Some Enchanted Season

by Marilyn Pappano

  “Home.”

  “Why did you buy this car?” For years he’d had a short list of requirements when purchasing an automobile: It must have a touch of flash and a whole lot of class. He’d never bought anything even remotely resembling a family car.

  “I thought it would be more comfortable for you. Once you start driving again, you can have it or pick out whatever you want.”

  “I don’t have much desire to drive again,” she remarked as she gazed out the side window.

  “It’ll come.”

  “That’s what Dr. Olivetti said. I told her she was wrong. She said at the rates you were paying for her services, she couldn’t afford to be wrong.” She drew a steady breath, then forced out two awkward words she’d waited eleven months to say. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “All the money you paid for Dr. Olivetti and Dr. Allen, for the center and the hospital. For not letting the accident kill me. For not leaving me to recuperate alone and for not divorcing me when you had plenty of reasons.”

  When he remained silent, she finally looked at him. Both hands were on the steering wheel, his fingers tightened. His knuckles were pale, his face flushed. Embarrassment over her gratitude? She didn’t think so. More likely guilt, because he’d stayed with her not out of obligation to her but to himself. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he’d been there when no one else had.

  “Give me a couple more months,” she went on, hearing the casual, carefree tone of her voice and admiring it even as she hated it. “Then you’ll be free. It was almost my Christmas gift to you last year. We’ll consider it a late Christmas gift this year.” Glimpsing the startled look that crossed his face, she turned away and saw her reflection in the window smile, just barely, with bittersweet anticipation and the slightest bit of fear as she finished.

  “After the holidays, we’ll file for divorce.”

  Chapter Two

  As dusk began to settle, the highway began its slow, gentle descent into the valley.

  Ross glanced at Maggie, asleep for the last few hours, and wondered if he should wake her for a look at her new hometown, then decided against it. She had plenty of time to refamiliarize herself with it.

  He followed a well-maintained street past neat houses and prospering shops right into the heart of Bethlehem, to its town square, with businesses on three sides of it, the courthouse on the fourth side, and a bandstand in the middle. There was one small hospital and two grocery stores, one elementary school, one middle school, one high school, and a dozen or more churches. It was a well-preserved piece of history, visually appealing and quaint as hell.

  And Maggie—at least, the Maggie before the accident—had loved it. He hoped the post-accident Maggie was just as taken with the place.

  Her house was located at the intersection of Fourth Street and Hawthorne Avenue, just a few blocks north and east of downtown. Two weeks earlier he had contacted an attorney in town to prepare the house, remove the Christmas tree, pack up the gifts, and store them in the basement. Alex Thomas had volunteered his wife to stock the refrigerator and cabinets, and Ross had agreed. The easier settling in would be for Maggie, the better.

  He pulled to the curb in front of the house. The place had been built at the turn of the century and was meant to last. It was deep red brick with broad porches both front and back and a porte cochere on the left that led to the detached garage in back. Though it wasn’t a particularly large house—barely a fraction of the square footage of their Buffalo house—its square lines, thick walls, and generous use of brick and concrete gave it a solid, permanent feel. That was part of what had drawn Maggie to it—the fact that it looked as if it had been there a hundred years and fully intended to be around a hundred more.

  After the last eleven months, she needed that sense of stability.

  He turned into the driveway, stopping underneath the porte cochere. A few feet from the car, a French door led into a small foyer with a brick floor and steps up to the corridor. A few feet behind them, a broad set of concrete steps rose to the front porch. He had considered building a ramp in one place or the other and save Maggie the hassle of stairs. After the discussion about the wheelchair at the center, he was glad he hadn’t.

  “Maggie?”

  Her head was turned toward him, her expression unguarded in sleep. For a moment he simply looked at her. Her features were delicate, though her jaw was stubborn. Her once-perfect nose now had a bump just below the bridge.

