Underneath it all was a picture frame, facedown. She pulled it free, turned it over, and saw that the glass was shattered, with several jagged pieces missing. The damage was new to her, but the photo was achingly familiar. It was their wedding picture, taken by a disinterested clerk in the judge’s chambers. She was wearing her best outfit—a simple green sheath and matching jacket—and Ross wore jeans and a white cotton shirt. They had been so young, so much in love.
And look at them now.
At the sound of Ross’s footsteps in the hall, she quickly returned the frame to the drawer. He set her suitcases at the foot of the bed, then asked, “Do you need help unpacking?”
She shook her head.
“Then I’ll get my stuff. I’ll be across the hall or downstairs. If you need anything, call.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.
Maggie slid to her feet, then heaved the heaviest of her suitcases onto the bed. One of the first things they’d taught her at the rehab center was how to dress herself, and she’d been happy to learn, to escape the hospital gowns and nightgowns in which she’d lived the preceding three months. She had started simply, with sweats, before graduating to jeans and T-shirts, button-front shirts and sweaters. In the summer months she had developed quite an affection for light, airy dresses that slipped easily over her head.
Her current wardrobe was a far cry from the elegant, dressy, sophisticated clothes in the closet. She liked the sight of denim and cotton sharing the same space with velvet and silk, liked overwhelming all that formality with her rediscovered taste for the casual.
She was placing the last of her shoes on the shelves in the closet, when the built-in jewelry chest caught her attention. In the fifteen years of their marriage before the accident, Ross had given her a not-so-small fortune in jewelry. It had started with the piece that mattered most—a plain gold wedding band inscribed with the date and one simple word: love. She’d worn the ring constantly until the anniversary—their ninth? tenth?—when he’d replaced it with a diamond monstrosity that weighted her hand and made her cringe to look at it.
The only other jewelry that mattered was a pair of emerald studs. When they were first married and living in a shabby apartment, he’d promised her that one day he would buy her emeralds to match her eyes, and, keeping that promise his first year in business—a grand extravagance for which he’d worked hard and sacrificed much—had meant the world to him. Because of that, the earrings had meant the world to her.
But it was difficult to keep treasures she no longer had. Though the monstrosity was in the chest, along with everything else she must have planned to wear over the holidays last year, there was no sign of the little gold band or the emeralds. Maybe she’d left them at the house in Buffalo. Maybe she’d had them with her at the time of the accident, and they had been given to Ross.
Maybe they were gone for good. Like their marriage.
Like their love.
Ross was pulling a colander of grapes from the refrigerator when Maggie came into the kitchen. Walking with a slight limp in Ragg socks, she crossed to the island and eased onto a tall stool there. He faced her. “I told you to yell if you needed anything.”
“I know. I didn’t need anything.”
“You shouldn’t be going up and down the stairs alone.”
She picked up a handful of grapes. “If I’d fallen, I would have yelled.”
“That’s not funny,” he said sharply—too sharply, judging by her look and the carefully controlled tone of her voice when she answered.
“Trust me, I’ve fallen enough to know that it’s not funny. Why do you think they had all that padding in the physical therapy rooms?” She popped a grape into her mouth, then asked around it, “What do we have for dinner?”
“Whatever you want to cook. Or we can go out.”
She answered too quickly, too casually. “No, thanks. I’d rather cook.”
Rather cook than what? he wondered. Go out with him? Or go out in public, where she might meet people she’d once known but had since forgotten, or strangers who might wonder about the thin scars and the slight limp? If she was self-conscious about making a public appearance, she would have to deal with it. She was too young to become a recluse.
But for one night, it couldn’t hurt. “How about sandwiches? Then you can start tomorrow off cooking breakfast. Nothing fancy—just some crepes. Maybe eggs Benedict. Fruit compote. Homemade croissants.”
She looked wary. “I don’t think I should be quite so ambitious to start. Maybe oatmeal with sliced bananas.”
He wasn’t sure how serious she was—but then, that was nothing new. Too many times in the last few years, he hadn’t had a clue what she thought, meant, or wanted. For most of that time he had cared. Then he hadn’t.
Instead of wondering about it now, he gathered sandwich ingredients. The bread was wrapped in Thanksgiving-themed paper and secured with a seal that read FROM THE WINCHESTER KITCHEN.
“Who are the Winchesters?” Maggie asked, reading the label upside down.
“I think they’re the elderly sisters across the street.”
She took a deep whiff as he unwrapped the bread. “The great bakers,” she murmured. “Absolutely.”
“You’re a great baker too,” he reminded her, and she got that wary look again.
“We’ll see. I don’t have the best of luck concentrating these days, and following directions isn’t always an option. Sometimes I just can’t do it.”
“You don’t sound too broken up over it.”
With a shrug that didn’t achieve the casual effect she was aiming for, she parroted words he knew she’d been told at the center. “I’ve gotten better, and Dr. Allen says I should continue to improve. But plenty of people who haven’t had brain injuries can’t follow directions. If I can’t, I’ll adapt. And even if I can’t follow orders, I can give them. Put that knife away and get a bread knife. There should be one in the same drawer—long, thin, with a serrated blade.”
