Home for Christmas (Willow Park #5) (11 page)

Sophie tried to really see him, really pay attention to him—not
impose her memories of him on who he was now. He was still good with a
knife—cutting up the herbs and other vegetables they added with speed and
skill. He also looked at her a lot—not just her body but also her face—as if he
kept checking her expression.

She wondered what he was looking for. It was a strange sort
of revelation that he might be just as insecure as she was.

She smiled whenever she caught him looking, and pretty soon
he looked sheepish, as if he were embarrassed at being caught staring.

As he was chopping the last of the mushrooms, she couldn’t
resist the urge to touch him. She slid an arm around his waist and murmured,
“You’re really good at that.”

She felt his body jerk slightly, but it wasn’t a jerk away
from her. It was more like he was surprised and pleased by the gesture.

Maybe he wanted her to touch him. Maybe it meant more to him
than she had realized.

She kissed his shoulder, over his T-shirt. “I think that
mushroom has been thoroughly chopped now.”

He gave a huff of amusement as he stared down at the
massacred mushroom, which he’d kept chopping until it was nothing but mush.
“You shouldn’t distract me when I’m holding a knife.”

“Then maybe you should put the knife down.”

He carefully laid the knife on the cutting board and turned
toward her. His body was tense, and she carefully studied his face. And she
suddenly saw that he was holding himself back.

It was the same expression she’d seen on his face
before—tight, unrevealing. But now that she was looking carefully, she could
see that it wasn’t really distant. It was restrained.

As if he were reluctant—maybe afraid—to let himself go.

So she slid her hands up his chest until they were resting
on his shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind being kissed, Mark.”

She felt him jerk again, and recognized it this time as his
rigidly holding back his instinct.

She had no idea why he was holding back. They were married.
He could touch her as much as he wanted. There was no clear reason for him not
to.

And yet he was evidently afraid of letting go.

“Why are you holding back?” she asked softly, deciding the
only way to find out was to ask.

“I’m…I’m…” At first, she thought he was going to deny it,
but then she realized he was trying to force himself to answer for real. “I
didn’t want to be too needy.”

“What?” She tried to keep her voice as light as she had
before, but she was too shocked to restrain her tone.

His face twisted, and he looked away. “I know I…have a lot
of needs, and I don’t want to push you into having sex all the time, if it’s
too much for you.”

“Why would it be too much for me? You know I love having sex
with you.”

“Yeah, but there’s a limit.”

The words sounded vaguely familiar, and she suddenly
remembered where she’d heard them last. She’d said them. She’d teased him in
the Christmas shop about always wanting sex.

And evidently he’d taken it seriously.

“Oh, baby,” she murmured, “I didn’t mean it like that. I
didn’t mean I was getting tired of having so much sex. I was just teasing. I
was…nervous about other things, so I was just teasing about something I thought
was…wasn’t so important.”

His eyes never left her face. “What were you nervous about?”

She cleared her throat. “That you…you only wanted sex from
me. And nothing else.”

He groaned and pulled her into his arms. “Shit, Sophie. I’m
sorry you thought that. I’m so sorry about everything.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s my fault for not saying
anything. I just didn’t want you to think I was complaining.”

His arms tightened around her, almost painfully. “I never
meant to make you feel like I was just using you. I guess I can see why you
thought that, though. Sex isn’t as hard for me as other things. I feel like I
can do it well, and it’s a way to be close to you. So I thought that was
something I could give you.”

She’d had no idea. Absolutely no idea. That every time he’d
wanted to have sex with her, he’d also wanted to be emotionally close to her.
It transformed the entire last month.

“Baby, I know I’m not what you need—”

“Don’t say that,” she interrupted, reaching up to take his
face in both of her hands. “Don’t ever say that. You are what I need.”

He shook his head. “I know I’m broken, and I might never be
the man I was before, but I want so much more than sex from you. I just
don’t…don’t know how else to show it right now.”

“Okay,” she rasped, almost crying on the surge of deep
emotion. “I totally understand. You can show it any way you want. I love having
sex with you. Please don’t hold back anymore.”

He groaned again, but differently this time, and he suddenly
had her pushed up against the kitchen table. They were kissing like crazy, like
animals, clawing at each other and trying desperately to get closer to each
other.

Pleasure and deeper emotion rushed through her as she rubbed
herself against Mark’s hard, lean body. Before she could even process what was
happening, he had pulled down her pants and edged her up on the tabletop. She
wrapped her legs around him as he entered her, the substance of him inside her
hard and intense and deeply real.

