“Maureen.”
“And you made these.” She’d stacked the decorations crocheted from cotton string in no particular order. He knew if he laid them out on the counter, he could pick out the first one, and the second and the third. The later ones were perfectly shaped and proportioned, but the early efforts held more charm—the lopsided stars, the wobbly hearts, the bumpy stockings.
She’d made others too, from store-bought clay and homemade salt dough. There were cinnamon-scented creations, bright-colored felt pieces and tiny hand-pieced quilts. Satin balls elaborately decorated with beads and braid. Shiny gold bows with long, curling streamers. Fat wooden Santas meticulously painted. A punched tin heart with a red satin bow. If he turned it over, he could read the inscription, but he didn’t need to. He remembered.
Maggie loves Ross.
Forever.
There was a time when he’d thought forever meant forever—a lifetime—and he’d felt cheated finding out differently. What was his next lesson? That always was actually a finite number of years? That never was only a matter of months?
“Do you remember these?” Maggie opened a small box and held it for him to see.
Inside was a set of nineteen ornaments—glass, fragile, faded. They started with Baby’s First Christmas and progressed up to Friends. The latter was inscribed with a sappy verse about how “you’ll always be my daughter, but now you’re also my friend.”
So always must be nineteen years, since that was when Janet Gilbert disowned her only daughter and friend.
“I remember them,” he said shortly. Janet had collected the ornaments for Maggie so that when she eventually married, she would have a starter set for her first Christmas away from home. When that time came, though, she’d refused to hand them over. Instead, she’d thrown them away, and a neighbor had rescued them and passed them on to Maggie. Maggie had kept them, but she’d never hung them on a tree.
Too meaningful to throw away, too full of sad memories to use.
“Did she know about the accident?”
Ross took the box from her unsteady hands, secured the lid, and laid it aside. “I don’t know. Two years ago she moved away from Buffalo. No one knew where she went. Some of her coworkers thought she was getting married, but they couldn’t come up with a name. Tom spent weeks trying to locate her, but he couldn’t.”
“And my father?”
He would really rather not talk about her parents, though he supposed, it being the holidays with its intense emphasis on family, her questions were only natural. “He knew.”
“You told him?”
“Tom did.”
He waited, but she didn’t ask what her father’s response was, whether he’d come to see her, whether he’d given a damn if she lived or died. She knew where she ranked in her father’s life—had known since she was a little girl. Most of the time she was past caring. Sometimes, though, the bastard still held the power to hurt her.
He was glad she didn’t ask for details, because the story Tom had repeated to him wasn’t a pleasant one. The old man hadn’t even recognized his daughter’s name—had put her so completely out of his life and his mind that he’d needed reminding that he had a daughter from his first marriage. Tom had come back from the meeting thoroughly disgusted—and, since he was a ruthless bastard himself, it took a lot to accomplish that.
“I can find a good private detective for you if you’d like to locate your mother. Tell her that I’m gone, and she’s likely to forgive everything and welcome you back.”
The look Maggie gave him was sharp with derision. “I’m not the one in need of forgiveness. I did nothing wrong. I’m sorry she felt the need to remove herself from my life, but it was her decision—her mistake.”
“It was her mistake, but you’ve had to live with the consequences. You’ve missed her.”
“I miss the ideal of a mother, but my reality was far from ideal. Even before I met you, things weren’t easy. My mother was controlling. She had my entire life mapped out, and if I did anything that deviated from her plan, she punished me by withholding her affection. I wish I had a mother like Miss Agatha or Miss Corinna—a mother like I hope to be once I’m blessed with children. But I’ve long since accepted that my mother isn’t what I need.”
She didn’t need so much, Ross thought regretfully as she picked up the box of ornaments. Just a husband whose commitment to her couldn’t be overshadowed by anything else and children to love. Instead, she had everything but that.
Finding no storage carton for the box, Maggie stuck them in a cabinet under the window seat. Straightening, she busied herself with bringing order to a tangled string of gold beads. “How did it go in the office?”
“Okay.” He’d spent all but a half hour lunch break at the computer or on the phone. It had felt good to get back to work, though he’d caught himself more than once paying little attention to the task he was doing and listening intently for sounds from the kitchen. He could have closed the door, as he’d always done at home, but then how would he hear her if she called?
Not that she had, except to tell him that lunch was being served in the living room. The rest of the day she’d spent happily alone, doing a job that a husband and wife should share. That she hadn’t wanted him to share.
“So … what about dinner?”
“What about it?” he asked.
“Let’s go out.”
“You mean you don’t want leftovers again?”
“Sorry, but turkey and/or ham four meals in a row is my limit. I want a thick, juicy, rare steak. You said there was a place in town.”
“McCauley’s. Do you want to go now?”
“After I clean up. Care to escort me upstairs?”
He gestured toward the front of the house, then followed her. She went into her room and he turned into his own.
The room was large, high-ceilinged, comfortable. The walls were colonial red, the linens deep green and muted red paisley, the floor gleaming oak planks scattered with rugs. With her taste and his money, Maggie could have worked wonders on their house in Buffalo, if only he’d let her.
