Holiday in Your Heart

by Susan Fox

  Since then, Caribou Crossing had obviously gone through a revival. Even on a chilly, gray Monday afternoon, people bustled around looking cheerful. Businesses and homes were spruced up and old buildings had been restored. There were picturesque touches like bright awnings, planters full of bronze and yellow chrysanthemums, and stylized wire-frame animals that he figured were supposed to be caribou.

  Hennessey Auto Repair, when he reached it, looked much the same. There wasn’t a lot you could do to make an automotive repair shop look picturesque. As usual, the parking area held a motley assortment of cars, trucks, and farm equipment. One of the doors to the service bays was partially open. The whirr of a drill sounded from inside, competing with Johnny Cash on the radio singing “Folsom Prison Blues.” Nope, not much had changed here.

  Mo followed the whine of the drill to find a stocky, overall-clad back bent over a workbench. No one else appeared to be around. The drill shut off. Johnny Cash finished up the song, wishing for a train whistle to rid him of his blues.

  Mo said, “Mr. Hennessey?”

  The man turned, shoving protective goggles up over thin, gray hair. “Yeah?”

  “Wondered if—”

  “Mo Kincaid?” Hank asked, stepping toward him and narrowing his eyes. “That really you?”

  “You recognize me?” He’d worked for Hank for not much more than a year and it had been a long time ago. But Mo’s looks were distinctive, his blue-green eyes a contrast to his brownish skin and black hair. His birth name was Mohinder McKeen, the first part coming from his South Asian mother and the second from his Irish-American dad.

  “You were a good mechanic.” The shorter man studied Mo’s face.

  “You fired me.” After Mo showed up late for work, hungover, one too many times.

  “I’m a businessman.”

  “I know.” Hank had been a fair employer and a decent man. While Mo had faced some small-town racism, there’d never been a hint of that from Hank. “And that means you don’t likely want to give me another chance,” Mo continued. He’d known this was a long shot, but he’d worked out what he wanted to say to this man.

  “You’re looking for a job?” Hank asked disbelievingly.

  “I am. I used to be a good mechanic, and I’m better now. And I’m a changed man, Mr. Hennessey. I can’t promise I’ll stay for long because my plans are, uh, a little uncertain. But as long as I’m in town, I’ll work hard and I’ll show up on time. You don’t have to pay me much, only enough to cover rent and groceries.” Mo had saved money over the years, and this was less about earning a salary than about his desire to keep regular work hours and do something useful with his time.

  The older man’s blue eyes were faded, but still piercing as he kept them on Mo’s face.

  Mo went on. “I used to have a drinking problem, but that’s a long ways in the past.” At one point, he’d gone to some A.A. meetings. He’d realized he wasn’t an alcoholic, but at those meetings he’d figured out that he was a bitter, angry man who was weak enough to seek solace in alcohol. He’d seen that booze never offered a solution; as with the alcoholics, drinking made his problems worse. Blaming fate or other people wasn’t constructive, and he’d managed to let go of his anger and make peace with the world he lived in. He’d also decided that, even if he wasn’t an alcoholic, it was safest to stay away from booze. “I haven’t had a drink in years. For the last five years, I managed an auto repair business in Regina. I can give you a phone number and you can check with them.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, I just fired an assistant last month. Idiot couldn’t be bothered with diagnostics, just threw parts at the problem.” Hank’s gaze remained steady on Mo’s face. “You say your plans are uncertain. Mind sharing those plans?”

  Mo swallowed. He wasn’t a guy who opened up to anyone about his personal shit. But it was a fair question, given how he was asking Hank to take a chance on him. “I hope to see my ex-wife and my son. I know I can’t make things right, but I owe them an apology.”

  “Yeah, you do. But they’ve built good lives for themselves. What if they don’t want to see you?”

  And there it was. The worry that kept Mo awake at night.

