“You’re not going to tell me?”
Again, she shook her head.
A smug smile twitched his lips, and he shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to call in sick and spend the next several days here to keep an eye on you.”
Oh, cripes. He’d do it, too.
Fine. She had no choice. She’d have to trust him to keep her secret until Wigilia. “It’s a special Christmas present for the Nowaks.”
He looked at the filled bags in his hands, then up into her face. “What are you making?”
“A szopka.”
His expression softened, and she could almost read his thoughts: Aww, how cute! She thinks she can recreate magnificent works of art with a glue stick and aluminum foil.
“You don’t have to do that, Polina.”
She opted to meet his doubts head-on. “You don’t think I can build one, do you?” Self-confidence lent her tone bravado. The idea had first struck her when Cyryl’s face lit up inside the museum. Once the thought bloomed, she’d begun making plans in her head. She studied the seams and lines, asked the right questions from everyone in attendance who looked like an expert. After all that scrutiny, she knew she could build a szopka with one hand tied behind her back.
His eyes widened, and his smile quirked up on one side. “In a week? Sorry, sweetheart, but no. Artisans in the city spend months working on their pieces.”
“Maybe, but I have an edge. I’m not building one for a competition. This is a gift of love, or I should probably call it a gift of magic to get you to understand.”
The smile disappeared, and he tilted his head to study her with a stern expression. “Magic, huh? So…what? You’ll snap your fingers, and a bunch of elves will appear to do the work while you sleep?”
“No. And don’t make fun. The Nowaks have been very good to me these last few days. I have to give them something for Christmas, or Wigilia, or whatever they call it.”
“Look,” he said on a heavy sigh, “if it’s an issue of money, why don’t I take you Christmas shopping this weekend? You can pick out anything you want and I’ll—”
“No! You will not pay for the gift I plan to give them. Even I know that’s cheating. Besides, gifts aren’t about money; they’re to show you’re thinking of the recipient. Since I’ve been staying here, I haven’t had to pay for my room and meals so I have some money squirreled away. I can do this on my own.”
“You’re starting the independent woman game already, huh? Okay, fine. I can accept that. But if you’re planning this gift as a surprise, where do you plan to work on it without Agata finding out?”
“Let me worry about the particulars,” she said with a dismissive wave.
He nodded, turned, and continued down the hallway toward her bedroom. Polina released a tense breath until he ruined the moment by tossing over his shoulder, “That’s probably best. This way, when Agata does find out and metes out your punishment, I can tell her under oath that I remained blissfully ignorant of your scheme.”
***
Sleet fell on Polina’s face as she stared at the crypt with the name, KOMINSKI, etched in perfect block lettering on the pristine rose marble. With the horrid weather, she was glad she’d declined the memorial service—Mom wasn’t much of a religious person anyway, especially since attending mass would have required her to get out of bed before the crack of noon on Sunday morning. Perish the thought.
Wanting this last time alone with her mother, she had asked Rhys and the Nowaks not to come with her today. But, of course, Rhys had insisted on bringing her. At least he’d had the grace to wheel her to the crypt, kiss her lightly, and hand her the umbrella. After reminding her to signal him when she was done, he strode out of earshot, but still in sight, beneath a canopied seating area.
“That’s Rhys,” she told the ashes already placed behind the stone door. “I like him a lot. I might even love him, but I want to be sure. I don’t know how you’d feel about him, Mom. I am sure about a few things, though. Unlike Travis, I can pretty much bet my life that Rhys would never crawl into bed with you because I turned him down.” Bitterness scorched her throat, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t go there. Not now.”
She inhaled a ragged breath and pushed away the ugly memories.
“What I really wanted to say is that I know you tried. And maybe Rhys is right, and I don’t hate you. I mean, I did love you, Mom. I hated the choices you made for both of us. And I wonder if things might have been different if you’d found a good man to love—someone like my Rhys.”
