She needed to feel alive.
She was hardly aware of her own longing sigh, but Ross heard it and bent his head close. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you tired?”
Tired of living alone. Of living in limbo. Of waiting for that day when she would truly start living again. For several years now she’d been preparing for it. She’d gotten her degree, admitted that her marriage was over, found the courage to accept a future without Ross. The accident had been a major setback, but the worst of that was behind her. She wanted to reclaim her life—not in two months, not when others had decided that she could live on her own, but now.
Whether she was ready or not.
She looked up to assure Ross that she really was fine but found herself distracted by the flakes that were dotting his dark hair. “Snow,” she murmured with pleasure as she tilted her head back to watch it fall. The flakes drifting down were the perfect touch for the parade—not too heavy, not too wet, just delicate crystals that landed, shimmered, then dissolved.
With an indulgent smile Ross turned her back toward the street. “Pay attention. You can watch the snow all winter long, but right now the parade’s passing you by.”
After the police car, followed by jalopies carrying the mayor, the state senator, and the school superintendent, the real parade started. What the participants lacked in professionalism, they made up for with enthusiasm. The Scouts might have marched in straighter lines, but they couldn’t have had more fun. The dance school’s banner could have been more neatly painted, but it made no difference to the students tapping their way down the street in costumes of the season.
“Hey, Miss Maggie.” Josie Dalton left her ragged line and danced in place in front of them. Her brown paper outfit covered her from chin to ankle, and her bright yellow headpiece swayed in the breeze. “Look. I’m a far—far— A candle in a paper bag. I was s’posed to be a tree”—she rolled her blue eyes comically—“but we got lots of trees, and this is neater anyway.”
“You look wonderful, Josie,” Maggie said with a laugh. “You’re the best dancing farolito I’ve ever seen.”
The girl grinned, then realized she’d been left behind. Calling good-bye, she raced back to her place between two trees, then resumed her less-than-rhythmic tap dance.
The first float was a small version of the McBride Inn, complete with pond and woods and a mechanical horse-drawn carriage that clip-clopped up the lane and back again. It had been built by Holly’s grandfather, Maggie knew, and had been an entry in the parade for the last forty years.
Tradition.
There were floats for every church and many of the businesses. Firefighters rode on an antique engine, and civic club members distributed candy through the crowd. The hospital float brought up the rear, followed only by the high school band and Santa, and looked just the tiniest bit better than the rest. Not that she was prejudiced, of course.
After Santa, who bore a strong resemblance to Mitch Walker, passed, the crowds began breaking up. Those with young children headed for the square, where Santa would hold court, and the rest began to make their slow way home.
Maggie closed her eyes and lifted her face to the snow. She was chilled all the way through, and she’d lost contact with her toes a long time before, but she couldn’t remember ever feeling warmer or happier or more perfectly at home. She would remember this night—and this feeling—forever.
When she finally opened her eyes, Ross was watching her, his expression impossible to read. He might not understand how a simple parade could make her feel so much, but he’d understood something. He hadn’t spoken or taken her arm, hadn’t urged her to head home and bring this long, cold evening to an end.
After one moment passed, then two more, he finally asked, “Are you ready?”
When she nodded, he took her arm, steadying her as she stepped off the curb. Their pace was leisurely until they reached Hawthorne and the crowd thinned. After two blocks they had the sidewalk to themselves.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, expecting some comment about work. Since she’d persuaded him to try working at least a little, he’d spent much of his time in the office—most of Monday and all of Tuesday, Wednesday, and that day. There were times when she’d regretted her encouragement, but most of the time she was fine alone. It was a good time for daydreaming.
“That you’re going to have some great traditions, like the parade.”
“You could come back for it if you wanted. I don’t have exclusive rights.”
“It wouldn’t be the same. Next year you’ll be with someone else.”
He said the words so easily, but they struck her as so impossible. Next year you’ll be with someone else. How could she be, when she’d spent nearly half her life with him? How could she ever feel for someone else all the things she’d felt for him? How could any other man ever take his place in her life, in her heart?
Right that moment she couldn’t imagine being married to anyone but Ross, loving anyone but Ross, and the knowledge sent a rush of panic through her. Now, because of the parade, she was feeling incredibly sentimental, but what if it were true two months, six months, or a year from then? What if all her grand hopes were simply dreams that she couldn’t make come true? After all, she’d tried with Ross and failed. What if she kept failing?
She had to believe that she wouldn’t, had to believe that there was a future out there better than the past she was leaving behind. After all, this was Bethlehem, a place for miracles. Her miracle wouldn’t include Ross, but it would include someone.
Please, God, it would.
The glow from their house caught her attention the instant she stepped onto their block. Yesterday the workers she’d hired had spent much of the afternoon putting up lights. The strong, straight lines of the house lent themselves well to the white bulbs that stretched from one end to the other and from top to bottom. The farolitos along the porte cochere roof were electric, but the real thing, currently unlit, lined the sidewalk and the porch steps.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she said as they turned onto their sidewalk. “You fix dinner, and I’ll light the candles.”
Shaking his head, he repeated her offer. “You fix dinner, and I’ll light the candles.”
“No fair. You got the fun part.” Though she knew from last night’s experience that replacing and lighting three dozen votives in the cold wasn’t entirely fun. She’d gone through an entire small tree’s worth of fireplace matches, and a nagging ache in her back had kicked in somewhere around the tenth candle. Maybe next year she could turn the lighting job over to Josie—supervised, of course—who thought candles in paper sacks were pretty neat.
“But all right,” she continued. “I’ll fix dinner. But I won’t be responsible for the results.”
