Bed of Lies

by Teresa Hill

  Sam took a breath and let it out slow. "It's okay, kid."

  "Can I ask you somethin'?"

  With a pained expression on his face, Sam said, "Sure."

  "Have you been bad?" Zach asked quite seriously. "Is San'a mad at you?"

  Rachel started to laugh. She couldn't help it. Sam stared at her, a dazed expression on his face. She couldn't tell if he was really mad or if it was something else. But she stopped laughing.

  "Not that I know of," Sam said finally.

  "Has he told you something he hasn't told us, Zach?" Rachel asked.

  "Uh-uh. I haven't talked to him yet, but I wanna. Can we do that? Do y'know where he's at?"

  "I do," Rachel offered. "Santa's coming on Saturday. There's going to be a parade and everything. It goes right down this street. We can't miss that."

  "I gotta tell him some stuff," Zach said seriously.

  "We'll make sure you get to talk to him," she said. "Why do you think Santa's mad at Sam, Zach?"

  " 'Cause Chris'mas isn't comin' here."

  "What?"

  "We saw all the lights and the trees 'n' stuff on all the other houses. They're all ready for him. But I guess he's not comin' here. No Chris'mas."

  "Oh." Rachel laughed again, realizing the problem. "It's the first day of Christmas, isn't it?"

  Zach looked puzzled. "I thought it wasn't comin' for another couple o' weeks."

  "I mean today's the first day of the town's Christmas festival. It's something special we do here," Rachel said. "Come and see, and I'll explain."

  They went to the window. The children crowded in around her, and she found she liked the press of little bodies all around her, the sounds of awe in their voices, and the way Zach had his nose flat against the cool pane of glass and laughed as it fogged up. Then he touched the little triangles of blue trim around the edges.

  "Somebody colored 'em?" he asked.

  "Something like that," Rachel said.

  She painted glass herself at times, but this she'd ordered special from a company in Wisconsin to match what had already been here when she restored these windows as best she could. At one time, she'd loved the way the pretty panels seemed to frame the world outside.

  She looked carefully and really saw, for the first time maybe in a long time, that world outside the walls of her house. Thousands of twinkling lights gleamed back at her. Every house on the street was all decked out for Christmas but hers. It was the first day of Christmas, and she and Sam had ignored it.

  "Baxter has a Christmas festival," she explained. "The Twelve Days of Christmas."

  "Who's Baxter?" Sam asked.

  "The town, Zach." Rachel laughed a bit. "It's famous for its old-fashioned Christmas festival, our own version of the Twelve Days of Christmas, except ours lead up to Christmas instead of starting on Christmas Day. We take the holiday very seriously around here. Especially in this neighborhood."

  Sam and Rachel lived in a five-square-block area known as "the district," a place full of old Victorian houses, most of which had been lovingly restored. Many of them had been used as models in her grandfather's work, as well.

  People came from all over to see the Christmas of Richard Landon's creation, and now Rachel had unwittingly violated a tradition that was practically sacred. She and her neighbors took pride in putting up an elaborate display of lights and seasonal colors for their own enjoyment and the town's visitors. Many of them would be strolling and riding through "the district" to look at all the lights over the next twelve days. Everyone was ready, except her and Sam.

  "We just forgot, Zach. That's all," Rachel said. "Santa's not mad at us. Not that we know of, anyway."

  "So, he comes here?"

  "Of course. He'll find you here. We'll tell him all about it when we go see him. And we'll get the Christmas decorations up tomorrow. You can help."

  "You got some'a those?" he asked, obviously unconvinced.

  "Yes." Rachel looked to Sam, who'd remained silent through the whole exchange. "I think Zach needs to see the decorations. I can check the lights after the children are in bed, and we can decorate tomorrow."

  "And a tree?" Zach added. "We'll have a tree?"

