“They’ve only been gone a little while. I can’t be doing…this.” She jumped to her feet and motioned toward the tree. “I can’t be decorating trees, and celebrating holidays, and making wishes, and—” A strangled cry rose up where the rest of her sentence should have been.
But he didn’t need the words to know what she’d been about to say. He could finish that sentence all on his own. “And what? Kissing me?”
She looked at the floor and nodded.
He stood in turn, reaching out for her hands only to have her snatch them back. “Maggie, there’s nothing wrong with decorating a Christmas tree or celebrating a holiday or making a wish. It’s what people do. It’s part of life.”
Her head snapped up. “You’re right. It is. For people who have one.”
“And you have one, Maggie. And so do I. It’s the difference between me and my brother, and you and your family. We’re here—during the Christmas season—with an ornament designed to celebrate wishes.” He stepped closer, bridging the physical gap between them. “And the kiss? That happened because I feel something for you. And if the way you kissed me back is any indication, I think you feel something for me, too.”
For a long moment, she said nothing, her hooded expression holding few clues to her thoughts. When she finally spoke, however, she left little room for conjecture. “I know about life. I know that it can be wonderful and intriguing and the most amazing gift imaginable. But I also know it can be taken away without warning, shaking the ground under a person’s feet for a very long time. I’ve lived that…twice. The first time, I learned how to get back on my feet, if for no other reason than to have another chance. This time, I’m trying to get back on my feet for an entirely different reason.”
“And what reason is that?” he asked.
“To exist. Because I have to.”
“That’s it? You don’t want to hope?”
She shrugged. “Why? So it can shatter my heart a third time?”
Raking his fingers through his hair, he searched for something to say to make her realize the error in her thinking. “But, Maggie…don’t you see it doesn’t have to be that way?”
“For me it does.”
Chapter Eight
No matter what she tried, she couldn’t get the memory of Rory’s kiss out of her thoughts. Not pacing, not knitting, not reorganizing, not anything could make her banish that moment to a dusty corner where it belonged.
Plucking the silver frame from the table in the living room, she studied Jack’s face. As handsome as her husband was, photographs never seemed capable of capturing his true essence. In the picture, the set to his jaw made him appear rigid and uptight, yet in real life that same expression had made him look determined. Likewise, his hair, which was groomed to perfection in the photograph, bore little resemblance to the way it looked when she mussed it with her hands.
Would a photograph do the ever-present sparkle in Rory’s eye justice? And what about that feeling of safety and warmth he exuded? Could that be captured in a photograph? She considered the possibility for a split second before it was chased from her thoughts by guilt. What difference did it make how her uncle’s employee looked in a picture? He really wasn’t her concern.
In the photo, her precious angel was cuddled in Jack’s arms. In contrast to her husband, Natalie looked just as Maggie remembered. Content, peaceful, adorable and oh so very beautiful. Maggie felt a stinging in her eyes as she remembered the silly noise she’d used to elicit that smile on her daughter’s face, and how lucky she’d been to keep the camera steady despite the exaggerated hiccup.
She traced the picture with her finger, touching her daughter’s wispy hair and surprisingly deep dimples. It was pictures like these that made her hurt most—the ones she’d taken rather than been a part of. Before the accident, she’d treasured them as glimpses in time of the two people she loved most in the world. Since the accident, they made her feel isolated and alone, as if she was a spectator at an event that had been unexpectedly cut short.
But they were all she had now. The pictures and the memories she carried in her head and her heart…
She closed her eyes as she recalled the sensation of Rory’s hand on her face, felt the tears forming as she remembered the way he’d moved down to her heart and then her lap. He meant well. He really did. But all his presence did was cloud her thoughts in a way she didn’t need or want, reminding her of things she wasn’t meant to have.
Setting the frame back on the table, she looked around the room, determined to stay focused on the people that mattered most. For a moment, she contemplated knitting once again, this time making a scarf for her uncle. But the pull simply wasn’t strong enough.
No, she needed time with Natalie. Time with her sweet face, time with her contagious smile, time with her precious little fingers and toes…
The journal.
Maggie spun around, hurrying toward her bedroom and the coat and purse she’d flung on the nightstand before dissolving into tears. There was a part of her that felt a little guilty for allowing such a wonderful night to become overshadowed by reality. But it was the other guilt—the all-encompassing guilt—that told her to let it go. The less she saw Rory O’Brien, the better.
She pushed her coat and purse to the side, but found nothing underneath. “Where on earth—” She stopped as thoughts of her sudden departure from Rory’s home flooded her.
Uh-oh. She’d left her journal behind.
A wave of disappointment washed over her. She couldn’t ask for it back without seeing him again. And that she couldn’t risk.
She’d had her second chance in life.
And just like that, the memory of Rory’s kiss was gone, in its place a sense of loss so profound she actually ached. She needed to do something, to spend time with her daughter….
The leaf.
