Some Enchanted Season (20 page)

“But all right,” she continued. “I’ll fix dinner. But I won’t be responsible for the results.”

“And I won’t be responsible if I set the yard on fire,” he retorted, unlocking the door.

“You don’t know how to
not
be responsible,” she said with a laugh. “It’s one of the things I always admired about you.”

“With the others being …?”

“Fishing for compliments? Or just trying to delay going back out into the cold?”

“All right. I’ll go out now, and we’ll talk compliments later.” He gathered the candles and matches started his cold task. Though traditionally farolitos were lit for only nine nights, Maggie chose to ignore that part of the tradition. She liked the lights, and Josie did too, and that was reason enough to bend tradition.

Yesterday morning he’d come down to breakfast to find her sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by the paper lunch bags. She’d been completely absorbed by the job of opening each bag, then folding over the top edge an inch or two. When she’d lined up the finished
products, he hadn’t been surprised to see that the folds were virtually identical on all thirty-six. When her difficulty concentrating forced her to focus her attention so narrowly, the results could be amazing.

From each bag he removed a blob of melted wax, leveled the sand, and positioned a new candle. He burned himself only a time or two and considered it an accomplishment when he finished that he hadn’t set a single bag on fire.

For a moment he stood on the sidewalk out front and simply looked at the scene while his mind wandered back downtown. He hadn’t expected more than slight entertainment that evening—hell, if he wanted to see a parade, he could command plum seats at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day or the Tournament of Roses parade—but he’d enjoyed this one. Somehow, homemade floats, pint-size gymnasts, and the midwinter queen and her court freezing in formal gowns and convertibles held more charm than the professional industry big parades had become. Parents and grandparents had taken pride in watching their kids, and everyone on the sidelines had gotten a kick out of knowing everyone in the parade. It had been fun.

And it’d been a hell of a long time since he’d thought that about anything.

A stiff wind blew snow against his face, but he was so cold that he barely felt it. He didn’t move to go in though. Something—some sudden emptiness, some ache—held him where he was, staring at the farolitos, the lights, the house. The
home
.

Though the bags protected the candles, the flames flickered slightly, casting their light first to one side,
then to the other. For the first time, he understood Maggie’s desire for the farolitos. In the quiet dark night, with snow falling and the sounds of carols fresh in his memory, the bags became more than just paper, sand, and wax. They were bright, golden beacons, welcoming, lighting the way home.

But it was Maggie’s home, not his. He missed the city, missed all the things she had wanted to escape. She belonged here—should have spent the first thirty-five years of her life here, would spend the rest of it here—but
he
didn’t. He didn’t know how to fit into this good, decent place filled with good, honorable people. He didn’t know how to be one of them—didn’t know if he would if he could.

He felt lost in Bethlehem.

For a man used to being in total control, lost was not a pleasant way to feel.

Feeling colder than he ever had—and not entirely due to the temperature, he suspected—he picked up the box and went inside. Maggie was standing beside the island, warming her hands on a pottery mug while watching hamburger patties sizzle on the cooktop grill. Her cheeks were still red from the cold, her hair mussed from the cap she’d worn. She’d kicked off her shoes and stood on a thick nubby rug, her right foot resting atop her left as if one might warm the other. She looked …

He’d meant to finish the sentence in a meaningless, stating-the-obvious sort of way. Beautiful. Adorable. The word that came to mind, though, was anything but meaningless.

Appealing
.

He didn’t
want
to find her appealing. He didn’t want to get that personal.
Beautiful
was impersonal. People who simply saw her on the street and didn’t know the first thing about her found her beautiful. But appealing … That implied some emotional connection—desire, if nothing else. Wanting.

He couldn’t afford to want her.

“Want some cocoa?” she asked when she became aware of him standing there. Without waiting for a reply, she slid a mug to the opposite side of the island, then flipped the burgers and added a slice of cheese to each. On the griddle, thick slices of buttered bread were browning, and a plate on the counter held onion slices and homemade pickles. “We’re having burgers and soup.”

