by Susan Fox
Maribeth shook her head.
“You’re still single, and not for lack of suitors, I would imagine,” the older woman continued.
“I’ve done my share of dating over the years.”
“Did any of those men haunt your thoughts? Did you find yourself wanting to be with them, to share your joys and woes with them?”
That was how he felt about Maribeth.
“No,” Maribeth said softly, picking up her cider glass and gazing into its depths. “That didn’t happen with any of those men.”
Of course she wouldn’t feel that way about Mo. Sooner or later she’d ditch him, as she had all her previous boyfriends. Would he get over her or would she still be there in his mind? Maybe even in his heart.
“Well then,” Daphne said to Maribeth, “at least you know one thing. None of them was your true love.”
Chapter Fifteen
After the dinner with Daphne and Irene, and after she and Mo had made love, Maribeth had trouble getting to sleep. Her mind insisted on puzzling over what the women had said. No, none of her previous boyfriends was the love of her life. That, she’d already known. But was Mo?
Yes, he haunted her thoughts and she wanted to share her highs and lows with him. But would that feeling last? And what if he didn’t feel the same? Or what if he did, but truly didn’t want to have children? If that was the case, he couldn’t possibly be the love of her life. Could he? Irene Peabody had confirmed what Maribeth had always believed: if it was true love, both people should agree on the important issues. And no “issue” was more important, in Maribeth’s mind, than views on having children.
After Mo left on Thursday morning to go to work, she did her yoga. Usually that settled not only her body but her brain. Not today. She kept mulling.
Her parents had been so right for each other. They said they’d fallen in love at first sight and never had second thoughts. She’d always expected that the same would happen for her.
Many times over the years, Maribeth had wished her mom and dad were still alive, and now she did so again. She’d love to be able to ask their advice. Of course, there were loads of girlfriends she could talk to, and some guy friends as well, but she wanted the wisdom of someone older. Someone whose love had stood the test of time.
What about her grandparents? Her mom’s parents were soul mates for life. They lived in Vancouver, but Maribeth visited them at least once a year and spoke to them on the phone or by video chat once or twice a week.
By the time she’d finished her yoga, she knew her grandparents would be at their breakfast table. She poured herself a cup of decaf Lady Grey tea, sat at her own kitchen table, and placed the call. After the usual catching-up chat, she told them about dining with Daphne and Irene and talking about relationships.
“They had great advice about how to sustain a relationship,” she said, “but they couldn’t tell me how you know when someone’s the right person. So I thought I’d ask you.”
“You think we can remember that far back?” Granddad’s voice rumbled.
“You’d better remember,” his wife warned teasingly. Then she said, “You’ve met someone special, Maribeth.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes.” Until now, she hadn’t mentioned Mo to them, nor her plan to get pregnant via a sperm donor. She’d wanted to wait until she was sure of what she was doing, but now she needed their help. “You know how I always said I was waiting for that click? Well, I feel it for him, physically and emotionally. But there are some problems, and I’m not sure we’re right for each other.”
“Well,” Grandma said slowly, “there’s no such thing as a relationship that’s problem-free. But some problems are more serious than others, and some prove to be insurmountable. So, dear, tell us what’s troubling you about your young man.”
Maribeth gave a short laugh. “Young man? Well, let’s start there. I’ll turn forty next year, and he’s fifty.”
“Pfft,” Grandma said, making Maribeth smile because she, too, used that expression. “Age is a meaningless number.”
“You didn’t say that when we were dating,” Granddad said. “Maribeth, you know she’s five years older than me, don’t you?”
“Yes, though I never really think about it.”
“Nor do we,” he responded. “But when I first asked her out, she fussed over it.”
“It was a big deal back in those days,” his wife said defensively.
“The man was supposed to be older,” he said. “Established, able to support the woman. I was just starting out, planning to be a lawyer but with years of education still ahead of me, and Cynthia was already a teacher.”
“That was partly it,” she said. “But it was more that I felt old and spinsterish compared to the girls you’d been dating.” She laughed. “Oh dear, when I look back, it seems like we grew up in the Dark Ages. Anyhow, Maribeth, are you telling me that ten years’ difference matters that much to you?”
“No, it really doesn’t. Fifty’s the new forty, right? And he, Mo, certainly doesn’t look like he’s fifty.” The man exuded hotness. Women of all ages, from their twenties through their eighties, responded to it, and likely that would never change.
“If it’s not age, then what’s the problem?” Grandma asked.
“He’s had a troubled life. He was, to use a cliché, an angry young man. He did some stupid things and some downright bad things. When he grew up and sorted himself out, he was determined to do no harm. Which has meant that, basically, he’s wary about getting too close to anyone. Though recently he’s been reconnecting with people from his past, apologizing for things he did to hurt them.”
“Hmm,” Granddad said. “It’s not good that he hurt people, but none of us has lived a blameless life. I will note that the easier thing for him would have been to stay away, but that’s not what he chose to do. Sounds like the man’s moral compass is set on the right course now.”
“It is. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Maribeth, you’re so warm and outgoing,” Grandma said. “You’ve always been an extrovert. You see the best in people, and you give the best of yourself with great generosity.”
