Some Enchanted Season

by Marilyn Pappano

  “No,” Emilie agreed, “but it’s enough.”

  And she meant it. Maggie knew, because that was all she’d ever wanted. Just enough—and Ross. He would see to it that they both always had enough, but the price had been too high. They’d lost each other.

  The money wasn’t worth it. If she could go back ten years and change everything, if she could trade the money and the success for a happily-ever-after for the two of them together, she would do it. But, of course, she couldn’t. All she could do was make certain that her future was better than her past.

  Across the hall the pocket doors slid open, and Ross and Tom stepped into the hallway, then left through the front door. Would this visit and whatever business they’d discussed whet Ross’s desire to get back to work? Would she go looking for him later today or tomorrow or the next day and find him on the computer or the phone, right back in the thick of things? Probably. And would she be disappointed? Maybe. A little.

  She expected Ross to squeeze in a few last instructions on the walk to the car, then return to the house. But it was long after the sedan drove past the front windows that he came back, and he was carrying a plastic grocery bag filled with foil-wrapped packages.

  “The sisters are divvying up the leftovers,” Holly said as she slid to her feet. “That means it’s about time to head home. Maggie, thanks for the tour. Come by the inn sometime. We’ll have lunch. Shelley, Melissa, you come too. My assistant manager, Emilie, and I, of course, will be there.”

  “I’d like that.” Maggie accompanied them to the door, exchanged good-byes, then watched as they returned to the Winchester house. She was smiling when she turned and found Ross waiting a few yards away.

  “I went to thank the Winchesters for their hospitality, and they sent me home with enough food to last through next week.”

  “So you’re saved from eating my cooking for a while.”

  “Would you have preferred that I turn down their offer?”

  The edge to his voice surprised her. “Of course not. Leftovers are the best part of Thanksgiving dinner.” Then she remembered their discussion that morning about cooking. “It wasn’t a criticism, Ross. It was just a comment.”

  She went back into the living room and sat down on the sofa. As she tucked her feet between the cushions, he settled in the armchair she’d just vacated. “I had a really good time. I’m glad we went.”

  “So am I,” he agreed.

  She wondered if his words were sincere and decided to believe they were. So what if loud, homey family gatherings suited him even less than large formal affairs without a single genuine friend in the place suited her? Maybe he’d truly enjoyed himself, or maybe he was just saying so for her benefit. Either way, she would take his words at face value.

  “You look worn out.”

  She tried to resist a yawn. “I am. I haven’t talked to so many people in … well, longer than I can remember.”

  “Since last December. The Fairingtons’ Christmas party.”

  “Gala,” she said sleepily. “Candace Fairington always calls it a gala.”

  “You wore a red dress that made Candace turn green with envy, and you danced with the governor and charmed the mayor, and all the time you were wishing you were here.”

  And now she was, she thought, her eyes slowly closing. And she was here to stay.

  Home to stay.

  Tom Flynn drove slowly down the streets of one of Buffalo’s poorer neighborhoods. His Porsche was out of place on the empty streets where the only cars were burned-out hulks stolen from someplace more prosperous, stripped, then set afire. He was out of place in his five-thousand-dollar suit, his custom-made shoes, his fifteen-thousand-dollar wrist-watch.

  Of course, appearances could be deceiving. No one belonged there more than he did. He’d grown up in that building over there, had stolen food from the market across the street, had been kicked out of the school down the block, and said confession at the church up ahead. Empty, abandoned, haunted buildings—all except the church.

  The place was shabby, run-down. The diocese had never been a wealthy one, and Holy Cross had been the poorest of its churches, serving the neediest of its people. The building should have been condemned fifteen years earlier, and would have been if there’d been a building inspector brave enough to come into the war zone.

  Nobody cared but Father Pat. Patrick Shanahan had come in a young, idealistic priest. He’d done his best, helped a few souls, lost hundreds more. Thirty years down there had made him old, but he kept trying.

  The church doors were unlocked despite the punks who ran the streets. Few lights were on—trying to keep the electric bills down—and few candles were lit, giving the place a spooky air. Even in better days, though, it had always scared the hell out of Tom.

  He stopped a few feet from the confessional, remembering the sweaty palms, the cramped space, the fear of retribution. He hadn’t been to confession since he was sixteen, hadn’t set foot in church since then either.

  “Have you come to say confession?” The quiet old voice came from behind him, startling him more than could be explained by dim lights and deep shadows.

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

  His list of sins was long and detailed, spanning more than twenty years and destined to spin out across the next twenty. There wasn’t a priest in the world with the power to absolve him of all he’d done and all he would do.

  “I’ve come to make a donation.” He turned to face the old man, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the bracelet. He turned the priest’s hand over, then let seven inches of gold and twelve carats of flawless diamonds and sapphires puddle in his palm. When the clasp slipped through his fingers, Tom folded Father Pat’s hand over the treasure. “Happy Thanksgiving, Father. Put that to good use.”

  And then he walked out, back into the cold, back into the night, and he drove out of the old neighborhood for the last time.

