belonged. As one of them. She realized the vague loneliness during last night’s pageant was due to missing him. Somehow, he’d crossed the line between visitor, neighbor, and former would-be-brother-in-law, to something altogether different.

He greeted her brothers and sisters, shaking hands, complimenting Angela’s new Christmas dress, and made his way toward her. He paused to greet Effie O’Leary and wish her a happy Christmas.

Anticipation swirled in Miranda’s belly. Hunter settled a warm hand on her shoulder. The heat of his touch crept through the wool. He slid his hand to her back, caressing her lightly.

He brushed his lips against her ear. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she stammered, “I, uh....”

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Miranda glanced at him, finding his attention already turned toward the photographer, setting up his camera against the parlor wall.

“Time to take your place.” Hunter moved to the doorway.

Miranda crowded into the space behind the sofa, standing snugly between two sisters, her heart pounded with a frightening intensity. Surely he hadn’t meant a word of it. She overreacted to his outrageous, unexpected compliment. The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen? Bah. Looking at him made her dizzy, so she tried to ignore his presence.

Mary Beth settled the baby on their mother’s lap. Two of the little boys crowded to stand beside Grandpa’s knee. Everyone squeezed tighter. The photographer backed up against the far wall. Effie took a seat in the corner.

Hunter moved to stand beside the photographer, his hands tucked deep in his pockets, a captivating smile on his handsome face. He caught Miranda’s eye, just as the photographer demanded everyone remain still.

Miranda held Hunter’s gaze. In the depths of his blue eyes, she glimpsed the truth. He
did
find her attractive. For the first time since Warren’s Choice, she felt truly beautiful.

<><><><>

After the photographer left, the Finlays gathered in the parlor. Hunter sat beside Miranda, feeling remarkably at home and welcome among them. Clearly the children had enjoyed the gifts and treats Santa had left, for the evidence was neatly arranged beneath the tree.

He recognized the pillowcases his mother had stitched in vibrantly dyed thread, decorated with butterflies and flowers, trimmed with lacy crochet. This set didn’t have a
K
on them, and he was relieved. Miranda had left them proudly displayed among the children’s toys. He wondered when his mother had visited.

“Mother, we’ll begin with you.” Phil unhooked a Christmas stocking from the mantle and handed it to his wife.

At first, Hunter assumed the sock was empty. Caroline removed a piece of vellum, trimmed in gold and read it silently. Her eyes misted and she reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Hunter wondered if he’d missed something. The gift-giving at his house didn’t look a thing like this. Miranda’s mother read the rest of her notes, some aloud, some only to herself, and thanked her children and grandchildren in turn.

It seemed a tradition among them to give gifts of kind words, sometimes accompanied with an I.O.U. for some small service. Hunter thought of Sainsbury’s poetry he had wrapped, and wondered if he should have written personal words to Miranda inside the front cover.

Noelle squealed with delight as she read a note. “A quilt top! Mary Beth will help me piece a quilt top.” She sounded as thrilled as if she’d received many finished quilts.

As each family member took their turn, Hunter watched with wonder as no one grew bored or restless. The children listened with rapt attention, taking their turns eagerly. These gifts of kindness and words of love seemed to mean more to them than anything that had substance, weight, or monetary value.

He supposed that’s the way it should be, in a household where no one went without, where everyone’s physical needs were met and exceeded.

This rare type of gift-giving humbled him deeply. He’d reached out to near-strangers in town, other folks he’d known his entire life, but always with the necessities of life. Food. Clothing. Toys for needy children. It had never occurred to him to give of himself. Not like this.

Phil lifted one of the last stockings from the mantle. He poked around inside. “Mother? Whose is this one?”

“That’s Hunter’s.” She said it easily, as a matter-of-fact. As if he were part of the family, one of her own. “Stop poking at it and let him read them.”

As his stomach bottomed out, Hunter saw all eyes turn to him. “Why did your parents include me?” he whispered to Miranda. This seemed too intimate, too intensely personal.

He wasn’t altogether sure he liked being on the receiving end of Christmas.

She shrugged and passed him the stocking. “Open it.”

Warily, Hunter pulled out Phil’s signature white vellum trimmed in gold. Phil’s note thanked him for being a considerate, friendly neighbor. As Hunter read the last line, his heart lurched.
Thank you for making Miranda’s first Christmas back home with us full of wonder.

As he felt the impulse to hide the note against his chest, he noticed no one pried, leaned close to steal a peek or asked him to read it aloud.

Notes from Miranda’s mother and many of her siblings reflected the same sentiments; thanking him for taking care of their sister, helping her to have a good time, showing her uncommon consideration.

Nearly overcome with emotion, Hunter merely scanned their faces and nodded. “Thank you,” he said to them all. “I’ll treasure these always.”

Miranda poked his shoulder. “You’re not done.” She rustled a paper remaining in his stocking. He fished it from deep within the toe.

He recognized Miranda’s handwriting. Feeling all eyes on him, he read her words quickly, then started again from the beginning.

Thank you for filling my holidays with magic and joy. You’ve taught me to look beyond my own needs and help others in ways I hadn’t thought of. Your honesty has given me back my family, my home, my heart.

A rush of warmth tightened about Hunter’s chest. He’d witnessed her compassion for the lonely; befriending Widow O’Leary, showing concern for Celia Nance. He found it amazing she could have learned anything from him when he’d learned so much about noticing people’s needs from her.