By mid-afternoon each day, Rhys would come to visit. On Tuesday, he came into the Nowack house, his handheld phone in his grip as he bounced the device near her face while she sat on the couch. “Saturday afternoon,” he sing-songed.
“What? What’s Saturday afternoon?”
He kissed her lightly on the lips before replying, “Your mother’s internment. The cemetery emailed me this morning. They’ve even agreed to allow you a small ceremony before they place her ashes in the crypt.”
“Really?” Excitement sparkled in her veins. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a hard, full-on kiss that zinged a thrill down her spine. “Thank you!”
“You keep kissing me like that, and I’ll go out and slay a few dragons for you while I’m at it.” He stood, then turned his attention to her feet. “How’s the ankle today?”
“Better,” she said and lifted her leg off the pillows for his perusal.
“Nice. It’s green now,” he remarked. “I guess that’s better than purple.”
“More Christmasy, right?” she quipped. “That’s how I look at it.”
“Oh, definitely.” He took the pillows out from under her feet, moved them to the oblong table across from her, then rotated her so her legs were propped there. Then he sat beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.
She snuggled into him, a perfect fit. Somewhere inside her, a low voice said she’d already let him get too close, but she drowned out the warning with a loud sigh. “You think I can get off the couch today?”
His fingers toyed with a lock of her hair. “Doubtful. But every day gets you closer.”
Planting a kiss on his cheek, she murmured, “I missed you.”
He craned his neck to look at her, an indulgent smile on his lips. “Really? Did you miss me, in particular, or just someone to talk to besides Hunter?” She pretended to think about it a mite too long, and he muttered, “Gee, thanks very much.”
Giggling, she said, “You, Rhys. I missed you. Hunter’s not a terrific conversationalist. And his kisses leave a lot to be desired.”
“Let’s see if I can remedy that.” He pressed his lips to her, and any doubts she still harbored scattered.
***
As expected, Agata and Cyryl returned home by four, Stefan at five, and family dinner began promptly at six. Polina, who’d never experienced an average family lifestyle, found comfort in the ritual as the days melded one into the other. Dinner hour became her favorite part of the day, once she was allowed to join the family in the dining room. She loved how the Nowaks reviewed the day’s events, shared a meal with her and Rhys, and reconnected after hours spent apart.
After dinner that evening, the conversation turned to the upcoming Christmas Eve celebration, Wigilia.
“You like fish, yes?” Agata asked her.
“Yes.” She’d never eaten much fish except for the occasional fried clams or shrimp at fairs, but how bad could it be?
“Good.” Agata nodded. “No meat at Wigilia. You are our very special unexpected guest, and it is my responsibility to make sure you are happy. We’ll eat and sing and share gifts, eh?”
Gifts. Polina’s mind raced. Of course there would be gifts. She’d totally forgotten that aspect of Christmas. At home, Uncle Leo would sometimes speak about holidays he’d celebrated as a child and detail the gifts of warm clothing and shoes and fruit and candy left by Saint Nicholas. But from what Polina glimpsed in her time here, the Nowaks had plenty of clothing and sweets. What on earth could she give to these generous people that would show how fond she’d grown of them? And Cyryl? Did he still believe in the magic of St. Nicholas?
“Polina?”
Rhys’s prompt centered her puzzlement on him, this man who’d literally plucked her from the icy sidewalks of Krakow. She had to give the fortune teller credit. In following the dog on her first night here, she’d gained a true friend. No. More than a friend, someone she cared for deeply. If she had more time here, who knew where their friendship might go?
What kind of gift would communicate how much Rhys had come to mean to her? And not only because he was a helluva kisser. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she stared down at the tablecloth.
“Polina?” Rhys asked again. “Are you all right? Is your ankle hurting?”
“No, I’m fine.” She looked up into his concerned face, smiling to reassure him. “Really.”
“Good, because we have a surprise for you.”
“You do?”
“How would you like to go for a ride?”
Excitement bubbled inside her. “I can go outside? Really?”
“Really,” he replied and looked around the table at the Nowaks, receiving a curt nod from Agata. “If you’re up for it.”
She bounced crazily, clapping her hands. “I am. Believe me, I’m more than up for it.” She’d give up a kidney to get off the couch, even for a little while.
“Excuse me.” Agata rose from her seat and left the dining room.
Curious, Polina studied Rhys’s secretive smile. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll see.”
Turning her attention to Stefan and Cyryl, she noted similar smirks on their faces. Still, no one enlightened her.
“Here we are.” Agata returned, pushing an empty wheelchair.
Polina turned a cryptic eye on Rhys. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. You want to see the szopki? This is your opportunity. I’ll take you—with Agata’s blessing—provided you stay in the chair. So? Will you agree?”
She flicked her gaze from Rhys to the wheelchair to Agata’s steely stare and pursed lips. Maybe she could talk him into ditching the rolling cage once they were alone? Definitely worth a shot. And more importantly, she’d get out of the house for a while! “Okay.”
“Good,” Agata said. “We’ll get our coats.”