  The snow started sometime during the night. When Maggie settled in the rocker in the kitchen with a cup of fresh coffee, the backyard was completely covered with white. Clumps of snow topped the fence, and drifts piled wherever the wind blew it. It looked incredibly cold and beautiful outside but it was warm and cozy in the house. All she needed to make the scene perfect was the smell of something baking and a fire popping in the fireplace. She wasn’t adventurous enough to try her hand at baking again, not yet, and Ross would build a fire when he came down.…

  The thought gave her pause. It was so easy, after so many years, to still think in terms of his responsibility or hers. She could build a fire. She had logs, matches, kindling—even better, a supply of compressed sawdust fire starters. Soon the chore would be hers every cold morning she spent in this house. Why not get some experience now?

  Within minutes the well-seasoned wood was burning brightly. She reclaimed her coffee, then stayed on the floor, leaning against the hearth, staring into the flames.

  At the Winchesters’ yesterday, she’d learned that last year the house had been done up with hundreds of white lights and dozens of farolitos. It had looked beautiful, everyone agreed, and so she’d decided to do it like that again.

  Her first Christmas tradition.

  Next weekend she would put up her tree—her second tradition—and sometime before Christmas she would have that party she’d missed out on last year. This time she would have to cater it, but next year, and every year to follow, she would do all the cooking herself. The house would be filled with people, and there would be music and laughter, and she would—

  Long fingers appeared before her face and snapped, jarring her out of her reverie. She blinked, then turned to find Ross seated on the hearth, a cup of coffee beside him.

  “Where were you?”

  She smiled dreamily. “Christmas future.” She moved to sit on the brick and felt an immediate blast of heat on her back.

  “And what did you see there?”

  “People. Kids. Bethlehem.” She wondered what he saw in
his own future Christmases. Not her, came the immediate answer with a quick stab of pain, a sharp, tight breath. Probably work, work, and more work. He would fulfill all his holiday social obligations, but other than that December would be just another month, the twenty-fifth just another day. She felt sorry for him, but if he was happy having no life outside his office—and she knew from experience he was—then that was all that mattered.

  “And what do you see in the near future?” he asked. “Like for breakfast?”

  “We have turkey, ham, dressing, pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, banana cream pie, the Winchesters’ home-baked rolls, candied yams—”

  “How about a turkey sandwich?”

  “Sounds fine.”

  He headed for the refrigerator, and she watched him. When building the mansion, he’d insisted that the kitchen be perfect—large, state-of-the-art, with enough room and equipment to prepare dinner for fifty—but once it was completed, he’d never set foot in it. He’d hired the staff before they’d moved in and had trusted them to know what was where.

  He seemed at home in this kitchen—as at home as he could be in a place as foreign to him as Bethlehem was.

  “What are your plans for today?” he asked as he worked.

  “I want to unpack the ornaments.”

  “When are we getting the tree?”

  “Next weekend. Melissa’s getting in a shipment of live trees. After Christmas we can plant it in the backyard.”

  “If you’re not getting the tree for more than a week, maybe you should wait—”

  “I know. But I want to do it today.” She wanted to look at every ornament, wanted to remember when she got it and why, wanted to feel the warmth of nostalgia wash over her the way it did every year.

  “If that’s what you want,” Ross agreed with a shrug. “Mayonnaise or mustard?”

  “Mayonnaise.” After sixteen Thanksgivings together, he should know that she always put mayonnaise on her turkey sandwiches. Maybe the fact that he didn’t had something to do with why there wouldn’t be a seventeenth.

  As he brought the sandwiches to the fireplace, she commented, “If you were home, you would have been in the office at least two hours ago. Do you miss it?”

  He shrugged.

  “Come on. You’re starting your fifth day away from work. You haven’t had five con—consec—” She grimaced. “Five days off in a row since you got your first job twenty-one years ago. Be honest. When Tom was here yesterday, didn’t you have the urge to lock the door and talk business for a few hours? When he left, didn’t you envy him, just for a moment, because he was working and you weren’t?”

  “Honestly?” He was silent for a moment before answering. “Yes, I might have been a little envious.” Then he shrugged. “All right. Damn envious.”

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t work here. I don’t need your attention all the time. As long as you’re available in case something happens …”

  He was obviously tempted even as he shook his head. “I don’t know how to work just a few hours at a time. It’s a talent I never developed.”

  “When we first met, I really admired your dedication—to your work, your studies, to me.”

  “But over time, dedication became obsession, and it wasn’t very admirable.”

  Maggie shook her head. “Oh, I still admired it. But I resented it too, because it consumed you, including the part of you that was supposed to be mine.” She gazed out the window at the snow and moved an inch closer to the warmth of the fire. “Could you ever imagine yourself living the same kind of life as the men you met yesterday? Alex Thomas, Nathan Bishop, Mitch Walker—they’re all good at what they do, but their jobs aren’t their lives. They go to work, they dedicate those eight or ten hours to their job, and then they go home. They have families, friends, hobbies. They go to church. They take vacations. They have lives. Could you ever be satisfied with that?”

  Again, Ross remained silent a time before answering. “Do you remember when you were finally able to quit your job?”