Warmed by her approval, Maribeth was about to say “thank you,” but her grandmother wasn’t finished. “Your Mo is a different kind of person. He has carried a fair bit of negative emotion, am I right?”
“In the past, yes. Even now, I think he’s almost afraid to see the good in himself. To believe that he’s capable of emotional intimacy. To believe that he deserves to be loved.” She added slowly, “And no matter how much I might care about him, I deserve wholehearted love and commitment, not some shadowy halfway thing.”
“Of course you do, dear,” Grandma said. “But are you putting yourself in his shoes? Can you understand that it may be very difficult for him to achieve the things you want from him? You know I love you dearly, but you’re not always the most patient or flexible person when you get your mind fixed on something.”
Maribeth winced. She guessed she’d have to work on that, if she was going to be a good mother. “I know it’s not easy for Mo.”
“So, dear, can you be patient with him? How long have you known this man anyhow?”
“Well . . . a month,” she admitted.
Both of her grandparents’ laughter came through the phone.
“Okay, okay,” Maribeth said. “But you know how badly I want to have children. I can’t wait much longer.”
Granddad cleared his throat. “From the male perspective, if a woman I’d known for a month told me she wanted to have my baby, I’d likely turn tail and run for the hills.”
“You are expecting an awful lot from this man,” Grandma said, “in a very short time.”
“I know. You’re right. And that’s partly why I called. I always thought love would happen for me the way it did for Mom and Dad: that magic moment of recognition, like it’s destiny, and then everything falling perfectly into place.”
“Your
parents were extremely lucky,” Grandma said. “As were your granddad and I. But there are other paths to true love, and they can be equally valid.”
“I know. I see that with my friends and I guess I was naïve to think it would be totally obvious and easy for me. So now I need to figure out whether, despite the difficulties, Mo is the right man. In that case, I’ll try to be patient and work things out. But if he isn’t, then I need to move ahead, uh, in another direction.” If she did choose to get pregnant using the sperm donor, she’d make a trip down to Vancouver and tell her grandparents in person.
“Ask yourself,” her grandmother said, “if you’re drawn to Mo because he came along when you’re nearing forty and running out of time to have a baby. Is he like a last-gasp opportunity?”
“I’ve dated other men this year and never felt like this.” Of course Mo was the only man she’d been with since deciding to have a baby through insemination. Thinking it through, she added slowly, “In all the years I’ve been dating, I’ve never been so attracted to a man. It’s not just his looks and the, uh, physical side of things.” Her grandparents knew she dated a lot and no doubt also knew she’d lost her virginity long ago, but she’d never actually told them she’d had sex. “I also love being with him, talking to him. He has so many good qualities and . . . well, I could list attributes, but it’s . . .” She remembered what Irene and Daphne had said. “I think about him. I want to be with him. The idea of going through life without him feels bleak and empty.”
There was no response for a few seconds, and then Grandma said, “How does he feel about you?”
“Good question. I’m afraid to ask. Afraid to push him.”
“That sounds wise,” her grandfather said.
“Well,” Grandma said, “pushing isn’t wise. But what those retired schoolteachers said was right, about communication. If you don’t talk, there are bound to be misunderstandings. And then people get hurt. I don’t want to see you get hurt, dear.”
“Me either.”
“You need to get right down to the nitty-gritty,” her grandmother said. “Are your core values compatible? Yes, you say he has a strong moral compass, but how does he feel about the things that are most important to you? You care for others, you believe in equality, you hate prejudice. You support causes you believe in, with your money and your time. You value family, maybe above all else, and want to create one of your own. If your Mo doesn’t believe in these things, too, could you really see the two of you being happy together?”
“No,” she said quietly. As Grandma had spoken, Maribeth had been ticking off points in her mind. From the way Mo treated his landladies, she was pretty sure he wasn’t prejudiced. His behavior with Caruso indicated compassion; he volunteered at soup kitchens at Christmas; and he was generous in doing little fix-up chores for Maribeth and his landladies. As for valuing family—while Mo might not admit it even to himself, Maribeth thought that his attempts to reconcile with Brooke and Evan demonstrated that he did. But could he imagine himself starting a new family? With her? “Thanks for the advice, you two. I love you.”
After hanging up, she cradled her mug of tea in both hands. It seemed she and Mo were due for a serious conversation. Now she had to think about how to communicate honestly about her feelings without making him think she was pressuring him—which, as Granddad said, might well make him turn tail and run for the hills.
Mo already knew what her ultimate goal was: a happy marriage and children. But they’d known each other for only a month and had agreed to take things a day at a time. Realistically, a month’s dating was too short a foundation to leap into a lifelong commitment, no matter how powerful the attraction. So she wouldn’t talk about commitment, only about how her feelings for him were deepening.
And then she’d see how he responded.
* * *
Maribeth embraced the whole holiday thing with her characteristic enthusiasm, and so here Mo was on a Saturday evening, wandering around the tree lot that had been set up at one end of Caribou Crossing’s town square. It was a fund-raiser for the local Boys & Girls Club, and obviously popular with the townspeople. The place was a bit of a bedlam, with excited kids dragging their parents from tree to tree.