Veering her attention back to Rhys, she caught his apologetic shrug and realized she’d been outmaneuvered again by the good wife, Agata.
***
The szopki had emerged from a tradition centuries earlier when artisans of the time would create elaborate Nativity scenes for the wealthy. Unlike the usual stable full of hay and animals seen in most crèches, szopki more closely resembled miniature Russian palaces. Each year, on the first Thursday in December, Krakow held a competition in the market square. Afterwards, all the entrants were moved inside the History Museum, but only those who’d won for their originality or magnificence received a permanent home on display there.
Rhys didn’t know which of them was more fascinated by the szopki. Cyryl, with the wonder and glee of a child, raced from one display to the next, oohing and aahing at the colorful foils that glamorized the spires. Polina, on the other hand, studied the structures the way a mechanical engineer might. She even asked Agata to find out what materials were used to make the artistic pieces.
Outside again, Stefan and Agata took Cyryl to a local café for hot chocolate, and Rhys wheeled Polina toward his car. “Now you get to check another item off your mother’s list.”
She mimed a giant checkmark in the air. “Thank God. I was really worried I wouldn’t get to finish everything before I go home.”
Unlocking the car, he opened the passenger door. “What’s left at this point?”
“The visit to the cemetery, my mother’s interment, and attending a traditional Wigilia feast, which includes a list of traditions I already reviewed with Agata. She does them all so once I celebrate Christmas, I’m good to go.”
He scooped her up, as he had a dozen times since that first night in the fast food place. “And then you return to the States?”
As she buckled her seatbelt, she sighed. “The day after Christmas.”
“What if I asked you to stay?”
Her gaze shot up from her lap. “Excuse me?”
Without caring about the slush or cold, he knelt on the sidewalk and reached for her hand. “Stay. Please. You could move in with me. Or if you’re not comfortable with that, you
could continue to live with the Nowaks. I’m only in Krakow for another six months or so, and I have some great opportunities to choose from next—even one in the States, if that matters to you. We could travel the world—”
“No.”
An icy claw gripped his chest. “No? You don’t even want to think about it?”
“No. If I think too much, I might give in.”
“Oh, well, sure, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Acid filled his tone but he couldn’t hold back his shock. Or his disappointment. This was not what he’d anticipated. He’d made no backup plan for her denial.
“I’m sorry, Rhys. I like you. A lot. Agata thinks I might even be falling in love with you, and I can’t argue the possibility.”
He released a tense breath. She loved him. This was good. So why wouldn’t she stay with him? The reason burst into his head like fireworks. “You think I’m pressuring you? Okay, I get that. So stay with the Nowaks, and let’s see where this like-might-be-love attraction goes.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t or won’t? Why not?” He hammered the questions, needing an answer that would make sense. “What’s waiting for you at home? Whereis home anyway?”
“Right now? Texas. But I don’t plan to stay there.”
“Where do you intend to go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“And you can’t stay here with me because…?” He left the question open, hoping she’d fill in the blanks for him.
All he got in return was another sigh. “I’m not sure I can explain it.”
“Try,” he bit out. His patience hung on a dandelion puff, one whiff from flying off into the stratosphere.
“Okay. The truth?” After a deep breath, she leveled a steely gaze his way. “I hated my mother. There. Now you know. I’m not the good girl Agata thinks I am.”
Relief flooded him. Was that all? A speed bump. They could maneuver this easily. “I think you’re overreacting. You might have resented your mother, but I doubt you really hated her.”
Fire flashed from her eyes when she slammed a fist on the leather car seat. “Wrong. I resented her when I was ten and had to become the adult in our family, when I never celebrated a birthday or rode a bus to school, or when I never got new shoes that didn’t pinch my feet because Mom needed the money for cigarettes and beer. Resentment turned to hate when eighteen years later, I still didn’t have a birthday and still wore shoes that didn’t fit properly.” Her fist slammed the top of the boot she wore on her right foot, the mate to the culprit that had sprained her left ankle.
Silence reigned between them, and her heavy breathing suggested she fought back tears.
He wanted to speak, to comfort her, but he couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t imagine what her life had been like, but he sensed she would refuse sympathy or pity, even if he tried.
At last, with a shuddering breath, her voice ragged, she murmured, “It’s because I like— and might be falling in love with—you that I can’t stay here with you. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve never held a job. Not a real one, anyway. I couldn’t even attend college because my mother…” She curled her fingers into quotation marks. “‘…needed’ me.” The tears erupted, and she wept openly.
“Easy, sweetheart. I get it.”
“No,” she retorted with an angry swipe across her eyes. “I don’t think you can understand. I didn’t come to Krakow to find love. I didn’t even come here willingly. Mom just had to pull my strings one last time. After Christmas, I’m free. I can finally start living my own life. I’ve waited a long time to be on my own, to do things most people start doing in their teenage years. If I go straight from living with my mother to living with you, I’m cheating myself, but I’m also cheating you. Because I’m only half a person. You deserve a whole woman.”