They rocked together in a fast, tight rhythm, both of them
huffing and then grunting as their motion got faster and more urgent. She
hadn’t had enough stimulation to come, but she couldn’t remember ever feeling
so good—a good that went so much deeper than her body.

Because she could feel how much Mark needed her, and she
understood it was more than just her body. He needed her so much he couldn’t
restrain himself, and the noises he was huffing out were sounding more like
words—more like helpless endearments.

She was crying out in real pleasure—although she still
wasn’t close to climax—as he came hard and loud. She was stroking him as his
body softened, and she kissed him when he lifted his face from her neck.

Both of them were gasping helplessly. “I’ll do better next
time,” he said, slightly sheepish. “I’ll make sure you come.”

“It was great. I don’t have to come all the time.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, given my recent performance,
but I want you to come. So I’m going to make sure you do later.”

She gave a little giggle. “I’m not going to object to that
plan, but maybe first we should rescue our dinner.”

She pulled back on her pants, and they washed up and
returned to their pasta and chicken.

It turned out to be quite good. And later that evening he
took her to bed and pleasured her with his hands and mouth. He didn’t even use
the sponge that evening, and she was still clutching at the bedding and crying
out in uninhibited pleasure.

She was exhausted afterwards. It had been a long day and
emotionally draining.

But she finally felt like she understood Mark—as he was
now—and that felt like a real victory to her.

She was going to keep paying attention, getting to know him
now. Because she was absolutely sure that the man he was now was just as worth
loving as the man he’d been before.

She’d read a poem once about a falcon. She didn’t remember
the name of the poem or even who had written it, except that she’d studied it
in her British literature class. But she’d remembered it was about the falcon
as it was diving—and how the real beauty of it was only revealed when it dove,
when it fell, when it was broken.

She was thinking about that poem as she fell asleep in
Mark’s arms, and she wondered if she was finally starting to understand it.

It was dark in the apartment when
she woke up and found herself alone in bed.

She felt a vague sense of Mark’s presence in the room, so
she sat up and turned on the bedside light, but he wasn’t in the bedroom or in
the part of the living area that was visible through the opened door.

It was 2:14 in the morning, and Mark had evidently left for
another of his walks.

She ran to the living room and then to the window and looked
outside, surprised to see that there was snow falling, glinting in the light
from the street lamps. The sight was distinctly beautiful—the empty, well-kept
downtown streets, the Christmas lights and ribbons on every post, the
shopfronts and benches of Willow Park, the gray night sky with snow falling
down but not starting to lay on surfaces yet.

Into the peaceful scene, Mark appeared on the sidewalk below
the window, emerging from the doorway of their building. He wore his pajama
pants and dark winter coat.  He stood perfectly still for a moment, staring out
at the street. Then he took his phone from his pocket and scrolled to a number.

She had no idea who he was calling at this time of night.

Suddenly, a compulsion hit Sophie so strongly she couldn’t
resist. She ran to slide on her fur-lined boots and pulled a puffy coat over
her flannel pajamas. She grabbed her keys and her phone and hurried downstairs,
stepping outside just as Mark was turning a corner.

She followed him. She wanted to know where he went at night.
She wanted to know what drove him out of bed, what he did when he wandered in
the dark.

Because she was jogging, she turned the corner in time to
see Mark turn another corner a block down. He seemed to be going toward the
duck pond, unless he was heading for the bridge that crossed the river and led
out of town.

She kept pace with him as he walked, seeing in the streetlights
that he was now talking on the phone.

She couldn’t imagine who he was talking to. She was sure he
didn’t have a girlfriend or anything like that. No matter what their challenges
were in the marriage, she would never suspect him of that.

But he evidently talked to someone at night, when he kept
refusing to really talk to her.

She was jealous of whoever that person was. She couldn’t
help but be jealous.

She couldn’t help but think that, if Mark opened up to
anyone, it should be her.

It was freezing outside, and snowflakes landed wetly on her
face and coat as she hurried after him, concluding after he turned down one
more street that he was definitely going to the duck pond.

He crossed the street and walked across the grass, which was
just starting to be dusted with snow. Then he stood next to a bench facing the
pond for a minute before he finally sat down.

He was still on the phone. She could hear the murmur of his
voice.

Maybe it was wrong. Maybe it was eavesdropping. But she
crossed the road and stood on the sidewalk behind him, moving until she could
hear what he was saying.