He did as she instructed and started slicing the bread. “Don’t get too bossy. It’s not an attractive trait.”
“Tell me about it,” she murmured as she claimed the first two slices for her plate.
He paused, the blade poised above the loaf. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. I was simply agreeing with you.”
“You were implying that I’m bossy.”
As if her attention stretched to only one task at a time, she made her sandwich: turkey and ham, provolone and mozzarella, topped with spicy mustard. Then she looked at him, her expression flat and steady. “You treated me like an employee. You told me how to dress, how to act, where to go, what to do, who to be friends with, and who wasn’t suitable. When I did my job well, I got rewarded with another fabulous piece of jewelry. When I didn’t do it well, you made your displeasure known and gave me the cold shoulder until you needed me again.”
“I did not—”
“Oh, please,” she interrupted. Though it had been absent a long time, he had no difficulty recognizing the subtle scorn in her voice. It had become a familiar companion, there every time she’d bothered to speak to him. “I’m not up to your version of our history tonight. I don’t like fairy tales until bedtime.”
“The only fairy tales you ever liked were your own anyway.” Pulling a stool around the island, he sat down opposite her and put together his own sandwich. Before he took the first bite, though, he said, “So tell me this, Maggie. If I was such a bastard, why did you stay with me so long?”
Something in her face shifted, and he felt it within himself—the realization that they’d so easily slipped into old habits, old resentments. She toyed with her food, pinching bits of crust from the bread, before finally meeting his gaze and replying in a quiet, subdued voice. “I assume for the same reasons you were still with me. In the beginning, I still loved you. And in the end … I didn’t get the chance to leave.”
There was nothing he could say to that. She was absolutely
correct. In the beginning—practically from the first time he’d laid eyes on her—he had loved her passionately. She’d made all the hardships worthwhile, had been part of his drive to succeed. He’d wanted to repay her for all her sacrifices, to show his gratitude, to give her things as beautiful and precious as she was.
And in the end … He hadn’t gotten the chance to divorce her before fate, bad weather, and an icy mountain road intervened.
“I suspect we’ll get along much better as exes than as husband and wife,” she said thoughtfully. “If, of course, we ever see each other, which we won’t, once you leave here.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
Abruptly, unexpectedly, she grinned. It was a sight he hadn’t seen in far too long. “It’s been a long time since you’ve said that.”
His smile was faint. “You haven’t even seen the town yet, but you think you’ll want to stay.”
She nodded.
“Based on what?”
“This place. You were right—and I know, it’s been a long time since I said that. I did love this house. I can feel it. I can tell just by looking at it. I was planning to stay here then, and I knew the town then. I knew some of the people. I’m trusting that I made a good decision.”
“What will you do?”
Her shrug made her hair shift, reflecting the lights overhead, the red tones gleaming. “I don’t know. I must have had plans, but they’re gone now. Maybe I’ll get a job. Maybe I’ll do volunteer work.”
“Maybe you’ll get married again and have those babies you wanted.” As far as Ross was concerned, that would be the best-case scenario. For years she’d wanted children, and for years he’d put her off. He wasn’t making enough money, he wanted to be able to give their kids the absolute best, he was traveling too much, the business was too demanding. He’d had excuses lined up, just waiting to be given, until suddenly she stopped asking. She stopped talking about a family, stopped doting on their friends’ babies. At the time, he’d been relieved. He wondered now if that had been, for her, the beginning of the end.
“Maybe I will. I’m only thirty-four. That’s young enough.”
“Thirty-five. Missing your birthday because you’re in a coma doesn’t entitle you to take a year off your age.”
“It should,” she said dryly. “Still, thirty-five is young enough. If I got started right away, I could have four or five babies before I turn forty.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He paused. “You didn’t ask what my plans are.”
She snorted, a coarse sound coming from such a delicate woman. “You’ll do what you’ve done the fifteen—excuse me, sixteen—years we’ve been married. You’ll work hundred-hour weeks, buy new companies, expand your old companies into every conceivable market in the world, make millions more, and impress the hell out of everyone with your business acumen.”
Her prediction was on target, but its limited scope—strictly business, as if he would have no personal life—left him feeling prickly. “Maybe I’ll get married again too.”
“Maybe. But why bother when you can get everything you want—someone to plan your parties, to accompany you to business functions, to put in appearances on your behalf, and to satisfy your occasional need for sex—simply by contracting with the appropriate businesses on a need-by-need basis? It’s much more cost effective that way, and there’s never a need for a divorce.”
“You have complaints about the sex?”
“What sex?” she asked with the innocence of a child. “I can’t even remember the last time we had sex.”
He smiled cynically. “That’s right. You can’t. Trust me though. You weren’t complaining.” Then he deliberately, coolly, added, “It was a pleasant change.”
For a long time she simply looked at him, her expression calm. For the first minute, he endured, then he began getting edgy again. Suspicion that he was somehow being manipulated made him uneasy, then annoyed, then guilty for insulting her.