She stole a glance over her shoulder to watch him, standing nearby, waiting, hands clasped behind his back. His entire posture communicated ease and patience. And love. My Rhys. Yes, she liked the way that sounded.
“Did you ever find a good man, Mom? If you did, why did you let him go?” The question had plagued her for years, and now, having found Rhys, she almost wished she might have gathered up the courage to ask her mother while she was still alive.
Dropping her gaze away from the crypt, she toyed with the tab of her jacket’s zipper. This conversation was harder than she expected, each word painful and heavy, but she needed to say them. “You know, I never told you, but I always wondered about my father: who he was and if he might know about me. Sometimes, when I was little, I wished he’d find me and he’d take me away to someplace nice and normal. I used to dream about growing up in a real house with brothers and sisters and Sunday dinners. And then I would feel guilty and remember that having your parents die when you were just a kid probably wasn’t what you dreamed of, either. Being here…” She indicated the trees and sky with an upraised hand. “…I think you might have been happier if Uncle Leo hadn’t come for you. I think I understand a lot now, about why you always sought to numb your feelings and escape reality. You missed your home. But, what I’ll never understand is why you blamed me. And you did. As much as I blamed you, you blamed me right back.”
Tears stung her eyes, and she tilted her head from outside the umbrella. The wind whipped harder, slashing icy pellets into her cheeks. Time to wrap up this conversation.
“So this is it now. I’ve done what you wanted, and it’s helped me make my peace with you. I finally get to start living on my own. Finally. I’ll no longer have you to fight with, to blame if things go wrong. And I admit, I’m scared, scared that the weaknesses I despised in you are just waiting to take hold of me.” She cast another glance backward to where Rhys stood and signaled for him to come fetch her. “What if I screw this up?” she whispered hoarsely. “What if I’m running away from my one chance for happiness?”
Shivering, she shook off the doubt. “But enough about me. I hope wherever you are now, you’re finally happy. Because now it’s my turn.”
Rhys approached her slowly, concern etched on his features as he stopped in front of her chair. “Everything all right, sweetheart?”
She took a deep breath, exhaled, and despite the sleet pelting her sideways from the wind, a warm glow suffused her. Her shoulders lifted, as if a ton of boulders had suddenly fallen from her back. Because, maybe, in ridding herself of her animosity toward her mother, she’d released the burdens of her past and could stride with confidence into a bright, shining future.
Grasping his gloved hand in hers, she beamed. “I’m good. Really good. Let’s roll.”
Chapter 9
After all the hectic preparations, Wigilia came to the Nowaks’ house on a placid blanket of fluffy snow. Throughout the prior weekend, Agata had prepared the house for tonight’s feast. Windows sparkled, and not a speck of dust remained indoors. According to Poland’s version of Mrs. Clean, legend said a dirty house on Christmas Eve foretold a dirty house all year long. Apparently, everything a person did or didn’t do on Wigilia held a deep significance for the coming year.
Before breakfast, Agata had made Polina wash her face and hands in a basin with a coin in the bottom. Like the house, if Polina began the day clean, she would stay clean until next Christmas. The coin, which she had to tou
ch several times, foretold of a year’s worth of riches ahead.
The table had been prepared this afternoon, including hay scattered beneath the pristine white tablecloth to represent the Christmas stable. There would be eleven dishes served tonight, including pickled beets, mushroom barley soup, pierogi, four different fish entrees, cabbage with split peas, fruit compote, and home-baked cookies.
In the living room, the air was redolent with the delicious aromas from the surrounding areas of the house: yeasty bread, candles, fruit, and gingerbread from the kitchen; pine from the tree, the crisp bite of snow from outside.
Polina’s ankle had finally healed, and she’d managed to finish her handmade gifts with time to spare. Now, she stood in front of the beautifully decorated Christmas tree, scrutinizing their hiding place, at the very back of the corner, against the wall, behind the mounds of gaily-wrapped packages. Pleased to see them so well disguised among the holiday flotsam and jetsam, she gave herself a secret thumbs-up. Mission accomplished.