Recalling their mommy-and-me outing to the zoo once again, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached for the memory box she’d set on the nightstand the evening she arrived at the inn. With careful hands she removed the lid and set it aside, her attention moving to the jumbled contents she hadn’t had the heart to look at in entirely too long.
One by one she lifted them out, turned every item over and over in her hands, savoring the past.
A soft sound outside the door of her suite made her freeze. Her attention was diverted toward the living room as a white square slid across the floor.
Wanting to be alone with her memories, she considered ignoring it, the identity of the person behind it all but certain. But a letter or a note wasn’t him. And the sooner she looked at whatever it was, the sooner she could get back to what really mattered.
Tentatively, she made her way over to the note. Reaching down, she snatched it off the floor and opened it, her eyes soaking in the masculine handwriting that was scrawled across the single sheet of paper.
Maggie,
I enjoyed your company this evening. You brought a warmth into my home that was both welcomed and appreciated. Thank you, for that.
You left your journal behind. And I, in turn, have left it outside your door. I hope it brings you some peace.
Rory
An inexplicable shiver ran down her spine, leaving a sense of loneliness in its wake. There was no doubt about it, Rory was a nice man. A special one, even. But he couldn’t be her concern. Not now. Not ever.
She read the letter once again, the loneliness morphing into a sense of purpose that propelled her toward the front door. Sure enough, the leather-bound journal with gold trim was just where he had said.
Opening it, she allowed her fingers to flip through the pages, her mind filling in the blanks with the memories she wanted to record.
HE TOSSED HIS KEYS onto the end table and sank into the cushions of his couch. The urge to approach her in the hallway as she’d bent to retrieve the journal had been intense. But so had been the little voice that had warned him off.
It broke his heart to see Maggie allowing herself a m
oment of happiness, only to stamp on it with her own two feet, convinced that love and loss went hand in hand.
He understood it more than she realized. The feelings he struggled with where his brother was concerned weren’t much different. Only instead of begrudging himself happiness, he blamed himself for things he couldn’t undo.
Maggie, on the other hand, was a different story. It wasn’t too late with her. She was hurting now. And he knew it. Her pain was raw and ever-present, just as Reardon’s had been.
Glancing up at the tree, Rory gazed at the wishing ball, a symbol of hope calling to him like a beacon in a storm. He sat up straight, a swirl of ideas hitting him with a one-two punch.
“I can make seasonal wall hangings…and I’ve toyed with personalizing picture frames—you know, for special occasions.”
Doing things with his hands always made him feel productive, giving him an accomplishment to take pride in. It was at those times he was able to hold the guilt at bay and actually cut himself a break.
Perhaps the same would work for Maggie.
Which got him thinking. About a conversation he’d had at the gift shop where he’d bought the journal. The woman behind the counter had encouraged him to come back to take advantage of the sales related to her upcoming move out-of-state.
The shop had been busy, with customers standing in line to purchase a variety of items to better their life and their home. It was a perfect place for such a store, thanks to a high number of vacationers during the spring and summer months.
Was that something Maggie could do? Especially when she had the ability to make much of the inventory herself?
It was a solid idea, one that excited him more and more with each passing moment. But it was also an idea that needed Maggie’s active participation, something he doubted he’d get without a fight.
Unless, of course, he shoved first and asked later.
Chapter Nine
Maggie tossed and turned, her face brushing against the dampened pillow again and again, her mind locked in a dream she couldn’t shut off. It was a dream she’d had often. Yet this time there was a sound—a staccato tapping she didn’t remember.
Had the truck driver knocked on the window before retrieving her from underneath the car?
The tapping grew louder.
Had she smacked the window to get out?
The tapping morphed into a pounding sound that startled her awake. She bolted upright, her gaze coming to rest on the journal she’d worked on all night. Still open to Natalie’s First Christmas, the book was surrounded by colorful pens, spools of delicate ribbon and scraps from cut photographs.
A smile tugged at her lips, until she heard again that pounding from her dream.
“Maggie, are you there? Please, Maggie, I need to know you’re okay.”
Rory.
Had it been him knocking all that time? She glanced at the clock, noted the late morning hour. If Natalie were alive, Maggie would have been up hours ago—singing songs, reading storybooks and playing with shape sorters, building blocks and baby dolls….
“Maggie?”
She considered ignoring his knock, but the concern in his voice pulled at something inside her chest. He was worried. Scared, even. She knew what that was like, knew what it was to call for someone again and again, only to hear nothing in response.
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she slipped her feet into the well-worn pink slippers she’d tossed in her suitcase at the last minute, the aging footwear one of only a handful of items she’d opted to bring when she left Missouri. Other than a few pictures, her clothes and her box of mementos, nothing else had really mattered.
A click echoed through the suite, followed by the sound of footsteps. She peered out into the living room, her eyes widening at the sight of Rory O’Brien standing in the middle of her living room, a key clenched in his fist.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked, her voice rising in anger, only to fade as images from their evening together flooded her mind. He was clad now in a pair of faded blue jeans and an oatmeal-colored shirt that hugged his arms in all the right places, his very presence jettisoning her back to the sofa in his living room and the way he’d held her close as they’d kissed.