He stood there, too cold but warming quickly. The heat came from the inside, pumping with his blood, raising his temperature in seconds from frigid to feverish. It made his hands unsteady and thickened his voice when he finally thought to speak. “What—what kind of soup?”

“Whatever kind you want.” With a flourish, she opened a cabinet door to display a full shelf of canned soups.

He forced himself to look at them, but the names made no sense when panic had scrambled his brain. It was perfectly natural, he told himself. They’d been married for sixteen years. He knew her intimately, was as familiar with her body as with his own. He’d been alone a long time. Seeing her there, looking so damn—yes, appealing, on a night when he was already
feeling a little lost … Hell, he’d worry if he
didn’t
feel something.

It didn’t mean a thing.

“How about chicken noodle?”

He nodded blankly, then picked up the cocoa. He took a long drink, then grimaced and blurted out before he could stop himself, “Jeez, what did you put in here?”

She turned, an open can of soup in hand, and gave him a worried look. “Just the usual—cocoa, sugar, milk, and a few drops of vanilla. I thought it tasted … Oh.” Color crept into her face. “We were so cold that I thought … Well, I added a little rum. I found it in the cabinet. I must have made rum cake last year—I do every Christmas—and I thought … So I put a tiny bit in mine. I haven’t had any alcohol for a year, and I never could hold it very well. But since you do drink and you were outside longer … Is it too much?”

He drew a deep breath as he set the mug down. “Not if you have another quart or so of cocoa to dilute it.”

“No. Sorry.” Her contrition turned to dismay as they both became aware of the smoke drifting up from the grill. She removed the burgers, only slightly charred, to a plate, then took the toast, also charred, from the griddle. Morosely, she scraped the toast, assembled the burgers, and slid a plate to him. “Dinner.”

“Come sit down.” Catching her hand, he drew her around the island and didn’t let go until she was seated on a stool. Then he fixed their drinks while the soup heated in the microwave. Once the noodles were dished up and he’d located silverware and napkins, he
turned back to find her, head bent, hands over face, shoulders shaking.

No crying, he silently pleaded as the panic returned. He’d never had to deal with tears from her, not in all those long months in the hospital, not ever. God help him, he wasn’t up to learning how tonight.

But whether he was up to it didn’t matter. The fact was, she was distressed and he had to do something about it.

He moved a few cautious steps closer. “Maggie?”

She didn’t lift her head, try to compose herself, or silence the soft, strangled sounds muffled by her hands.

“Maggie, it’s okay. The meat’s just a little well done. You know, even in the best burger joints now, that’s required by law in most states.”

Making a choking sound, she finally looked up. Her eyes were damp, all right, but not because she was sobbing over another bad meal. She was laughing.

“You find this funny.” He felt thickheaded, as if he didn’t have a clue.

She wiped her eyes and gave a great sigh. “Oh, Ross, if I don’t laugh, I’ll have to cry, and I’ve cried enough tears in my life.”

He didn’t want to know—honest, he didn’t—but the question slipped out anyway. “When?”

In an instant, she became utterly serious. “Nights when you were in the office. Weeks when you were out of town. Years when you were out of reach. A woman can’t watch her husband create a life for himself with no room for her without shedding a few tears.”

“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know …”

“Maybe not about the tears, but you knew you were moving me out of your life. You just didn’t care.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she had long ago accepted that fact. Before the acceptance, though, there must have been heartache and disillusionment, because she, at least, had tried to make things work.

That was more than he could say for himself.

She tried her burger and shrugged. “It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse. I’ve
cooked
worse.” After another bite she said, “All those dinner parties I planned for you … What was wrong with them?”

“Nothing. The food was great. You were always great. They were fine.”

“Then why did you take them away from me? Why did you suddenly insist on having them catered?”

Sliding onto the stool beside her, he thought back to when he’d made that decision. He tried to remember what her response was. Had she been resistant, or had she quietly, meekly, gone along? Had she been grateful to be freed of so much responsibility, or had she felt rejected?