“I thought we might get through the next few months as polite acquaintances, if not friends,” she said softly. “Let’s at least make the effort. I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime, and frankly, I’m just not up to it. I’m sorry I suggested you should buy a companion. I’m sorry I brought sex into the conversation at all. And I’m sorry that my being pleasant was a rare occurrence in our marriage.”
He’d been manipulated, all right, but he wasn’t sure if it had been Maggie pulling the strings, or his own conscience. “It wasn’t so rare,” he admitted grudgingly. “Under the circumstances, I can’t blame you.”
“Of course you can. There’s plenty of blame to go around.” She smiled sadly. “I—I think I’ll go to my room now.”
“I’ll walk up with you.”
“It’s not—All right.”
He accompanied her to the top of the stairs, waited there until she closed the bedroom door behind her, then returned to the kitchen. After cleaning up, he made his way to the front of the house again.
For a moment he paused in the office doorway. Less than twelve hours had passed since he’d officially turned everything over to Tom—less than twelve hours free of business responsibility. The computer tempted him, invited him in, reminded him of all the work he could accomplish in the next few hours. It offered to keep his mind occupied, to leave him not even one moment to think about Maggie, or their marriage, or their divorce.
But he had promised Maggie and himself no work for the next few months. Besides, work wouldn’t make him forget the reminder he’d just gotten that no divorce, no matter how eagerly anticipated, was painless. Even though they both wanted to be free, they still had the ability to wound egos and hurt feelings.
And why shouldn’t they? They had loved each other more than anyone else in their lives had ever loved them. Though the love was long gone, there was still so much left—so many intimacies, so many disappointments, so many regrets. Those things hurt, and the simple fact of saying “In two months we’ll file for divorce” couldn’t change that. Only time could.
Instead of giving in to the urge to use work to hide from life, he closed the pocket doors, shut off the hall lights, and headed up the stairs. Maybe if he’d set limits on work years before instead of on Maggie, they wouldn’t be where they were now.
But they were there, and the best he could do was no less than she deserved. No routine work, no accusations, insults, or arguments. She needed him for friendly support, and that was what he would give her.
And then she would give him his freedom. Forever.
Chapter Three
Maggie awakened at her usual time Tuesday morning and, for a moment, simply lay with her eyes closed. The sounds that had greeted her for the past two hundred and forty—odd days were noticeably absent—the doctors making rounds, the staff going to help those patients who needed it, the housekeeping staff getting an early start on their day. The house was quiet, with no sound from Ross across the hall, and so was the neighborhood, except for the faint passing of a car.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that the sun was shining. Throwing back the covers, she eased out of bed, rubbing the stiffness from her hip. Quickly she dressed, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, then reluctantly opened the makeup case on the counter. She’d never been one to consider makeup an essential part of her morning routine, but these days she felt she had little choice. Though she disliked the implication of vanity, she wasn’t yet ready to display her scars to the world. She couldn’t hide her occasional limp, her speech problems, or difficulty concentrating, but she could darn well hide her scars.
Once that task was completed, she left her room and made her way carefully downstairs. From the hall closet, she chose a heavy jacket, then went outside.
The front porch was broad, lit around the edges by the morning sun and made for kicking back, relaxing, and doing nothing. She sat down on the glider, propped her feet on the concrete shelf that capped the brick, and gave a soft, satisfied s
igh.
Listening to the quiet, looking at the peaceful streets around her, she found it easy to believe that this was where she belonged. Bethlehem was a small-town-family sort of place, and she was a small-town-family sort of girl. She didn’t want to be rich, had no use for power. She wanted to putter about her own kitchen, to kneel in her own dirt and plant her own flowers, to exchange recipes and baby-sitting with neighbors who were also friends. Ross said some of these people had been her friends last year. She sincerely hoped they would be again.
As if conjured by her thoughts, two women came out of the big Victorian across the way on Fourth Street—the Winchester house, according to Ross—and turned in her direction. Coming to see her? she wondered with more pleasure than a simple visit with strangers should generate.
The women were elderly, but their step was lively as they crossed Fourth, then Hawthorne, and turned onto her sidewalk. Seeing her on the porch, both women beamed welcoming smiles and one called a greeting. “Hello, Maggie. It’s so good to see you again.”
Maggie lowered her feet to the floor and started to rise as the women climbed the steps.
“Oh, no, dear,” the stouter one admonished. “Don’t get up. Stay right where you are.”
She obediently sank back as they came to a stop in front of her.
“You probably don’t remember us, dear—”
“You know she doesn’t remember us,” the other chided in a loud whisper.
“But I’m Agatha Winchester—”
“And I’m her sister, Corinna Humphries, and we’re your neighbors.” Corinna seated herself on the glider and patted Maggie’s hand. “We met you last year, dear, before that dreadful accident—”
“And we’re happy to see that you’re recovering so nicely.” Agatha sat on the brick wall and offered a foil-covered plate. “Fresh rolls. We love to bake—”
Some Enchanted Season Page 4