“Hey, Tor, it’s Phyllis. Got a minute?”
Perched on the edge of her bed, Phyllis twirled the phone cord around her index finger.
“Of course,” Tory said. “Chrissie’s asleep, Ben and Sam are out shopping—last-minute, typical-male style—and Carol drove down to the diner to pick up some lunch. Alex went with her.”
Phyllis had to grin. It felt so damn good to hear the happiness in Tory’s voice. The perfect family scenario she’d described. Ben Sanders and Sam Montford were cousins, joint heirs to the Montford fortune, who’d only found each other within the past year.
“Carol’s still coming over everyday?” Phyllis asked. As neither Tory nor Ben had living parents, Sam’s mom, Carol—Ben’s aunt—had taken over the role of mother to Tory and Ben, too.
“Yes,” Tory said, but although she tried to sound exasperated, her tone was filled with wonder. And love. “I got my stitches out four days ago, but she still insists I shouldn’t be left alone.”
“She’s a very special person,” Phyllis said, wishing she could hug Carol right then and there. Phyllis might be able to help people think through their problems, but Carol Montford was the real healer among them.
“I know,” Tory said, her voice as quiet as it used to be when Phyllis had first met her. “I can’t believe I’m so lucky.”
“After the first twenty-three years you survived, you deserve every ounce of luck that comes your way,” Phyllis assured her friend. “Let yourself believe in it, soak it up, and it’ll keep right on coming.”
Tory chuckled. “You’re very good for me, you know that?”
“Am I, Tor?”
“Of course! What’s up?”
Phyllis heard the immediate concern in Tory’s voice. She obviously hadn’t hidden her doubts as well as she’d intended. But then Tory was the one person in Shelter Valley who’d seen Phyllis at her worst. Fat and miserable and in mourning for her best friend. Because Tory had been living with her, Phyllis had been unable to conceal her emotions from the younger woman.
“Do you think I hide behind my friendships?”
“I’m assuming you want honesty here,” Tory said slowly. “Like before you lost the weight and you wanted me to tell you the truth about how you looked and what we had to do to fix it.”
Locking her knees, feet braced against the floor, Phyllis said, “Just like then.”
“Maybe you do hide a little,” Tory said in a rush, then continued, “But who wouldn’t, Phyllis? You’ve had rotten luck with men, an even worse marriage, and then, when you finally have a best friend, she dies….” Tory’s voice broke on the last word.
Both women were silent for an emotional moment, sharing the pain they would always share at the memory of Christine.
“But do I hide from you guys, too? Put up barriers when I might be the one who needs help?”
“Most definitely.”
No softening the blow on that one. Not that Phyllis was really surprised by the answer. She’d been doing a lot of thinking this past couple of days. Matt had revealed something important to her, something she’d refused to see. The clarity of vision she habitually brought to the problems of others she now brought to her own.
“I’ve always thought that you keep yourself busy helping everyone else so that you won’t have time to see what’s going on inside you,” Tory said, her words, though harsh, brimming with love.
“I was digging myself into a hole and didn’t even notice the dirt closing in around me,” Phyllis said, half to herself. She studied the paint on the wall, the texturing, looking for a pattern that wasn’t completely random. “I really believed that my life was finally perfect.”
Tory laughed—a rich sound that delighted Phyllis, who recalled a time when Tory didn’t laugh at all. Or even smile. “And this from a psychologist?” she asked. “You of all people know that life isn’t ever perfect. Like you’ve taught me, there’ll always be trials. But happiness comes when we can create a solid base of security and love for ourselves. That’s what sees us through those trials.”
“Physician, heal thyself, huh?” Phyllis said, chuckling a little, too.
“Is that what you’re doing, Phyl? Healing?”
Phyllis continued to glance from one swirl of paint to the next, looking for anything that repeated itself, giving even a hint of organization.
And she thought about Matt, remembering the expression on his face when he’d sat in front of her Christmas tree the night before, with only the colored lights illuminating the room—and him—as he told her how much he’d always hated Christmas.
“I don’t know,” she answered her friend. “I just know I have to try….”
THAT EVENING, after doing a couple of chores for her, Matt took Phyllis to see his house. She hadn’t asked his permission, but she’d brought along some Christmas decorations to put up while she was there. Somehow she knew she had to teach this man to believe in Christmas if they were to have any chance at a life together.
She’d dressed festively for the occasion, as well—black leggings, a long chenille sweater boldly red to show off her hair and black leather boots with just enough of a heel to be sassy. And sexy.
Although it probably wasn’t the most mature idea she’d ever had, she was hoping they were going to christen Matt’s home with more than just decorations.
“What’s in there?” he asked, glancing at the big black plastic trash bag she’d carried to the car.
Phyllis grinned at him. “A surprise,” was all she said. She refused to give him a chance to tell her no. She knew he needed this, even if he didn’t.
He was wearing black jeans and a forest-green, button-down corduroy shirt underneath his black leather jacket. His hair was mussed and inviting. And staring at him, Phyllis got the shock of her life.
She was in love with him.
She loved Matt Sheffield. Totally. Completely. As much as she loved the babies growing inside her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his brow creased with concern.