He couldn’t remember exactly why he hadn’t. It had been important to him that the house be perfect, as defined by him, his neighbors, his associates—everyone but his wife. What he’d gotten was the perfect show-place.
But it wasn’t much of a home.
Though it seemed an insult to Maggie, he would probably sell the house, he realized. After forcing her to live in it for five years, knowing how much she hated it, he had little use for it by himself. He had impressed all the people he wanted to impress. There wouldn’t be many huge parties without Maggie there to plan them, wouldn’t be much socializing at all. For all the time he spent at home, a condo near the office would be a wiser choice. In fact, there was a high-rise condominium about a mile from his office with all the luxuries he required and only a fraction of the space he didn’t need. It would be perfectly suitable for him.
Too bad he couldn’t ask Maggie to decorate it for him. Then he might have a real home, too, instead of merely a place to hang his clothes.
He pulled on a sweater. The garment was bulky, the color creamy ivory, the knitting intricate and expertly done. Maggie had bought it for him on a trip to Ireland, and then she’d done most of its wearing. She’d dressed from his closet as much as from her own, claiming shirts, borrowing sweaters, even taking his socks for around-the-house wear. For years she’d slept in his T-shirts—or in nothing at all.
When had she stopped raiding his closet? When had she given up wanting that intimacy?
He was staring out the window, contemplating those questions, when she rapped on the open door. “I’m ready.”
She wore brown slacks and a sweater the color of a well-used penny. The collar points of a brown, white, and rust plaid shirt extended over the sweater’s ribbed neck. Her hair, gleaming in the light, fell sleekly into place, and her makeup had been redone to hide the scars. She looked fresh, wholesome, innocent.
She looked incredibly lovely.
He stared at her so long that she shifted awkwardly. “Ross?”
He shook his head to break the moment, but it lingered with him—the surprise at how beautiful she was. He knew it, of course, and was reminded every time he looked at her, but occasionally it startled him anew. She was a truly lovely woman, and over the years many people had envied him for having her. Soon, within a year, surely no more than two, it would be his turn to envy some other man, but his envy would be tinged with regret. He had little doubt of that.
“You look nice,” he said as he crossed the room. She smelled of vanilla and jasmine when he grew close and something subtler—honeysuckle, perhaps. Altogether, it was a pleasing fragrance. “Let’s go. Probably everyone in town who’s tired of turkey leftovers will be standing in line for steak.”
It was cold enough outside to make the breath catch in his chest. The snow had stopped sometime while he worked, leaving a few inches on the ground, but the street was more or less clear. “Why don’t you wait in the house while I get the car warm?”
Maggie struck a pose. “I should be warm enough, don’t you think?”
Her brown cashmere overcoat reached almost to her toes, which were warm in a pair of fleece-lined boots. A vivid gold scarf was wrapped around her throat, and gloves the same shade as her coat covered her hands. He compared her winter gear to his own—a leather jacket—and rephrased his question. “Why don’t I wait inside while you get the car warm?”
She smiled smugly as she slid into the passenger seat, and he joined her inside.
At the first intersection, when he would have gone straight, she touched his arm. “Turn left here, will you? I want to go down Main Street. Shelley said they would have the Christmas decorations up.”
He obeyed her. On Main, the Thanksgiving decorations were gone, and Christmas had appeared everywhere. Wreaths and bows decorated the streetlights. Mistletoe hung in shop doorways, twinkling lights outlined the windows, and canned snow provided the base for brightly painted Christmas scenes on the glass. Evergreens planted two to the block were hung with ribbons, bells, and bows, and wooden soldiers stood at stiff attention on every block, wearing coats of red, yellow, or blue and gripping holiday flags firmly in one hand.
He slowly drove the length of the downtown district. He heard Maggie whisper, “This is nice” with such satisfaction, such this-is-where-I-belong certainty.
He was glad she felt that way. Really. But he also felt a little envy. The only place he belonged was in his office, and while he was certain that was where he wanted to be, he couldn’t help but wonder if, as choices went, it might not be the best he could make. Maybe Maggie was right. Maybe it really was just a question of moderation. Maybe he could learn to separate business from pleasure, to set limits on work and actually have a life that had nothing to do with business.
For a moment he considered the possibility, then, with a bit of relief, brushed it away. Business was his pleasure. Small-town living, a family, hobbies—those things were fine for Maggie, because they were what she wanted. But all he wanted was his work. It was his life.
And he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Chapter Seven
Bethlehem Memorial Hospital was a redbrick building, two stories, oddly shaped as if new wings had been placed on a whim. As hospitals went, it was on the small side, probably no more than thirty beds, and was situated in the middle of several acres of snow-covered lawn. A block to the west was the elementary school, a block to the east the nursing home. Convenient for Dr. Grayson, who, according to Melissa Thomas, worked in all three places.
Maggie studied the building. She’d spent enough time in hospitals not to be intimidated by them. On the other hand, she’d spent enough time in them to find the idea of voluntarily walking into one, even for just an hour, somewhat repugnant.
“Wait inside while I park the car,” Ross told her.
“Just let me out, then go on home.”
“But—”
“I can do this.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll meet you here at four.”