  Was he here for Brooke and Evan, as the honorable, responsible thing to do, or was he being selfish? He kept telling himself he had to own up to his sins, offer a sincere apology, and see if there was any way he could make amends. But he had no right to mess up their lives just because he wanted to make peace with himself and feel a little less of a shit. “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. Maybe this is a bad idea.”

  “But?”

  “But for the past two or three years, I’ve had this compulsion. I can’t ignore it any longer.”

  “Your gut talking to you,” Hank said.

  More like his conscience, but he’d said enough already.

  “My gut talks to me,” the other man went on. “Now it’s telling me to hire you.” He held out his hand. “Don’t make me regret listening to it.”

  * * *

  “Aside from your age, you’re an ideal candidate,” Dr. LaTisha Jones told Maribeth Scott on Wednesday afternoon. “The lab test results are all great. You’re healthy and physically active. And thirty-nine really isn’t all that old these days.”

  “Thanks for that,” Maribeth said dryly to the petite younger woman with her neatly cornrowed black hair. It was in fact Maribeth’s age and her insistent biological clock that had brought her to the women’s health clinic to discuss artificial insemination. As far back as she could remember, she’d known she was destined to be a mom. It was part of her identity, even more than her red hair.

  She’d assumed she would meet the love of her life and everything would fall into place: marriage, building a happy home, having a handful of kids. But, to her bafflement and frustration, she’d never even reached the first step. Though she’d dated tons of men, most of them pretty great guys, she’d yet to feel that magical “click” and know that this was the person she wanted to build a future with. And no way would she settle for anything less than true love.

  Next year she’d turn forty. The longer she waited, the lower her chance of getting pregnant and the higher the risks. It was time to pursue a different route. Although her social conscience nagged that she should adopt an underprivileged baby or child, her dream had always been the full experience: carrying a baby within her body, giving birth, holding that warm, sweet little body in her arms moments after he or she first emerged into the world. Of course in that dream, there’d been a loving man at her side through every—

  “You’ve already gone off birth control.” Dr. Jones’s voice interrupted Maribeth’s musing. “Eat healthily, take the prenatal vitamins, cut down on or even better eliminate alcohol and caffeine, and keep up with your yoga and other exercise. This first time, we won’t use ovulation stimulation medication. We’ll see how you do without it. Your period started on Sunday, so come back next Monday and we’ll check for signs of ovulation, but more likely it won’t occur for another week after that. Most women ovulate around day fourteen of their cycle.” The doctor flashed a saucy grin. “And most important, find that perfect sperm donor.”

  “I can’t wait to start looking through the profiles.” Maribeth had thought seriously about the men she knew, some of whom were really quite wonderful. But it was such a huge thing to ask of a friend, and then what if he wanted to be involved in the baby’s life? That definitely wasn’t her dream, raising a child together with a man she didn’t love and didn’t live with. Besides, one day Mr. Right would come along, they’d get married, and he’d step into the role of dad.

  So she would do her shopping online and find a donor who’d remain anonymous. Dr. Jones had given her a code to access the online site for a sperm bank the women’s clinic was affiliated with.

  “Let me know as soon as you decide on a donor,” the doctor said, “so we can order the sperm and have it ready for you when you’re ovulating. But remember, if you’re not ready this month, we�
��ll do it in January. This is a decision you don’t want to rush into.”

  Dr. Jones was so right. Maribeth felt the weight of the responsibility. She’d be choosing the biological father of her child. Yet now that she’d made the decision to proceed, she was eager to get on with it. If insemination worked this month, she would be pregnant at Christmas. It would be such an amazing gift. Of course, even if she got pregnant in the next two or three months, there’d still be a little one sharing the next Christmas with her. And then Maribeth would probably have—or maybe this time adopt—a second baby. Being an only child was lonely, as she well knew. Of course, it was possible that her first pregnancy would result in twins, and wouldn’t that be a blessing?