  "Of course. We'll cut it down ourselves." Rachel realized she was actually excited. "My aunt Jo lives on a Christmas tree farm, and she has a sleigh. If we ask nicely, and we catch her when she's not too busy, she'll let us take the sleigh into the back fields and find a tree to cut down. It'll be fun."

  She and Sam used to do that every Christmas. Just the two of them cuddled up beneath the blankets, riding through the snow. It was magical in a sleigh in the snow at Christmas.

  It had been so long ago. She couldn't remember why they ever stopped. And that made her think, Sam. Christmas. What would it be like without him? She couldn't imagine that or a thousand other little everyday things without Sam. She wondered briefly if he'd found someone else. Wasn't that why men left their wives? Because they'd found someone else? Rachel couldn't imagine Sam with another woman, couldn't imagine him hurting her that way. Of course, she never imagined he'd leave her, either.

  "Are you okay?" Emma said. "You looked all sad."

  "Just for a minute," she said. "I was thinking about the sleigh. It's been a long time since I did that. But we'll do it this year. Promise."

  She didn't dare look over at her husband, couldn't find the courage to ask if he'd come with them. She'd implied that she didn't need anything from him anymore, but it wasn't true. She needed so much from him.

  She wondered if he'd simply be here on the fringes, going through the motions of Christmas until time ran out and he walked away from her for good.

  * * *

  Zach and Sam found the decorations, twelve boxes full. The number alone impressed and reassured Zach.

  They opened three boxes, so Zach could rest easily knowing Christmas was indeed coming to this house.

  He giggled and tugged at things that Rachel had packed in precise order, messing things up, but she didn't care. She sat on the floor with the boxes all around her, Grace patting the sides of the boxes and pulling herself up to stand while hanging on to them. She giggled and slapped her palms against the top of the boxes, obviously quite pleased with herself, either because of the noise or the fact that she was standing.

  Rachel gazed at her in awe, as if she were a magical creature come to life, right here in Rachel's living room. "She's beautiful," Rachel told Emma, the little mother who was hovering next to Grace's side.

  "And clumsy. She's always falling down and hurting herself."

  "I'll be careful with her." Rachel would treat her like spun glass.

  "Look!" Zach exclaimed, pulling out a long length of glittery gold garland she usually draped around the tree.

  "You like that?"

  He giggled. She didn't even scold him for ignoring her request to leave everything in the boxes for now. He came up to her and draped the garland around her neck and shoulders, like a scarf.

  "You can wear it," he said.

  Touched, Rachel said, "Thank you, Zach."

  "It's for the tree, Zach," Emma said.

  "She can wear it!" he insisted.

  "I will. I love it."

  She'd wear sackcloth and ashes for this little boy if it would make him smile. And then Rachel thought of another thing that might make him smile. Nearly an hour later, Rachel sat with Zach practically in her lap, Emma on her other side holding Grace. She pulled out an oversize book, the cover of which was graced with a painting of a Victorian house all decorated for Christmas.

  "Do you recognize this?" Rachel pointed to the house.

  "Uh-uh," Zach said.

  "It's this house," she said, delighted to be living in her grandfather's old house on this cold winter night, so close to Christmas, with children gathered around her. She felt as if she were sharing a bit of true magic with them.

  "Uh-uh," Zach said.

  "It is. You'll see tomorrow, when we get all the decorations up."

 
"Your house is in a book?" Zach asked, leaning closer.

  "Well, it actually belonged to my grandfather. This is a painting he did of the house at Christmas a long time ago."

  "An it's in a book?" Zach was amazed.

  "Yes. He's a bit famous. A few years ago, a publisher was interested in illustrations for a Christmas story, and he came and got a bunch of my grandfather's paintings, and now they're in this Christmas book. Isn't it nice?"

  "Uh-huh," Zach said.

  Zach settled in a bit closer to hear the story. Emma didn't seem as interested, but she sat there quietly, holding the baby. Rachel read, telling them about all the different things in the pictures that she could show them when they went into town the next day. She wasn't sure Zach actually believed her, had to admit it was probably hard for a little boy to understand. But he would see for himself soon. It would add to the magic even more.