Fighting a brief moment of panic as he drove away, she walked into the lobby and forced herself to the information desk. The silver-haired volunteer there directed her to an office down the hall, where another volunteer escorted her into the doctor’s office.
“I somehow missed meeting you on Thanksgiving, Maggie,” he said as he came around the desk to shake hands. “I’m Dr. Grayson. You can call me J.D.”
“I’d rather not,” she said with a wan smile. There seemed something not quite right about being on a first-name basis with your psychiatrist. She never would have dreamed of calling Dr. Olivetti by her first name—after nine months of treatment, she didn’t even know her first name—and she preferred to keep her association with this doctor on the same impersonal footing.
Then the ludicrousness of that thought struck her. Impersonal? Dr. Olivetti knew more about her than anyone else alive. But Dr. Grayson’s only job was to ensure that she was adapting to life outside the rehab center, and he didn’t need to probe too deeply into her psyche to establish that she was.
“Whatever you’re comfortable with. Can I take your coat?”
She handed it to him, then settled in the chair in front of his desk, a leather piece that had seen better days. Everything in the office, in fact, was well worn and only a few steps away from shabby—except the frames on the wall that held his degrees.
He noticed the direction of her attention as he sprawled in his own chair. “It’s an humble abode for a Harvard degree, isn’t it? I went the elegant-office, astronomical-fee route in Chicago. Here I’m a bit more down to earth.”
She nodded once, glanced around again, then blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Do you actually know Dr. Olivetti, or did she recommend you because you’re the only psychiatrist in town?” Hearing the implication in her last words, she flushed, but the doctor didn’t take offense.
“We did our psych residencies together. She didn’t start college until after her kids were grown, you know.”
“I didn’t know she had kids. She’s not much on sharing personal information. It’s a one-way street with her—all her way.”
“She’s good. She’s one of the best.” Without boasting, he added, “I’m good too. Don’t let the fact that I’m a small-town doc fool you.”
“Why did you come here?”
“Why did you?”
“It’s a lovely town. I like the people here. There are no traffic jams, no crowds, not much in the way of crime. The pace of life is slower. People know their neighbors and care about them.” She shrugged. “It’s a great place.”
“That’s why I came too. You sound as if you’re planning to stay.”
“I am.”
“How will your husband run that multibillion-dollar corporation of his from here?”
She stiffened for an instant, then forced her muscles to relax. “Give him a computer, a modem, and a couple of telephone lines, and he can do business from anywhere in the world,” she said, her voice a little too bright, her tone a little too flippant.
Dr. Grayson said nothing, but simply continued to watch her, his blue eyes sharp, probing, giving rise to the same twinge of guilt she’d felt when Maeve, at the café, had assumed that she and Ross were a happy couple come here to live. Everyone at the Winchesters on Thanksgiving had probably thought that too, and though she’d done nothing to encourage their mistake beyond showing up with Ross, she’d done nothing to clear it up either.
After a moment of that steady gaze, she sighed and quietly said, “Ross isn’t staying. He’s going back to Buffalo sometime in January or February.”
“I see.”
“I don’t mean to mislead everybody, but it would be a little awkward to say to a stranger, “Nice to meet you—and, oh, by the way, my husband and I are splitting up in a few months.’ ” Though her tone remained casual, the words stung. The
y sounded so damned impossible. So real. So wrong.
“You don’t owe anyone warning of what’s going to happen in the future of your marriage, Maggie. Telling your friends and neighbors after the fact is perfectly acceptable.” He paused. “I take it this is a mutual decision.”
“Why do you assume that?”
“Neither of you seems particularly broken up over it. I would expect substantially different behavior if you both didn’t think this was for the best.”
Was divorce ever for the best? Of course, if one spouse was abusing the other, if children’s futures were at stake, if all the love, commitment, and respect were gone. But this divorce … Were their differences really irreconcilable? Couldn’t they compromise, find acceptable solutions to their differences, salvage the love, commitment, and respect that had carried them through sixteen years?
The answer left her with an incredible sadness that softened her voice when she responded. “We do.”
Dr. Grayson changed the subject and, with his grin, the tone of the conversation. “So what’s it like, having escaped the institute? Institute. That sounds so rigid, like it should have bars on the windows and straitjackets on the patients.”
“That’s why I prefer to call it the center,” she said dryly, then, unable to resist, she grinned too. “It’s nice. I’m really very grateful to them for everything they did, but I hope I never see the place again. Independence is vastly underrated by people who have never lost theirs.”
“Any problems?”
“None.”
“Headaches?”
“A few minor ones.”
“Dizziness? Depression? Sleep disturbances?”
She shook her head to each symptom.
“Are you sure about that?”
She sighed again. “What did Ross tell you?”
“That you wake up during the night.”
It was true. She’d been awake some portion of every night the past week. A time or two she’d laid in bed until sleep finally returned, but usually she got up, wrapped a comforter around her, and sat for a while in the rocker, looking out the window. A few of those nights it had been dreams that awakened her, vague scenes that she couldn’t recall five seconds later. Those nights she’d rocked until her heartbeat slowed, until her breathing settled and the thick panic that tightened her chest receded.
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