  Maggie nodded. It had been the start of his fourth year in business, and for the first time he’d made enough money that not every spare penny had to be pumped back in. To celebrate, he’d wanted her to quit her secretarial job and be a woman of leisure, like the wives of the successful businessmen he knew.

  “You’d worked long enough and hard enough, putting me through school and supporting us while I got established. Finally you were able to sleep in. You had the time and the money to fix up the house, to indulge in some shopping, to relax and take it easy. I thought you would be happy.” His smile was self-deprecating. “You weren’t.”

  That was putting it mildly. For the first week, she had slept late—a true luxury that she’d rarely been allowed. But sleeping late was no fun when she woke up alone. And yes, she’d had time for long, leisurely lunches—but no one to share them with. All her friends worked full-time. The shopping had been fun for the first new wardrobe and the first houseful of new furniture, but she’d soon lost interest.

  “You were bored. You didn’t know how to live like that. And I don’t know how to live the life these people live.”

  “All we’re talking about is a little moderation.”

  “I don’t know moderation. For me, it’s all or nothing.”

  How true, she thought. In the beginning, even when they’d been chronically broke, they’d had it all—all the love, the romance, the passion, the commitment. And in the end they’d been left with nothing.

  “If that disappoints you, I’m sorry.”

  He was giving her an earnestly regretful look. She patted his arm as she got to her feet. “I got over being disappointed a long, long time ago. I was just curious. Nothing more.” She stretched, then headed for the boxes stacked neatly against the wall. “I’m going to start on this. Why don’t you go to the office and see if you can do a little work?”

  “Maggie—”

  “Just a little. I’ve done this alone for ten years. It’s kind of become a tradition.” And traditions were worth observing, even if they weren’t happy ones.

  He looked as if he wanted to argue, but how could he when she’d made it clear that his presence wasn’t needed—and when he really wanted to do what she suggested? As she arranged a half dozen boxes in a single layer on the floor, he carried their dishes to the sink, then stopped in the hall doorway. “I’ll be in the office,” he said grudgingly.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “If I need you, I’ll call.”

  And who knew? Though she’d needed him hundreds of times, had called for him in hundreds of ways, and he’d never answered, this time he just might.

  After a tremendously satisfying day’s work, Ross returned to the kitchen late in the afternoon and found the room looking as if a hurricane had swept through—Hurricane Maggie, to be precise. Cartons stuffed with boxes, wrapping paper, and bubble wrap were pushed against one wall, and their contents covered every flat surface in the room, including much of the floor. There was no sign of the source of the chaos, though, and no sound of her either.

  “Maggie?”

  The dining room was empty, though she’d left signs of her passage—nutcracker soldiers in every size marching across the table. The living room was empty too. At the bottom of the stairs he called again and thought he heard a soft sound in response. It came from the library, though, not upstairs. He went to the room he’d passed by only moments before and found her curled up in the chair-and-a-half there, her feet resting on the matching ottoman, her eyes closed in sleep.

  She had come in, he suspected, to deposit an armload of haphazardly coiled strings of lights and opted for a moment’s rest. With the drapes drawn, the room was dimly lit and welcoming, and the chair was obviously comfortable. It was a good place to snooze.

  He backed out of the room without disturbing her and went back to the kitchen. It took only a few minutes to return the unpacked boxes to the basement, quite a few minutes more to bring some order to the t
hings she’d scattered about. The larger items he lined up on the floor in front of the window seat. The smaller pieces went into a dozen baking pans and baskets.

  He didn’t recognize many of the ornaments—proof of how little attention he’d paid to such things in recent years—but more than a few brought back memories. There was the glass ball, painted in delicate colors, that had been his only present to Maggie the first Christmas they were married. A tree had been an extravagance they couldn’t afford, and so the ball had hung from a ribbon in the middle of the living room. They had treated it like mistletoe, kissing every time they passed underneath it.

  They had passed under it a lot.

  The miniature Mardi Gras mask hung with curling ribbons in purple, green, and gold marked their first vacation. To justify the expense when they were still living on a tight budget, they’d made it their birthday, anniversary, and Christmas presents rolled into one with a belated honeymoon, and they’d made the most of it.

  Not once in those four days had he thought about work.

  The crystal icicles—two of them, heavy, faceted—had come from Paris, the Father Christmas from Amsterdam, the tiny bean pot from Boston. There were dated ornaments, a full set of fifteen, one for every year of their marriage. He imagined there would soon be a sixteenth—after all, they were still together—but no more. He wondered if she would hang them next year or if they would be relegated to some dark corner of the basement, too meaningful to throw away, too full of sad memories to use.

  Maggie came into the room. He watched her reflection in the window glass as she took a soda from the refrigerator, then came to lean against the nearest end of the island. “See anything you remember?”

  “A lot.” He picked up a handmade piece, a gnome’s face with a pointed hat and a long beard that also flowed to a point. “The art student who lived across the hall from us in the last apartment made this.”

  “Venita. She also did the cornhusk angels.”

  “And the next-door neighbor at our second house made these.” He picked up a pair of beanbag snowmen with stick arms and red plaid stocking caps that matched the scarves around their necks.