“I know that,” he said, frustration clear in his voice. “I
know that. You’ve told me that now a million times.”

Obviously, she couldn’t hear what the other person said in
response. She was going to have to figure out the context through just one side
of the conversation.

“It’s not as easy as you seem to think,” Mark muttered,
after waiting as the other person spoke. “I’ve been trying. I’ve really been
trying.”

There was another pause, and Sophie’s heart ached at the
roughness of his voice, a clear sign that he was feeling something deeply.

Then he said, “I don’t know why I can’t talk to her.” There
was just a brief pause before he seemed to interrupt the other person. “No, I
don’t
know, John. Stop telling me that I do.”

John. He was talking to his brother.

In a strange way, it was a relief to Sophie. If he was
opening up to anyone else in the world instead of her, at least it was his
brother.

And at least John seemed to be encouraging Mark to talk to
her more. That was apparently what they were talking about right now.

“That’s cheap psychology,” Mark was saying now. “I’m not
afraid of being close to her. I
want
to be close to her. There’s just
this block in my throat, every time I try to say something.”

Sophie hugged herself in the cold, overwhelmed with emotion
from what his words implied. About her. About Mark’s feelings for her.

“Stop it with that.” Now he sounded almost angry. “It’s not
as simple as all that. I spent more than two years trying to close out what was
going on around me, trying not to see and hear the things I was seeing and
hearing. Letting down those walls again isn’t as easy as wanting to do it….I
know I can do it with you. You’re not standing there in front of me, staring at
me all the time with those sad brown eyes, looking like I’ve done nothing but
fail you.”

Sophie gasped out loud, so openly she was afraid Mark might
hear her. Surely he couldn’t think that she believed he had failed her. Surely
he couldn’t think something so ridiculous, so far from the truth.

Mark made a guttural sound as John evidently said something
in response. “I know she probably doesn’t think that. But that’s how it feels.
I’m not the same guy I used to be, and I know that’s who she wants back. How
the hell am I supposed to give her what she wants?” Another pause. Then, “No,
she has it all under control. You won’t believe how well she’s done without me.
I’m the one who’s a mess. I’m the one who keeps messing things up between us.”

Sophie was having to fight not to choke on her shock and
distress. How could he possibly think that? How could he not know how much she
loved and needed him?

“Okay, okay, fine,” he muttered. “It would be nice if you
could manage to think of some different advice to give me. I thought you were
supposed to be good at being sensitive. Isn’t that your job?”

John must have made a joke because Mark gave a half-hearted
chuckle. “Yeah, right. Is everything all right there? How is Betsy?”

Sophie stood while Mark listened to whatever his brother was
saying and then ended the conversation. She was trembling, and not just from
the cold.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do now. Part of her
wanted to run away, to not let him see that she was so weak and needy that
she’d followed him and listened in on a private conversation.

But she couldn’t leave what she’d heard hanging like that.
Not when she finally understood a little more of what he was going through,
what was holding him back.

Mark said goodbye and lowered his phone, sliding it into his
coat pocket. If he stood up now and turned around, he’d see her where she was
on the sidewalk. But he didn’t get up. He kept staring out at the empty duck
pond. The ducks were all evidently huddled up somewhere to protect themselves
from the cold.

Sophie prayed silently, asking God what she should do. Then,
unable to think of anything else, she walked across the grass toward her
husband.

More snow was dusting the grass now, and she could see her
footsteps as she walked.

She saw Mark’s body jerk when she came around the bench. He
turned his head quickly to see who was approaching.

His expression was very still as she sat down beside him,
her puffy coat rustling with her motion.

She was almost afraid to look at him, so she stared at the
pond like he’d been doing earlier. She bit her lip, trying to be brave, trying
to be strong, trying to think of a way to confront what she’d heard, honestly
and gently.

She had no idea what to do.

Her hands were freezing, since she hadn’t taken the time to
put on any gloves. She saw that his hands were bare too, clenched on his lap.

She hated how bare and tight his hands looked, like they
represented all of the ways he was damaged, all of the ways he was trying to
hold himself together, all of the ways he was afraid to reach out to her.

So she reached out to him.

She took one of his hands in hers.

His hand was cold, but not as cold as hers, and his grip was
strong as he twined his fingers with hers.

She took a loud, shaky breath, so relieved that he hadn’t
pulled away from her that her eyes burned with tears.

He gave her a quick look. “It’s too cold for you out here.”

“I’m not that cold. If you’re out here, then I want to be
out here too.”