  As she closed the clinic door behind her, a twinge of regret slowed her steps. She’d been dating since she was thirteen. Though her friends teased that she was super picky, that wasn’t true. Falling in love wasn’t a rational decision; it was about that gut-level, heart-level certainty that this was the one person you were destined to be with. Your happily-ever-after person with whom you’d create babies the good old-fashioned way.

  She shook her head, deliberately shoving the regret from her mind. When she was a little girl longing for a sibling, her mom had told her it wasn’t going to happen. When she was orphaned at the age of nineteen, she’d had to come to terms with the fact that she’d never be able to hug her parents again or hear them tell her they loved her. She couldn’t have a brother or sister and she couldn’t have her parents. She could still have love, and one day the right man would come along.

  But for now, if she didn’t move quickly, having a baby would fall into the “can’t have” side of the equation—and no way was she letting that happen. It was time to stop waiting and wishing, and to start being proactive. She was going to be a mom and give her child—children, hopefully—the best, most loving, happiest life that she possibly could.

  Checking her watch, she saw that it was past five. There wasn’t much point heading back to Days of Your. Running her own business, a thrift shop, gave her flexibility in terms of setting her hours, though she generally tried to keep regular ones: ten until six, Tuesday through Saturday. It was a rare occasion when she shut early, as she’d done this afternoon.

  She was eager to get home and start checking out sperm donor profiles, but first she had to walk over to Hennessey’s and pick up her car. She had dropped it off first thing that morning for an oil change and tune-up, and to get snow tires put on.

  Maribeth turned up the collar of her tweedy black-and-white coat against the brisk November air, put on red leather gloves, and hitched her Kate Spade tote over her shoulder. With the two-inch heels of her leather ankle boots clicking on the sidewalk, she set off toward the garage. She loved pretty clothes, and running a thrift shop gave her first pick from a wide selection of items. It was amazing how many nearly new clothes, shoes, and bags, some with designer labels, were donated.

  As she walked, she exchanged greetings with a few townspeople. Caribou Crossing was small and she’d lived there all her life, which meant she had at least a passing acquaintance with many of the residents. Once she got pregnant, there would be gossip, but she’d ride it out. Folks liked her and they’d be sympathetic. Her child wouldn’t suffer as a result of her decision to be a single parent. As for male companionship and role models for her little one, she knew loads of great guys, some of them married to good friends of hers, who’d provide that.

  Hennessey Auto Repair, on the outskirts of town, had the usual half-dozen cars parked outside, including her red-and-white Mini Cooper. The doors of the auto bays were closed against the cold, but light shone through the windows. As she approached the building, a cinnamon-brown dog skittered away and ran under one of the parked cars. Unleashed; maybe a runaway? If it was still there when she came out again, she’d call the shelter. The temperature was dipping below freezing these nights, and the animal shouldn’t be fending for itself.

  Maribeth went in the front door to the office and reception area, which was deserted. No surprise. Like her, Hank ran his business single-handedly much of the time. His two kids had chosen other careers, and though he sometimes hired an assistant, things never worked out for long. She had to wonder what the town would do when the aging mechanic decided to retire, since his was the only repair shop in town.

  Knowing Hank would be in the auto bays working on a car, she went on through. That distinctive machine-shop scent of oil and metal filled her nostrils, and as usual the radio was playing. Jason Aldean was telling his lady friend that they were just getting started. Raising her voice so it would carry over the music, she said, “Hank?”

  A muffled grunt was her response.

  Following the sound, and unbuttoning her heavy coat, she stepped carefully around a big-wheeled truck to see overall-clad legs protruding from under a green car so ancient that it had fins. A couple of clangs came from under the car, and then the man began to slide out on one of those roller-tray thingies.

  But was that Hank? The legs were awfully long and the waist very lean for the stocky mechanic. A torso in grimy overalls slid into sight, and then finally—no, that definitely wasn’t Hank. Maribeth stared at a strikingly handsome face framed with longish, wavy, black hair.