That last was easy enough to answer.
Why did you take them away?
wasn’t the question of a grateful woman.

“It was a status thing,” he said at last. “A way of subtly pointing out that we could afford such extravagances.” Seeking to ease his own discomfort, he said, “You never enjoyed those parties anyway—not the hours of planning or the days of shopping or even the cooking. What did it matter to you if someone else did it?”

“Because it was one less way you needed me. You’re
right. I didn’t particularly enjoy the parties. But I liked doing them for you. I liked feeling that I had someplace in your life besides bed.” Suddenly she grinned. “But I have to admit, whatever problems were building between us, the sex was still great. I was always grace—grateful—that you never replaced me there. But you weren’t that type. All those times you were gone, all that distance between us, I always knew that there would never be another woman. That counted for a lot.”

The chill that hit Ross was guilt laced with shame. It made his lungs tight and filled his ears with a rushing that distorted her words as she continued to talk. She sounded so confident, so certain that she could trust him at least on that score, but she was wrong. Her gratitude was misplaced, because for one brief, unforgivable time, he’d been exactly that type. He had betrayed her and himself for a few hours’ pleasure, and in the process he had almost destroyed her.

Now he was betraying her again, because even as she hoped and prayed for her missing memories to return, he prayed that she would never remember.

God forgive him.

Because Maggie wouldn’t.

F
or Christmas trees, whether you cut your own or chose from the display near the road, Bill Grovenor’s farm was the place most of Bethlehem went. For live trees, though, with the root ball intact and ready for post-holiday planting, Melissa’s Garden was the only source. Maggie was determined
to have just such a tree to mark the momentous occasion of her first Christmas in Bethlehem. Last year didn’t count, after all, since she’d been whisked away only minutes after midnight on Christmas Day and didn’t remember anything prior to that.

“My selection of trees is a little on the thin side,” Melissa said apologetically as she led the way through the nursery to a secured area outside. “Most of my customers special-order, and I keep only a few extras on hand. Here they are.”

The trees she indicated ranged in size from four feet to ten and in color from the blue-green hue of a blue spruce to rich green. Maggie admired the littlest tree even as she thought about all the years of growth it would require to be as impressive as the others. But what did a few years matter? She would be there.

Once she turned her attention to the other trees, it took only a moment to make her choice. It was the biggest tree there and was as full at the bottom as it was tall. The branches were strong enough to support the most treasured of her ornaments, the needles weren’t prickly, and its scent—with a hint of orange—was heavenly.

Brushing her hand over it, she glanced at Ross. “This one?”

He nodded—not exactly the response she was looking for. She wanted him to agree, of course—she could love this tree for its fragrance even if it wasn’t perfect—but would it have hurt him to at least walk around it one time to check its shape? Would it hurt him to show a passing interest?

He had promised her companionship, she reminded
herself. Not interest. She should accept what she was getting and be grateful, because he wasn’t going to offer more.

And she
was
grateful. These nearly two weeks in Bethlehem would have been wonderful without his companionship, but not quite as much. She owed him a lot for this gift of his time.

But it was only natural to want more, and before long she would have it. Just not with him.

Shifting away from the thought, she flashed a smile at Melissa. “We’ll take this one. Can we get it delivered?”

“No problem. The guys are going out with a delivery today. They can bring it by sometime this afternoon.” Melissa pulled a tag and pen from the apron underneath her coat and handed it to Maggie. “Just write your name and address on there, and I’ll add it to the delivery order.”

Maggie braced the paper on her knee to write their name, then looked at Ross again. “I don’t know our address.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. “I don’t either.”

When they both turned to Melissa, the other woman laughed. “Don’t ask me. I certainly don’t know. Just put ‘the brick house on the corner of Hawthorne and Fourth.’ These guys have lived here all their lives. They’ll find it.”

Once the tagging process was finished, they returned to the nursery and the cash register near the door. “Tell me, Maggie,” Melissa said as she figured the sale. “Do you sing?”