“Um, nothing,” she said, turning to look out the window. “Is it much farther?”
“A couple of miles,” he said, slowing the Blazer. “You feeling sick again?”
She was. But not the way he meant. She hadn’t had a bout of morning sickness that week. She shook her head.
And forced herself to concentrate on the log house as it came into view. Taking in the burnished wood, the fieldstone foundation, the sparkling windows. Knowing as she did, that Matt had helped build the place with his own two hands.
She hadn’t meant to be impressed, but she was. His home was beautiful.
They went inside. “One thing’s for sure,” she said, looking around, admiring the polished hardwood floors and perfectly chosen trim, the wet bar by the fireplace, the state-of-the-art kitchen. “If we ever do end up living together, it’s not going to be at my place.”
She wished she’d bitten her tongue. That statement had been far too presumptuous.
“In town would be more convenient,” he said, not missing a beat as he poured her a glass of orange juice. “And much closer to school when the time comes.”
He bent to turn on the gas fireplace.
Phyllis gulped her drink.
Maybe they really were thinking of a future. Making plans. Even if those plans were so tentative neither of them could make a commitment yet.
And then, setting down her glass, she dipped into the bag she’d brought. A wreath for his door. A one-and-a-half-foot-tall ceramic Christmas tree that had little colored bulbs in tiny holes all around it. They lit up when the tree was plugged in, and the effect was both simple and charming. A cross-stitch of a couple of kids peering over the banister at their tree on Christmas Eve, with the words, “’Twas the Night before Christmas” embroidered across the top. It was something her mother had made and given her years before; Phyllis took pleasure in sharing it with Matt.
“What are you doing?” he asked, turning around to find her delving in her
bag.
“This is your first Christmas, Matt,” she said, trying to instill equal amounts of cheer and determination in her voice. She wasn’t going to surrender on this one. “We can’t let it happen without getting your home ready for it.”
With a hammer and nail she’d brought from home—so she wouldn’t have to ask Matt—she grabbed the cross-stitch and headed for a patch of wall beside the fireplace. Every muscle in her body was tense, ready to wrestle him for the wall—and the seconds it would take her to mar it with her gift.
She marched right up to the wall. Took a visual measure, hammered, hung the cross-stitched kids, smiling at the wonder and anticipation shining in their eyes. Then she straightened it and stepped back.
He hadn’t tried to stop her.
As a matter-of-fact, he hadn’t argued at all. He’d remained completely silent.
With renewed courage and a lot of curiosity, Phyllis turned, half-expecting to find that he’d walked out on her.
He was standing in the middle of the room, studying the picture she’d just hung.
He opened his mouth and Phyllis braced herself for the argument she’d rehearsed.
“Thank you.”
They were the sweetest words she’d ever heard.
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER, feeling the glow from their joint decorating escapade—and the joint lovemaking adventure that followed—Phyllis wandered into Matt’s kitchen looking for him. When she’d gone into the bathroom to shower, he’d said he was going to get some dinner started for them.
He was grilling steaks on the back porch. Baked potatoes were in the oven—the kind that came frozen and stuffed from the grocery store—and a loaf of French bread sat on the counter. The table was set with earthenware china and matching stainless-steel cutlery, as well as a large wooden salad bowl heaped with romaine lettuce, sliced tomatoes and avocado.
For someone who’d never known a real home, Matt had sure done a spectacular job of making one for himself.
There were a couple of letters on the counter waiting to be mailed. For some reason, that touch of normal, everyday life gave Phyllis more security than the immaculately set table.
As she walked by the counter on her way to the back door, a name on the first envelope caught her attention. Probably because it was handwritten and she wasn’t familiar enough with Matt’s handwriting not to be curious about it.
Once she saw the name, however, the handwriting didn’t matter.
What on earth was Matt mailing to Shelley Monroe? What could he possibly have to say to a girl who’d let him lose two years of his life sitting in a prison cell?
She picked up the envelope, intending to ask him about it, then abruptly put it back down. She recognized what had been clearly visible through the thin white envelope.
A check.
Matt was sending Shelley Monroe money.
“She’s only twenty-three years old.”
She hadn’t heard him come in. But when she swung toward him, she could tell that he knew he should have told her.
Phyllis’s heart sank. She wasn’t surprised. Not even a little bit. He didn’t trust her, not completely. Not enough to tell her something this important. She knew the feeling well. Her ex-husband had held out on her, too.
“She has a nine-year-old son and she’s trying to get a college education so she can give him one.”
“You don’t have to justify yourself to me.”
“I’ve been sending her money since the beginning…”
“Must’ve made it harder for the jury to believe you when you said you weren’t guilty.”
He shrugged. “Maybe, but I couldn’t let that stop me from being responsible for my actions.”
“You didn’t sleep with her. The child isn’t yours. You have no responsibility.”
“I led her on. I encouraged a fourteen-year-old kid to think of herself as a desirable woman.”
“Someday.”
His eyes were piercing when she finally looked at him again. “She missed that part,” he said.
“It’s not the money that matters, anyway,” Phyllis told him honestly. Her stomach was churning. She didn’t know if she should go out and get some fresh air or prepare to make a dash for the bathroom.