She’d had to wrangle Stefan and Agata into her plans for Rhys, but since Rhys already knew about her gift for the Nowaks, she supposed turnabout was fair play. And both Nowaks had been honored, as well as delighted, to participate in what she planned. Her belly flipped when she imagined Rhys’s possible reactions. Agata swore he loved the Polish traditions, had studied them intently. Would he understand? Would he accept her meager offering? She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Only time would tell.
The Nowaks’ guests began arriving before twilight, most of them Agata’s relatives. Agata introduced Polina, and they greeted her with warmth and welcoming expressions, though none of them spoke English. They communicated through smiles and head nods. Not one showed the slightest surprise to have an unexpected guest among them.
“It’s tradition,” Rhys explained when she mentioned her confusion. “An extra place is always set at the table to honor the coming Christ child. If a stranger should appear in their midst on Wigilia, Polish families welcome the visitor as they would Jesus.”
No wonder her mother hadn’t worried she’d have trouble finding somewhere to celebrate a traditional Polish holiday in a strange city. “So I could knock on any stranger’s door tonight and instantly be made welcome?”
“Yes,” he replied, “but I’m very glad you wound up here tonight.”
Her heart warmed.
“If you weren’t here,” he continued, “Stefan would have invited Katia from the company’s compliance department to be my date.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “She’s a cold one. Cold and ugly.”
Fighting back a giggle, she punched his shoulder. “You stink.”
“I’m serious. It’s a bad omen to have an uneven number of guests at the Wigilia table. Superstition says a table with an uneven number will see one of the guests die before next Christmas. So if Hunter hadn’t run into you last week, I would have been forced to sit next to Attila the Hun’s great-great-great-great-great granddaughter, Katia the actuary.”
Hands planted on her hips, she pleated her forehead and narrowed her eyes. “That’s the only reason you’re glad I’m here?”
In one swift move, he pulled her into his embrace and nuzzled her neck. The lime and sea breeze scent of his cologne wreaked havoc with her brain matter, and she relaxed into him.
“I have a thousand reasons,” he murmured. “Chief among them that you are the best thing to come into my life ever, and if I had my way…” He let the statement trail off by placing soft, moist kisses from behind her ear to the notch where her neck met her shoulder.
By some mute agreement, they hadn’t revisited the conversation they’d shared outside the History Museum since that night. Nor did they discuss the fact that she would be returning to America in two days. Which made her wonder: If he really cared about her, wouldn’t he have spent the last week continually pleading his case?
While his warm breath skittered waves of pleasure down her spine, her brain chided her heart. Get a grip. You don’t know what you want or if you’re really in love with him. You don’t even know what love is.
In the carnival world, happily-ever-afters were as rare as millionaires. It was probably for the best he didn’t ask her to reconsider his offer. Her heart and brain had played tug-of-war over the topic all week. She didn’t need additional pressure from him.
Her gaze wandered to the decorated tree in the corner of the room. Would Rhys understand the significance of her simple gift? The bottom fell out of her stomach. God, what if she’d made a mistake? What if she was just a distraction to him? Something he’d forget the day after her flight left Poland? What if he ran into another woman next week and he believed she was meant to be his fate? What if he knew the significance but, when he saw her gift, he didn’t ask her to fetch a glass? Could she live with the public rejection? Okay, it wouldn’t be totally public because tradition dictated only the Nowaks could be in attendance when she presented the bottle to him, and she’d be rushing the whole ceremony, doing it all in one night, but still—
“Hey.” He traced a finger down her cheek. “Did I lose you?”
“No.” Not yet. But, tomorrow? Who knew?
Forcing a smile, she pushed away thoughts of tomorrow—at least for tonight.
***
Rhys knew she was preoccupied. Hell, he was, too. How could he not be, knowing in forty hours, she’d be gone? He sat beside her during dinner, methodically chewing and swallowing, tasting nothing. When the last course was finished, the family retired to the living room to exchange gifts. As he rose to join them, Polina took his hand to hold him back.