  She was incredibly beautiful, and that was nothing less than a miracle. When he’d rushed into the emergency room at Bethlehem Memorial last Christmas Eve, he’d thought there had been a mistake. That bloodied, battered woman lying there couldn’t possibly be Maggie.

  Then he’d recognized the emerald stud in her ear. He’d stood less than a foot away, staring into his wife’s face, and her earring was the only thing he recognized. The shock had been overwhelming.

  “Maggie?”

  Her lids fluttered open, and he found himself staring into clear green eyes. He’d seen every emotion in existence in those eyes, had dreamed of them when he was young, had avoided them when he was older. He had matched emeralds to their rich, deep shade and had watched them turn as cold, as hard, as the stones themselves. This late November afternoon, even newly awakened, there was nothing in her eyes for him to read. It was like looking at a stranger.

  “We’re here.” Not home. Just here.

  She straightened in the seat and turned to look at the house. It wasn’t particularly impressive from this angle. By the time he got out of the car and circled to her side, she had unfastened her seat belt and opened the door. She moved slowly, turning in the seat, carefully pulling herself to her feet. For a moment she clung to the door, and he wondered if she needed the support emotionally or physically.

  “So this is the house I wanted.” She moved down the driveway to the sidewalk out front. There she faced the house as he’d done only minutes before and subjected it to the same long scrutiny.

  He found the unfamiliar key on his key ring, unlocked the door, and set their luggage inside before joining her. “You don’t remember it, do you?”

  “No. But it’s a great house.”

  “That’s what you said the day you told me about it.” He hesitated, then went on. “We first came to Bethlehem in August of last year. One of my business associates was visiting family in the area, and we agreed to meet here. You came along to …”

  When he trailed off, she completed the sentence. “To play at being the perfect wife.”

  He didn’t deny it. She’d always been one of his most valuable assets, both professionally and socially. She’d known exactly what to say, how to dress, when to interrupt, and when to blend into the background, and she’d had the art of being gracious down to a science.

  In the beginning Maggie’s support had been genuine. In the end it had been an act, a performance for which she had been well compensated.

  “You liked the town,” he went on. “You felt at home here, and you came back a few times. You found the house in September and asked me to buy it, and I did.”

  “Just like that.”

  “You wanted the house. It would make you happy.”

  “And you wanted me to be happy, didn’t you?”

  He didn’t have to listen hard to hear the mockery in her voice. He shrugged and responded with a simple statement of fact. “When you were happy, you weren’t making me unhappy.”

  She started walking, her gaze on the broad concrete steps, edged with low stairstepping brick walls, that led to the front door. There was no rail to hold on to, so she took the first step with caution. He walked beside her, close enough to catch her if she faltered, distant enough to give her some sense of independence. Her pace was slow and made him feel edgy.

  At last she crossed the threshold and stood just inside the door while he switched on lights down the hall and up the stairs, in the living room on one side and the office on the othe
r. The air was warm and smelled faintly of spices, reminding him that he’d missed lunch. The makings for a fire were laid on the hearth, and a bouquet of fresh flowers bearing a Welcome Home greeting sat nearby.

  A flight of stairs, long enough to make Maggie’s eyes widen, stretched in front of them to the second floor. Down the hall were the kitchen, pantry, and utility room that occupied the back third of the house, and in between those rooms and the front rooms were a dining room and side hallway on the left, a library on the right.

  “How much of this did we re—re—” She gave it a moment’s thought, then settled on an easier word. “Redo?”

  He removed his jacket. “I don’t know. This was your project.” He hadn’t seen the house before they’d bought it, and he hadn’t paid much attention when he was there. That was the way they’d lived—not paying much attention.

  She turned in a slow circle, looking in each direction. “It’s pretty. I had good taste.”

  Slowly she moved, going into the office first, where the simple chandelier, with not a shard of crystal in sight, banished the gloom into the farthest corners. The walls were hunter green, the furniture leather, the desk and wood filing cabinets antiques. This was where Ross had stayed from early morning until late into the night, making calls, sending faxes, waiting for responses. He’d kept the pocket doors closed and had been grateful for the Christmas preparations that kept Maggie just as busy.