Matt, coming up behind her, took hold of her shoulders, gently turning her to face him. “What, then?”
Although Phyllis struggled against her tears, she didn’t quite succeed.
“The fact that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me about the ‘guilt’ payments,” she told him. “You didn’t want to hear what I thought of them.”
“I—”
“It’s okay, Matt,” she said, pulling away from him. She’d left her purse in the living room, hadn’t she? Next to the trash bag they’d emptied. “Brad and the couple of guys I was serious about before him couldn’t give themselves wholly to me, either. They were afraid of what I’d do with the things I learned about them. Or more accurately, what I might try to make them feel.”
“You’ve got it wrong this time.” Matt sounded just sure enough to make her turn around.
His gaze was forthright, completely open. And so understanding.
“How’s that?” she asked.
“I did deliberately withhold the information,” he admitted, and her heart, which had picked up hope, dropped it again. “But not for the reason you assume.”
She was still listening, trying to suspend judgment long enough to hear what he had to say. Still listening because she couldn’t do anything else.
“I didn’t tell you because I was afraid that if you knew, you’d assume just what the jury assumed—that if I was paying her, I must be guilty of the claims she’d made.”
Phyllis stood there for a full minute, digesting what he’d said, replaying his explanation in her mind, analyzing it from every angle. Tone of voice. Body posture. Content.
He was telling her the truth. And it was about trust. About being afraid to trust. Not about her at all.
With tears in her eyes, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her head to his chest, absorbing the reassuring beat of his heart. “Please,” she said against his shirt, “please don’t ever keep things from me again. Trust me.”
Matt lifted her head with gentle fingers, holding her face up to his. “And you’re going to trust me, too?” he asked.
Trust him to tell her the truth? Or trust him not to leave her like all the others? Trust him to love her for who she was?
Phyllis might have been able to give him the answer he wanted if he’d even once said he loved her.
HIS FIRST CHRISTMAS was turning out to be far more than he’d ever imagined. Because in all the movies he’d ever seen, the TV shows, the windows he’d peeked into as a kid, he’d seen only the trappings of Christmas, lovely as those were. He’d never known that what made Christmas wasn’t the food, or the presents, the decorations or the colorful lights. It was the warmth, the ineffable sense of contentment, that pervaded the room, the house, the day.
He’d thought, during his years in Shelter Valley, that he’d found peace. On this first Christmas, during his thirty-fourth year of life, he finally discovered what the word meant.
“You know what’s the absolute best thing about this day?” Sophie asked him quietly, leaning across the table while Phyllis mashed the potatoes at the stove.
“What?”
The kid looked great. Happy. Matt was glad Phyllis had invited her to join them.
“The fact that you want me to become friends with your friends,” she said, an odd gleam in her eyes.
Matt’s radar went off, warning him of something very bad. His stomach tensed.
“Here we are.” Phyllis sounded so happy that Matt felt happy, too, as she joined them, passing around turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, rolls, broccoli and a seven-layer salad.
By the time the meal was finished, he’d almost forgotten the dread that had invaded the most perfect day he could ever remember.
He’d mana
ged to convince himself that he’d over-reacted. He didn’t have to be so guarded anymore. The past was past. He’d proved himself here in Shelter Valley. More importantly, he’d proved himself to himself. He was a good man. A man worthy to be sitting at this table, enjoying the first real peace he’d ever known.
A man worthy enough to love the woman sitting across from him?
“Dessert?” Phyllis asked. “There’s Dutch apple pie with vanilla ice cream, or homemade sugar cookies with confectioner’s icing.”
“I’d like both,” Matt said, rubbing his already full belly. He just wasn’t ready for the experience to end.
“Me, too,” Sophie said.
Phyllis laughed. “How can either of you have room for two desserts?”
“I have a separate dessert compartment,” Matt boasted.
Sophie laughed. Phyllis gave him a wicked wink.
Matt’s day was complete.
He only made it halfway through the two desserts, but he noticed Sophie still going to town on hers. His eyes met Phyllis’s over the girl’s head. She’s fine, his tried to say. Phyllis shook her head, frowning.
And ten minutes later, he understood why. While Phyllis and Matt were busy with the dishes, Sophie excused herself and disappeared. Phyllis waited only a moment before grabbing his hand and following the girl.
“I hope I’m wrong,” she whispered as they practically tiptoed down the hall to the guest bathroom.
She wasn’t wrong. Sadness engulfed Matt as he listened to the sounds coming from inside that room. Sophie was ridding herself of all the food she’d just eaten.
Even he knew what that meant. Bulimia.
On such a good day, surrounded by people who were genuinely fond of her, people who believed in and supported her, with presents yet to open under the tree, Sophie couldn’t just relax and give herself a break.
When she opened the door, Matt and Phyllis were still standing there.
“Sorry, I wasn’t feeling well,” she said, not looking either of them in the eye. “Must have eaten too much. But don’t worry, I didn’t make a mess or anything.”
“I couldn’t care less about that,” Phyllis said. She wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders and led her into the living room, sitting beside her on the couch. Not sure what he should do, Matt sat on Sophie’s other side.
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