He gave her another quick look, as if checking to see if she
was saying what he thought she was saying. He squeezed her hand again, and she
squeezed back.

After a minute, he said, “How much did you hear?”

“I heard the end.”

“I was talking about you.”

“I know you were.”

“I don’t want to keep failing you.”

“You’re not failing me.” She held onto his hand as tightly
as she could, as if her grip could somehow convey the strength of her feelings.

“It feels like I am. I know I’m not who you want me to be. I
know I’m not who you need me to be.”

“You are. Of course, you are, Mark. How can you think that
you’re not?”

“I’m not who I was before.”

“Neither am I. So we’re different. Do you think other
couples don’t change in the course of a marriage?”

“Not like I have. Not so…so violently.”

“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore.”

He turned to look at her, and this time he didn’t
immediately look away. He held her eyes. “Do you?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Because sometimes it feels like you love the man I was before, and you’re
nothing but disappointed in who I am now.”

A tear slipped out of her eye, but she turned her head away
quickly so she could swipe it away. She wasn’t going to break down. She was
strong enough to have this conversation without completely losing it. “I did
love the man you were before, and I know he’s not completely gone. But I love
you as you are now too. I want to…I want to get to know the…the new man better.
If you’ll let me.”

“He’s damaged. And ugly.”

“I don’t care. Why would I care about that?”

He was still holding onto her hand, like it was a lifeline,
and her fingers were starting to lose circulation. She wouldn’t let go of him
for the world, though.

They sat in silence for a long time. So long that Sophie
finally had to brush the snowflakes off her face and hair with her free hand.

Mark made a throaty sound. “It’s too cold for you out here.”

“I’m not going back. I want to stay with you.”

He made another noise in his throat. This one almost, almost
like a sob. He reached out and pulled her into a hard hug. “Oh, God, baby, what
did I ever do to deserve you?”

She was almost crying again, but she held on to her control
because she didn’t want to ruin the moment by bawling the way she used to. He’d
never liked it when she cried. He’d always said it was manipulative. She didn’t
want anything to get in the way of the moment they were sharing right now.

“Well, you can’t stay out here in the cold,” he said as he
released her at last. He stood up and reached out for her hand. “Let’s both go
back.”

She sniffed and nodded and let him pull her to her feet.

They walked back to the apartment slowly, holding each other’s
hand, and Sophie couldn’t help but think that the walk, the night, the snow,
the moment was a gift—only ten days now until Christmas.

When they got back inside and dumped their coats and shoes,
they both climbed back into bed. Sophie cuddled up against him, and he wrapped
his arms around her, and she slowly got warm again.

She wasn’t going to say anything or ask him a question,
since she didn’t want to say something wrong and have him withdraw from her
again.

So she was surprised when, after a long time, he said out of
the blue, “Is there anything you wanted to ask me? About when I was captured, I
mean. Is there anything you want to know?”

She gasped in surprise, since he’d always resolutely refused
to tell her anything about his experiences. She controlled her expression
quickly though, since she didn’t want to make it seem like the really big deal
it was. She asked softly, “Did they...did they torture you?”

She’d had so many nightmares about what they might have done
to him—before he’d returned and even afterwards.

He tightened his arms for a moment as he said, rather
stiltingly, “No. Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway. The guards were
sometimes rough, and I got beat up sometimes, but they didn’t just torture me
for fun. I was a pawn, a…a tool they wanted to use to get something. So they
basically just left me alone.”

She let out a rush of air, so relieved she was almost
shaking from it. “So you were…were stuck in a cell for all that time?”

“They moved me around, since the camp moved, but mostly I was
in a cell. Yeah.”

“What did you…what did you do?”

“Pray. Think about home. Think about you.”

The rough, quiet words hurt her so much she couldn’t stand
it. The emotion was so intense it seemed to get stuck in her eyes, in her
throat, in her belly. She tried to burrow against him, taking comfort in the
fact that he was back now—safe, comfortable, clean, with her again.

“I don’t…” he began. Then he cleared his throat and started
again. “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“What?” She pulled away enough to peer at his face in the
dark. “What?”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.”

“I hurt for you. How can I not?” She clung to him tightly.
“I love you. I can’t help but hurt when you hurt.”

“It wasn’t as bad as you’re thinking. I’m not as weak as you
think.”

She could barely speak over her bewilderment and outrage. “I
don’t think you’re weak! And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t that bad. I know it
was. You have to let me hurt with you. You
have
to.”