  She went into the living room next, and he followed, watching as she circled the room, touching something here, studying something there. The last time he’d seen this room, it had been decked out with Christmas finery—a twelve-foot tree with gifts piled high beneath it, garlands made from fresh pine boughs, mistletoe and holly and white candles in every window.

  All that was gone now, and what was left was the room as Maggie had envisioned it. Overstuffed furniture comfortable for sprawling. A fireplace with a serpentine marble surround and a carved white mantel. White casings and moldings against vivid yellow walls. The faint smell of mulberry potpourri.

  Bending in front of the flowers, she removed the welcome message. “Who are Melissa and Alex Thomas?”

  “He’s a lawyer here in town. I hired him to get the house ready, and his wife stocked the kitchen for you. I believe you knew her.”

  She fingered the card while a distant look crept across her face. After a moment she shook her head, laid the card on the mantel, and turned away.

  She left through the side doors, crossed the hallway leading to the porte cochere, and went into the dining room. It was fairly casual, with a set of good antiques, more white trim, and deep coral walls. He’d forgotten her love of color. The lack of it in the Buffalo house must have left her cold.

  At last she came to the kitchen and stopped short. “Oh, wow.”

  “You wanted a place to cook, to be comfortable and to curl up and watch the snow.” And the kitchen had it all. Plenty of cabinets and work counters. A marble pastry slab. Restaurant-quality appliances. Windows across the back wall with padded benches topping storage cabinets. A brick fireplace with two rockers in front of it. All on a heavily padded vinyl floor, more comfortable on the feet and legs for hours at the stove—though, according to Dr. Allen, she wouldn’t be spending hours on her feet for a long time.

  She circled the island, drawing her hand across the granite surface. “I haven’t cooked in … almost a year, at least. Hardly at all for five years. I loved cooking and baking.” Abruptly she looked at him. Her tone was curt, almost accusing, when she asked, “You didn’t hire a staff, did you?”

  “That would defeat our purpose, wouldn’t it? You can’t learn what you can do if I’m paying someone to do it for you.”

  Our purpose. The words brought Maggie a faint longing. It had been ages since there’d been an our in their marriage. After so many months of traveling on different paths, they finally, once more, shared a common goal. It would feel good if that goal wasn’t the end of their marriage. Better, she decided, to say the beginning of their new lives. Endings were sad and unhappy. Beginnings were filled with promise, and she had such promises to fulfill.

  She looked around the room while he waited near the hall. She might not remember the house, but she had no doubt Ross was right in saying she’d loved it. It was everything she’d ever wanted—a comfortable, welcoming home with a yard for flowers, room for children, and freedom to live and relax.

  When she glanced at him, Ross had moved to gently rock one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. With bread baking in the oven, snow coming down outside, and a fire crackling on the hearth, the rocker would be a perfect place to while away an afternoon. She could hardly wait for the first snowfall to try it out.

  “I must have loved cooking in here last Christmas.”

  With a shrug, he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I guess so. You cooked every day, baked a lot of cookies, pies, and breads. The house smelled of food all the time.”

  She bit back the impulse to comment that she was surprised he’d noticed. She had become such an unimportant part of his life that even obvious hints of her activities had escaped his attention. But the remark would sound petty and would put him on the defensive. Besides, being critical and snide was the old Maggie. The new one wasn’t going to fall into those traps.

  She looked inside a few more cabinets, the refrigerator, and the freezer, located coffee and filters for the coffeemaker on the counter, then crossed to the central hallway.

  A door on the right opened to a small bathroom. Another revealed a closet. Double pocket doors on the left led into a library of built-in bookcases with tall windows, walls of deep crimson, and a carpet plush enough to sleep on. She imagined she would spend much of her time in there.