  Later, she tucked Zach into bed, let Emma put Grace down, then walked an unusually quiet Emma to the room down the hall where she'd be sleeping.

  "You'll be all right here? By yourself?" Rachel asked gently.

  "I will. But Zach's used to sleeping with me. Grace, too. We all sleep in the same room."

  "Oh." Aunt Miriam said the children should have their own beds, preferably their own rooms. But she didn't say they had to actually sleep in them. Obviously, they were used to being together, and Rachel didn't want to make this any harder.

  "Why don't we try it like this, Emma. And if Zach or Grace get lonely, they know where you are."

  "Okay," Emma said.

  "Is there anything else?"

  Emma looked troubled. "This is really the house in the book?"

  "Yes. It looks a little different now, because it was about thirty years ago when my grandfather painted the picture." Her grandfather wasn't a brilliant painter; he'd done the paintings as a first step toward making the models of the buildings he used in the snow globe scenes. But he had a gift in the way he used color and light and in selecting such beautiful scenes. Once the snow globes became popular, so did his paintings.

  Emma frowned again, her brow wrinkling in concentration, and asked, "Is this a magic house?"

  "I used to think so when I was your age. It's always been a happy house," she said, refusing to think about the last few years when it had been just her and Sam.

  "And I want you and Zach and Grace to have a good Christmas here with me and Sam. Do you think we could do that? Make it a good one?"

  Emma nodded.

  "Then we will. And I don't want you to worry, Emma. We'll take good care of you here. All right?"

  "Okay."

  Rachel gave her a kiss on the forehead and a gentle hug. "Call me if you need anything."

  * * *

  Sam lingered on the fringes of the nighttime rituals. He watched as Rachel supervised—teeth brushed, hands washed, faces washed. The baby tried to eat the washcloth. She truly did try to eat everything.

  He made sure he got upstairs ahead of the rest of them to set up the portable crib Miriam had brought in the middle bedroom. Then as Rachel came upstairs with Zach and the baby, he slipped into the front bedroom and cleaned his things out of there. Miriam said the children needed their own beds, which meant Rachel would need that room for one of the children.

  He was still trying to decide where to put his things when Rachel came into the hall and caught him standing there with a handful of clothes. Her cheeks flushed, whether with anger or embarrassment, he couldn't tell, and the look she gave him made him feel like a thief, like he'd stolen something from her, something personal and very important, by walking away without a word from the bed they'd always shared. This after nights of making sure he was gone from the house before she woke up in the mornings and didn't go to bed at night until she was already asleep. So they didn't have to say anything about the fact that he slept somewhere else.

  "I'll, uhh... I can sleep on the sofa in the family room," he said.

  She nodded, keeping her head down, not letting him see anything else that might be in her eyes right now. He understood. He didn't want to have to look Rachel in the eye and talk to her about where he'd be sleeping now or maybe about why he'd started sleeping somewhere else in the first place.

  He didn't even want to think about it now. It made him remember how alone he was, even in the same house with his wife. Right now, he felt more alone than ever. Watching her with the children tonight, he couldn't help but think that this was the way things should have been, the way things would never be for him and Rachel.

  "Do you need anything?" he asked. "For the kids?"

  "No," she said, still not looking at him. "We're fine."

  Which he took as a dismissal, which still stung. Suddenly, he felt like a stranger here, as if he were on the fringes of something he wanted desperately, staring at it from the outside looking in, knowing he'd never have it, the way he'd felt most of his life. But never with Rachel. It was only with her that he'd ever imagined he might belong anywhere.

  But not anymore, Sam reminded himself. Then, like the coward he'd become, without another word to her, he slipped downstairs and went back outside to his workshop. To his space, where nothing had changed.