At last, he really did understand. Hadn’t he left his home in England to find himself, to get out from under the thumb of his family onus? He’d had ten years abroad to come to terms with his two sides: the independent ex-pat and the man tethered to parents and siblings in England. He had to allow her the opportunity to do the same. “Okay, then. So I’ll wait for you to get whole.” He quirked a brow at her, hoping to lighten the mood. “About how long do you think it’ll take?”
She snorted, the shadow of a smile playing on her lips. “I have no idea.”
Kissing her forehead, he set her free. “Go. Find yourself. But keep me in the loop, okay?”
“How?”
He patted her hand and stood. “We’ll figure something out.”
Chapter 8
Polina didn’t sleep much Tuesday night. Her conversation with Rhys ran over and over in her head: forward, reverse, forward, and at one point, she could’ve sworn they spoke the dialogue in pig Latin. She’d done the right thing by turning him down—she knew that. It didn’t mean making the decision didn’t hurt like a white-hot knife to the heart.
Don’t think about it, she told herself as she climbed into her new “ride,” the dreaded wheelchair, and rolled into the kitchen.
“Dobry rano, Polina,” Agata greeted her. “How you sleep?”
“Fine,” she lied.
“You slept late today. I make you breakfast now before I go to work.”
Polina wheeled herself in front of the refrigerator. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of myself.”
“You no do good job taking care of yourself.” Agata clucked her tongue and gripped Polina’s shoulder in her meaty hand. “You too skinny for Polish girl.”
Surrendering on a sigh, Polina rolled toward the dining room. “Thank you—not only for breakfast this morning, but also for the wheelchair so I could see the smoke last night.”
“You like the szopki?” Agata called after her.
She paused in the foyer between the two rooms and turned back to Agata. “Goodness, yes! I couldn’t believe the intricate detail in some of them. They looked so delicate, like buildings out of some beautiful fairyland.”
“Mama,” Cyryl interjected from his seat at the dining room table. “Why don’t we have a szopka here?”
“Maybe someday, we will.” She waved him off. “Go. Get your books. We leave soon.”
The boy rose. “Yes, Mama.” With a quick wave at Polina, he sped down the hall toward his bedroom.
That little exchange inspired Polina, and after the house emptied out, she spent several hours drawing out her plan, sketching designs, and creating a list of items she’d need. In the afternoon, when Rhys showed up, she handed him a list, along with plenty of Polish currency.
Still in his overcoat and hovering in the doorway, he looked at the items in his hand, then back down at Polina, trapped in the stupid wheelchair. “What’s this?”
“A shopping list. Is that enough money to get everything I have on there?”
He scanned the list and counted out the zlotys. “Yes, of course. More than enough.”
“Good. Can you pick up that stuff for me?” When he didn’t immediately move, she added, “Now?”
“What for?” He glanced at the list and read off several of the items. “Wood, cardboard, colored foil? Is this part of your list of tasks for your mother? Or are you building a mirror to help find yourself?” He leaned toward her, his lips a breath from the crook of her neck. “Want to let me in on what you’ve got planned?”
Delicious shivers raced down her back, but she silently lectured herself to stay strong. Don’t melt. Remember the old carny saying. Eyes on the prize. “Not yet,” she told him, then placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed. “Now go buy those things for me. I need to get started if I want to finish on time.”
“On time for what?”
She flashed him a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll see.”
Once he left on her errand, she struggled out of the chair, and hopped on her good leg toward the door she knew led to the basement. If anyone caught her, she’d probably wind up tied to the bed for the remainder of her stay
, but she needed a place to work and hide her project while in progress.
Hobbling down one step at a time, hands white-knuckling the bannister, she managed to reach the bottom. Dampness weighted the air, and mildew stung her nostrils. There was no natural light, due mostly to the snow piled higher than the ground level windows. Boxes lined the walls, along with a vertical stack of folding chairs. A spider web the size of Kansas, its fuzzy gray occupant loitering in the center, hung from one corner of the room. Not exactly ideal working conditions, but she’d dealt with plenty of worse situations over the years.
She found a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, and when she flipped the switch, the bulb gave off plenty of light. Yes, this would do fine. She created a makeshift workbench from a sheet of plywood and two sawhorses. After laying out her sketches, she found a bunch of old clothespins to keep them in place, then hobbled back upstairs and into her chair before Rhys returned.
Rhys. He wasn’t going to be as easy to figure out. Especially since the one gift they both wanted—for her to stay with him—she couldn’t give him. So what could she give him?
She still didn’t have an idea when he came back with two bags of supplies. “Where do you want these?”
Oops. Well, now, here was a dilemma. She couldn’t exactly tell him to bring them to the basement. “My bedroom, I guess.” She’d hide them under the bed ‘til tomorrow. With Rhys already here, and the family due home soon, she wouldn’t get a chance to start work tonight anyway.
“On the bed okay?” He started walking down the hall.
“Under the bed would be better.”
He stopped, turned to look at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s going on? What are you up to now?”
Lips clamped tight, she shook her head.
Mistletoe and Magic Page 18