He held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I started knocking twenty minutes ago. At first I thought you weren’t answering because you couldn’t hear me, so I knocked louder. Then I thought you were ignoring me, and figured I should just leave. But when I remembered why I’d come, I decided to give it one more shot. And that’s when I got nervous. You were so…I don’t know…detached last night when you left that I was afraid maybe you’d—” He stopped, took a long slow inhale and then shrugged. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I was just worried, and I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Not this time.”
It was hard to stay angry at someone who was only trying to do the right thing. She opened her mouth to let him off the hook, then closed it just as fast as his attention clearly dropped from her face to her powder-blue silk camisole and matching shorts.
“I’m sorry. Were…were you sleeping?” he asked as he deliberately raised his eyes upward once again. The look of hunger she saw in them was unmistakable.
She shrugged, the motion causing one of her straps to slip down her arm. His eyes followed. “I guess you could call it sleeping. I think I heard you knocking, but thought it was…” With a wave of her hand, she steered the topic from a path she simply didn’t want to venture down. “Anyway, it’s okay. I shouldn’t have been sleeping this late. But since I didn’t finish until nearly seven this morning, I guess I crashed.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I suppose.” She willed her focus off the man in front of her, forced it onto anything other than him…and his arms…and the taste of his lips….
Maggie reached across the bed, grabbed hold of the journal and tugged it toward her. “Would you like to see what I did?”
“Absolutely.”
Perching on the edge of the mattress, she patted the spot next to her as she once again lost herself in the pages she’d created throughout the night. “This is my Natalie,” she whispered as Rory’s leg grazed hers. “See?”
He leaned a little closer. “Oh, wow…Maggie, she’s beautiful.”
Maggie beamed. “She is, isn’t she? And what a sweet, sweet disposition she had. Once she figured out how to smile, she never stopped.”
He leaned still closer. “Her chin and her smile are the spitting image of yours.”
“You really think so?” Maggie stared at the little face that hovered in her thoughts morning, noon and night. “I always thought she smiled more like Jack.”
“I didn’t know your husband, so I can’t comment as to whether there was a similarity, but trust me, that smile is yours.” Rory looked up from the book and studied her closely. “And just like yours, it’s breathtaking.”
Feeling her face grow warm, Maggie rushed to change the subject, keenly aware of Rory’s thigh against hers.
She flipped to the front of the album, to the page that started it all. “This is the day she was born. She came bright and early, just as the sun was starting to rise.” Pointing toward the upper right corner of the page, Maggie couldn’t help but sigh. “See her little footprint? Wasn’t it tiny?”
He leaned forward for a closer look, his nearness making her heart flutter.
“Wow. Her whole foot wasn’t much bigger than my big toe.”
She turned to the next page. “And this was the day she came home from the hospital.”
“Is that wallpaper?” he asked.
“Not exactly.” She tapped her finger on the photograph of Natalie’s nursery that showed the border stencil Maggie had created around the room. “It’s really just a slip of paper I used to make sure I didn’t mess up the real thing.”
He stared at her. “You painted those teddy bears?”
“I used a stencil. But a stencil I’d created.” She looked again at the piec
e of paper where she’d practiced the bears’ facial expressions in order to get the shading just right. “You probably think I’m silly, saving a piece of scrap paper, huh?”
“Nah, I’d have done the same thing.”
She opened her eyes. “Really?”
He nodded. “I’m a sucker for that kind of stuff. Which explains why my spare bedroom looks the way it does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s filled with boxes. And I do mean boxes. Most of it is stuff from my parents’ house after they passed away. Delilah says I should have an estate sale, and I guess on some level I know she’s right. But it’s hard to let it go. I mean, I flipped through those books as a kid, I used that silverware throughout my entire childhood, I—” He stopped, his face turning crimson. “Wow. I must sound like an idiot.”
Maggie laughed. “No. Not at all. It makes you even more…” Realizing what she was about to say, she stopped and changed course, turning their attention back to the book in her hands. “Once I got the pictures and the keepsakes where I wanted them on each page, I wrote a paragraph or two about that particular day.”
“May I?” he asked, as he pointed toward the book, a smile curving his lips.
She nodded in assent.
But as he leaned close once again, she couldn’t help but second-guess her decision. Especially now, with the memory of his kiss still so raw.
Scooting back so as to lessen their proximity, she couldn’t help but feel the unfamiliar pull somewhere deep inside her soul. A pull that countered everything her head was saying.
Sure, he was good-looking. Extremely good-looking, if she allowed herself a moment of honesty. And he was thoughtful beyond comparison. Bringing her the journal despite her rudeness was proof of that.
Her rudeness…
She looked down at the back of his head as he continued to read, her hands virtually itching to touch him. Just once…
Miracle Baby (Harlequin American Romance) Page 7