  Sam made himself wait until after ten o'clock to go back inside. He found a plate of food Rachel had left for him and heated it in the microwave. Then he took it into the living room, thinking he'd watch the early news before going to bed. But there was Rachel sitting in the rocker, the garland that had been around her neck now draped across the back of the chair, the baby in her arms.

  He felt hot color rising in his cheeks, embarrassed that he'd walked away earlier without even showing her the courtesy of telling her where he was going and when he'd be back.

  "Is the baby okay?" he asked, sitting down on the sofa across the room from her.

  "Probably just unsettled by being in a new place," Rachel said, not looking at him, either, her attention focused fully on the baby. "She fussed a bit after Emma put her down, so I brought her down here and rocked her. She went right to sleep, and then... Well, it's not exactly a hardship to hold her."

  "I heard you talking to Emma about shopping."

  Rachel nodded. "Miriam gave me some money but it won't go far. They have so little. She suggested I try the church thrift shop—"

  "Buy whatever they need," he said. "New. Heavy coats, gloves, hats, boots. Whatever they need."

  "Sam—"

  "We can afford to buy the kids coats. And get the girls some nice things. The boy, too. Not hand-me-downs." He knew all about hand-me-downs.

  "Okay," she said. "Thank you. I know you don't want to do this. I know you think it's a bad idea, but..."

  "It's what you want. We'll do it."

  She sighed and looked back at the baby. Grace had caught the tip of Rachel's finger in one tiny fist, holding on tightly, and Rachel was running her thumb over the baby's tiny hand, mesmerized, lost. Sam looked at the garland Zach had given her earlier. He remembered the way she looked, all sparkly and glittery, her hair glowing golden as well. She'd laughed, and he'd been startled by the sound. He didn't remember the last time he heard Rachel laugh, and he missed it. He missed so many things about her.

  Sam couldn't help but think of how perfect she looked sitting in her great-grandmother's rocking chair with a baby in her arms.

  "I know it's silly," she said, "but today, when Miriam came... It was just like in my dream. The baby dream. I was sitting here all alone, and the doorbell rang, and she walked up to me and handed me Grace. I'd given up on anything like that ever happening."

  Because of Sam. He knew it.

  They couldn't have any more children. They'd tried adoption twice, only to get their hopes dashed both times, and then they'd gotten Will, which had also turned out bad. Now they had more children, who weren't staying, either.

  "Rachel, she's not yours to keep."

  "I know." She nuzzled her face against the baby's cheek. "I was just saying... it was so like my dream. I
'd given up, totally. I couldn't even hope anymore, because it was too hard. It hurt too much. But I think I was wrong, Sam. How can I just stop hoping?"

  He wondered what his wife hoped for these days, but he didn't ask. All he said was, "Just don't forget this baby isn't yours."

  "I won't. I promise. But I'm going to enjoy the time I have with her. I'm going to try my best to enjoy this Christmas with these children."

  "We can do that, I guess." He didn't like it, but he'd do it for her. Because she'd asked this of him and it was one thing within his power to give. And then, with his throat thick and tight with regrets stored up over the years, he said, "I never meant for it to turn out this way, Rachel."

  "Me, either," she said.

  They weren't talking about kids anymore. They were talking about their marriage, about the mess they'd made of it. She'd given up on him, he feared, just as he'd given up on the two of them.

  Still, Sam wondered if she missed him, at nights like this when it was just the two of them talking and in their bed. She'd never said a word about him sleeping somewhere else, never asked him to come back, and suddenly it seemed as if it had been forever since he'd touched her.

  He didn't want to think that he might never do that again, might never have the right. What would she do if he turned to her now? he wondered. If he took her in his arms and buried himself in the familiar comfort of her warm, soft body?

  Sam groaned. He still wanted her, and it had been so long.

  All those nights, he thought, he could have been with her.

  Twelve Days

  The McRae's Series

  Book One

  by

  Teresa Hill

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  Twelve Days

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