  Ignoring the discomfort in her hip, she circled the room, drawing her fingertips over the spines of old favorites read long ago and newer books that, if she’d read them, she’d forgotten. She loved to read, though it was no longer the effortless pastime she’d taken for granted. Sometimes the blurred vision that accompanied her chronic headaches made it impossible to focus. Sometimes her ability to concentrate just wasn’t there, and sometimes her mind wandered off on its own to other places and happier times—both those lost in the past and those in the future awaiting discovery.

  The hallway led her back to the front door and the stairs. She looked up with some trepidation. “The bedrooms are upstairs?”

  Ross nodded. “I’ll help you this time, then—”

  “No, thanks,” she said politely. “I can manage.” It was neither easy nor quick, but she made it to the top of the stairs in the same way she’d made it through these last months—slowly, doggedly, one step at a time.

  There were four bedrooms on the second floor, three sharing the same large bath. The master bedroom, at the back on the right, had its own bath. The room was dark blue, the bed a queen-size four-poster. The sitting area was cozy, the bathroom as gorgeous as the rest of the place, and the closet was huge.

  She walked inside, opened drawers, examined shelves. Only a small portion of the closet was in use—one clothes rod, one shelf, one drawer—and everything there, left over from last year, belonged to her. Maybe Ross had had time to remove his own things. Or maybe he hadn’t used this closet—or this bedroom. Maybe their marriage had been even closer to death last Christmas Eve than she had.

  Only one person could tell her exactly how far apart they had grown in those missing months. He hadn’t followed her into the room but was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets, watching, waiting.

  She didn’t phrase the question as bluntly as she would have liked, but she didn’t dance around it either. “Which room did you use when you were here last Christmas?”

  He looked startled, the same way he had looked in the car when she’d told him they would file for divorce after Christmas. Then his expression became still and thoughtful. “The one across the hall.”

  “So we weren’t sharing a bedroom. Things were worse than
I’d realized.”

  “We weren’t even sharing a life, Maggie. And how much worse could things have gotten? You were planning to file for divorce. So was I.”

  Deep inside she’d known that, but this was the first time he’d told her so. It had never mattered to her who did the leaving, just as long as she got out. Yet it hurt to hear that he’d been as eager to leave her as she’d been to leave him.

  Glancing out the window into the night-dark sky, she noticed lights in the houses behind them. “We have neighbors. We haven’t had neighbors for a long time.”

  Slowly Ross came into the room, coming to stand at the opposite end of the window. “Are you changing the subject, just making a comment, or is this one of those head-trauma things I’m supposed to be patient with?”

  She gave him a long, steady look. “Just making a comment. Was that genuine perplexity, or have some fragile remains of your sense of humor actually survived your obsession with business?”

  His only response, before changing—or returning to—the subject, was what might have been the fragile remains of that wicked grin she had so long ago fallen in love with. “We’ve always had neighbors. It’s just been eight or ten years since they’ve been this close. You’d met the people in all these houses and had grown rather fond of the two elderly sisters who live in the Victoria catercorner from us. You said they were great bakers, wonderful surrogate grandmothers, and grand ladies.”

  “Did they like me too?”

  “I suppose. They invited you to their parties, and you went—to one, at least.” He shrugged. “What’s not to like?”

  Maggie glanced around the bedroom—her bedroom, where she had slept alone while her husband slept across the hall—and felt another twinge of pain. “You tell me.”

  Ross grew more serious too, and withdrew just a little. “Not tonight, Maggie,” he said quietly. “I’m going to bring our luggage up. After we unpack, why don’t we see about dinner, then call it a night. It’s been a long day.”

  She nodded in agreement, then went to the bed as he left the room. The mattress was so thick that sitting down required a boost. Her feet dangling above the floor, she let her shoes drop, then inspected the nightstand’s single drawer. It held a novel, one of last year’s blockbuster hits according to the dust jacket, plus a box of tissues, a bottle of antacids, and a bottle of lotion.