“Can we wait ‘til everyone goes to mass before we do presents?” she whispered. Pink spotted her cheeks. “I’d prefer it was just us with Stefan and Agata.”
The szopka. She must have been embarrassed about how her arts and crafts project turned out. Poor Polina. He’d tried to warn her. Luckily, he’d signed her name to the gift he’d brought for the Nowaks. He had something special for her, as well, and yes, now that she mentioned it, he’d also rather be alone with her when he gave her the first of what he still hoped would be a lifetime of gifts.
“Fair enough,” he told her, “but let’s go watch the others open their gifts, all right?”
For the next hour, they sat together on the couch and watched the melee of ripped paper, screeching children, appreciative kisses, and exuberant thank yous. Through it all, Rhys kept his hand clutched around Polina’s fingers. How would he possibly find the strength to let her leave in two days’ time when he couldn’t sit here without remaining tethered to her?
“You okay?” she asked.
He nodded and leaned down to brush his lips across her temple. The clock kept ticking, and while his heart still beat, the rhythm slowed. He wanted to breathe her in, memorize every aspect of her face, find a way to make her stay, dammit!
When the last of the gifts had been opened, Agata noticed the bulky gray bag wedged in the corner behind the tree. “What’s this?”
Polina shot to her feet. “Wait. Let me help you with that. It’s a gift from me.” She wriggled under the tree.
So much for waiting ‘til they were alone. Oh, well. In hindsight, it wasn’t easy to watch everyone else exchanging gifts and not become caught up in the excitement, he supposed. He should probably grab her gift from its hiding place to make things even.
But when he rose, Polina, her tantalizing behind wiggling from under the tree branches while she reached for the package, halted him. “Stay there, Rhys. I want you to see this. After all, I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Great. That was just what he’d feared. Equal responsibility in a wreck.
She re-emerged slowly, backing her way out from under the decorated tree on her knees. When she finally turned toward the crowd, a beaming smile lit up her face. The sad package she held had been wrapped in plastic shopping bags with a quaint red bow tacked on top. Rhys’s heart sank to his feet.
“Stefan, Agata, you brought me into
your home and handled me like family,” she said in awkward Polish. “I want to say thank you.” Switching to English, thank God, she added, “I’d like to ask Cyryl to unwrap this since it was his special request.”
When she signaled with a crook of her finger, the boy scampered forward, clapping his hands and chattering too rapidly for Rhys to catch any of what he said. His excitement, however, couldn’t be misinterpreted. She knelt in front of the child, still holding the dismal package. “Be careful now,” she admonished, “what’s inside is very delicate.”
As the boy painstakingly removed the plastic, Rhys looked away with a wince and stared hard at the other guests. If one of them so much as snickered, he’d—
A hush fell over the room. All eyes stared agog, all but Rhys’s. Poor Polina. God, it must be more hideous than he thought. The way a driver couldn’t look away from an accident scene, he felt himself being drawn to see the hideous spectacle. When he finally focused on Polina’s gift, his jaw dropped.
What had she told him? This wasn’t meant for competition. This was made from love. Made from…
Magic. She’d created magic. The szopka, approximately the depth of the family’s mantel clock, was exquisite in detail. Three spired towers of hammered copper, complete with delicate filigreed balconies and triple-arched doorways housed the infant and his adoring parents. Painted foil in vivid red and royal blue caught the lights off the Christmas tree and twinkled in a prism of colors. She’d even created tiny manger animals from clay. And in a golden crown above the center doorway, she’d added a large N. N for Nowak. A monogram.
“It’s also a music box,” she said proudly. Turning the szopka around, she showed Cyryl the key in the flat, unadorned back.
That’s where she’d cut corners to complete the project on time. Competition szopki were three-dimensional. Hers was all front so that it would seat with no issue on the family’s fireplace mantel. And she’d added a music box that played Silent Night.
Mistletoe and Magic Page 19