Still, he wasn’t about to complain, as he strolled along with Maribeth in the heavy sheepskin jacket he’d bought at her shop. Her hand was tucked through his arm and she was bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, wearing a candy-cane striped hat and a matching long scarf.
“What do you think of this one?” she asked, pointing to a Douglas fir.
“It’s lopsided. There are more symmetrical ones.”
“Other people will buy those. I always choose a Charlie Brown tree.”
“A what?”
“You know, from Peanuts? The poor spindly, neglected tree? If you give it appreciation and love, it can turn into something beautiful.”
“Okay.” It figured that Maribeth would do something like that. He also had to wonder just how much of a Charlie Brown fixer-upper project he was for the tenderhearted woman. His pride wasn’t fond of that notion.
They took another tour around the lot, and she ended up choosing the lopsided fir. As Mo carried it to her car, he said, “Sure does smell good. And it’s definitely fresh. The needles are soft and springy.”
He’d met her at her house earlier to put the roof rack on her Mini. Now he tied the tree onto the rack, and she drove home. Her house looked nice with the lights they’d strung last weekend, and snow on the roof and in the yard. When they had left earlier, Caruso’d gone off on one of his explorations, but at some point he’d come back and now he pranced down the shoveled walk to greet them. Mo had learned that the dog had amazing hearing, which made it virtually impossible to ever surprise him.
Maribeth parked at the curb. “We’ll bring the tree in the front door and into the living room, and put it in the stand,” she said. “And we’ll put the lights on. I’ve already checked that none are burned out. Then tomorrow morning, we’ll decorate it.”
Mo snapped a salute. “Yes, Chief.” He climbed out of the car and greeted Caruso with a stroke.
“Sorry.” Maribeth came around to join them and patted the dog. “Am I being bossy?”
“Just knowing how you like things done.” Mostly, he thought it was cute.
“I should have asked you for input. I haven’t even asked if you have any Christmas traditions of your own.”
He suppressed a snort. “Nope.” He began to untie the tree. And then, because this was Maribeth and he didn’t want to hide things from her, he went on. “Christmas has never been that great a time of year for me.”
“Oh, Mo, that’s terrible. Not even when you were a child?”
Speaking as he worked, he said, “My dad, the Catholic, wanted to celebrate Christmas with all the trappings, and of course, so did my sister and I. But Amma said it wasn’t right for Hindus to celebrate Christian holidays. She made some concessions—like, we did have a small tree and get a couple of presents—but she was begrudging, and it took the fun out of it.”
He pulled the freed tree off the top of the car and headed up the walk. “When Brooke and I were married . . . Well, I guess now that I know about her bipolar, it makes more sense. Some years she’d kind of go crazy with Christmas stuff and other years she was so depressed she didn’t even want to think about it.” He held on to the tree while Maribeth unlocked the front door. “Whichever way she was feeling, there was one constant: we drank, fought, and screwed Evan out of an enjoyable holiday.”
“How about after you left Caribou Crossing?”
“I pretty much just ignored Christmas.”
“You once said that you usually volunteer at a soup kitchen?”
“Yeah. If I’m lucky enough to have a roof over my head and food in the cupboards, I figure it’s good to help those who are less fortunate. Didn’t you say you help out at a soup kitchen, too?”
“I do. Maybe we can do that together this year.”
“I
’d like that.”
“So how do you feel about the rest of it?” Maribeth asked, leading the way into the living room. “I mean, with the lights and tree and all? Am I pressuring you into doing things you really don’t want to?”
“It feels kind of odd, I admit. But I like doing things with you. You’re helping me see the holiday in a different light.”
He propped the fir in a corner by the window, beside where she’d set a tree stand and a box filled with strings of lights. The dog had followed them in, and now sniffed at the tree and gave a tail wag. Mo brushed a hand over Caruso’s back, thinking that for a pair of stray creatures, they were both doing pretty damned well.
As he took off his coat, Maribeth came into the room, coatless herself, and went to turn on music. He didn’t pay much attention to the song until the beat picked up and Maribeth dance-stepped over to him. “This one’s for you, Mo.” She held out her arms in an invitation.
He realized the female singer was urging him to put a little holiday in his heart. It had been a long time since he’d danced with a pretty woman, and he wasn’t about to resist Maribeth’s arms. He took her in a two-step dance hold and set their bodies in motion. He was a little rusty, but who cared when she was smiling up at him, her whole face alight with pleasure.
That shared pleasure felt just right settling in his heart.
As the catchy tune faded away, Maribeth said, “That song kind of fits with the soup kitchen thing. Being nice to others, not looking down on people. You’re like that, aren’t you, Mo?”
“Uh, I guess. Not when I was younger, but now, sure.”
The next song to play was one that even he recognized: “Silent Night.” He and Maribeth stopped dancing and she looped her arms around his neck. He circled his around her waist.
He was thinking it’d be a good time to kiss her, when she said, “You’re not prejudiced against people who are different.”
Maribeth did raise some odd subjects, but he went along with it. “I sure have no right to think I’m better than anyone else.”