  “Hey,” the man said, swinging up from the rolling mechanic’s board and getting lithely to his feet, giving her a slow-breaking smile that flashed white against brown skin.

  Wow. That smile scored higher on “dazzle factor” than Tom Cruise’s. “Hi. So Hank has a new assistant.”

  “Just started today. I’m Mo.”

  She read male appreciation in his eyes, which wasn’t the least bit unusual. What was less common was the responding ripple of heat through her blood. The man truly was hot. “Maribeth,” she said. “Also known as MB. So, where’s Hank?” Had he left a brand-new assistant in charge of the shop?

  “Some family thing came up and he was needed at his daughter’s house. What can I do for you, Maribeth?”

  His voice was purely masculine with a slight rough edge like callus on fingertips. It distracted her so that she barely caught his actual words. “I came to pick up my car. It’s the Mini parked outside.”

  “Sure. Let’s see if we can find your keys and an invoice.” He gestured toward the office.

  She walked ahead of him and rounded the counter to stand on the customer side.

  He took a small key ring from his pocket, unlocked a cabinet behind the counter, and rummaged inside. “This’ll be yours.” He produced her spare key.

  As she took it from him, she studied him more closely. Normally, Hank’s assistants were young guys, but this man was at least her age. Maybe that was why he’d made her think of Tom Cruise. A few strands of silver threaded that wavy, black hair, and lines cut lightly into the skin around his eyes and between his nose and mouth. His skin was medium brown, something other than a suntan left over from summer. She guessed he was mixed race, maybe part South Asian or Native Canadian. His eyes were unexpected, a mix of blue and green that was stunning against that darkish skin. Black stubble shadowed his jaw, and a smudge of grease on one strong cheekbone made her finger itch to smooth it away. To be honest, her fingers, her entire body, itched to touch him all over, even though he was greasy and smelled like a machine shop.

  She’d dated a lot of good-looking guys, but had she ever felt this kind of immediate chemistry?

  It seemed as if the feeling might be mutual, because he’d more or less frozen, staring at her face. She smiled, flexing her feminine power. Guys had always been drawn to her red hair, sparkling green eyes, and full lips.

  He grinned back, the lines running from his nose to his lips turning into dimpled clefts.

  Maribeth liked men. Always had; probably always would. Just because she’d decided to become a single parent, that was no reason not to enjoy being with a particularly attractive guy. One who drew her with an almost magnetic appeal. “You’re new in town,” she said.

  “T
hat’s not a question,” he noted.

  “A guy like you, if you’d been in Caribou Crossing long, I’d have known.” The words themselves were neutral, but the way she said them wasn’t. She was flirting and making no bones about it.

  He laughed. “You’re not shy, are you?”

  “Not for a single day of my life. Seems to me it’s a waste of time.”

  The humor faded from his face, leaving him looking older. “Since you don’t like wasting your time, I should tell you that I’m not, you know, looking to date.”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. Well, that certainly told her where she stood. Except that she could have sworn he was attracted to her. “Married?” she guessed. “Or involved?”

  He shook his head. “And don’t want to be.”

  The hottest guy she’d met in forever, and he was turning her down. She shouldn’t feel such a jolt of disappointment. After all, she had better plans for the evening anyhow: shopping for a sperm donor. “I should pay my bill.”

  “Sure. Let me see if I can find it on the computer.” He jiggled the mouse, clicked some keys, and asked, “Last name?”

  “Scott.”

  A moment later, he said, “Got it.” Another click, and a printer hummed to life. He took the page and handed it over. “Look about right?”

  She leaned over the invoice and curls tumbled into her face. Her hair, thick and wavy down past her shoulders, was getting unruly. Shoving it back with an impatient “pfft,” she muttered to herself, “I need to call Brooke and make a hair appointment.” She scrutinized the bill and then took a credit card from her wallet. “This looks fine.”

  Mo didn’t seem to notice the card. He was staring at her face. “Brooke?” His voice croaked. “Brooke, uh, Brannon?”