“And I won’t be responsible if I set the yard on fire,” he retorted, unlocking the door.
“You don’t know how to not be responsible,” she said with a laugh. “It’s one of the things I always admired about you.”
“With the others being …?”
“Fishing for compliments? Or just trying to delay going back out into the cold?”
“All right. I’ll go out now, and we’ll talk compliments later.” He gathered the candles and matches started his cold task. Though traditionally farolitos were lit for only nine nights, Maggie chose to ignore that part of the tradition. She liked the lights, and Josie did too, and that was reason enough to bend tradition.
Yesterday morning he’d come down to breakfast to find her sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by the paper lunch bags. She’d been completely absorbed by the job of opening each bag, then folding over the top edge an inch or two. When she’d lined up the finished products, he hadn’t been surprised to see that the folds were virtually identical on all thirty-six. When her difficulty concentrating forced her to focus her attention so narrowly, the results could be amazing.
From each bag he removed a blob of
melted wax, leveled the sand, and positioned a new candle. He burned himself only a time or two and considered it an accomplishment when he finished that he hadn’t set a single bag on fire.
For a moment he stood on the sidewalk out front and simply looked at the scene while his mind wandered back downtown. He hadn’t expected more than slight entertainment that evening—hell, if he wanted to see a parade, he could command plum seats at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day or the Tournament of Roses parade—but he’d enjoyed this one. Somehow, homemade floats, pint-size gymnasts, and the midwinter queen and her court freezing in formal gowns and convertibles held more charm than the professional industry big parades had become. Parents and grandparents had taken pride in watching their kids, and everyone on the sidelines had gotten a kick out of knowing everyone in the parade. It had been fun.
And it’d been a hell of a long time since he’d thought that about anything.
A stiff wind blew snow against his face, but he was so cold that he barely felt it. He didn’t move to go in though. Something—some sudden emptiness, some ache—held him where he was, staring at the farolitos, the lights, the house. The home.
Though the bags protected the candles, the flames flickered slightly, casting their light first to one side, then to the other. For the first time, he understood Maggie’s desire for the farolitos. In the quiet dark night, with snow falling and the sounds of carols fresh in his memory, the bags became more than just paper, sand, and wax. They were bright, golden beacons, welcoming, lighting the way home.
But it was Maggie’s home, not his. He missed the city, missed all the things she had wanted to escape. She belonged here—should have spent the first thirty-five years of her life here, would spend the rest of it here—but he didn’t. He didn’t know how to fit into this good, decent place filled with good, honorable people. He didn’t know how to be one of them—didn’t know if he would if he could.
He felt lost in Bethlehem.
For a man used to being in total control, lost was not a pleasant way to feel.
Feeling colder than he ever had—and not entirely due to the temperature, he suspected—he picked up the box and went inside. Maggie was standing beside the island, warming her hands on a pottery mug while watching hamburger patties sizzle on the cooktop grill. Her cheeks were still red from the cold, her hair mussed from the cap she’d worn. She’d kicked off her shoes and stood on a thick nubby rug, her right foot resting atop her left as if one might warm the other. She looked …
He’d meant to finish the sentence in a meaningless, stating-the-obvious sort of way. Beautiful. Adorable. The word that came to mind, though, was anything but meaningless.
Appealing.
He didn’t want to find her appealing. He didn’t want to get that personal. Beautiful was impersonal. People who simply saw her on the street and didn’t know the first thing about her found her beautiful. But appealing … That implied some emotional connection—desire, if nothing else. Wanting.
He couldn’t afford to want her.
“Want some cocoa?” she asked when she became aware of him standing there. Without waiting for a reply, she slid a mug to the opposite side of the island, then flipped the burgers and added a slice of cheese to each. On the griddle, thick slices of buttered bread were browning, and a plate on the counter held onion slices and homemade pickles. “We’re having burgers and soup.”
He stood there, too cold but warming quickly. The heat came from the inside, pumping with his blood, raising his temperature in seconds from frigid to feverish. It made his hands unsteady and thickened his voice when he finally thought to speak. “What—what kind of soup?”
“Whatever kind you want.” With a flourish, she opened a cabinet door to display a full shelf of canned soups.
He forced himself to look at them, but the names made no sense when panic had scrambled his brain. It was perfectly natural, he told himself. They’d been married for sixteen years. He knew her intimately, was as familiar with her body as with his own. He’d been alone a long time. Seeing her there, looking so damn—yes, appealing, on a night when he was already feeling a little lost … Hell, he’d worry if he didn’t feel something.
It didn’t mean a thing.
“How about chicken noodle?”
He nodded blankly, then picked up the cocoa. He took a long drink, then grimaced and blurted out before he could stop himself, “Jeez, what did you put in here?”
She turned, an open can of soup in hand, and gave him a worried look. “Just the usual—cocoa, sugar, milk, and a few drops of vanilla. I thought it tasted … Oh.” Color crept into her face. “We were so cold that I thought … Well, I added a little rum. I found it in the cabinet. I must have made rum cake last year—I do every Christmas—and I thought … So I put a tiny bit in mine. I haven’t had any alcohol for a year, and I never could hold it very well. But since you do drink and you were outside longer … Is it too much?”
He drew a deep breath as he set the mug down. “Not if you have another quart or so of cocoa to dilute it.”
“No. Sorry.” Her contrition turned to dismay as they both became aware of the smoke drifting up from the grill. She removed the burgers, only slightly charred, to a plate, then took the toast, also charred, from the griddle. Morosely, she scraped the toast, assembled the burgers, and slid a plate to him. “Dinner.”
“Come sit down.” Catching her hand, he drew her around the island and didn’t let go until she was seated on a stool. Then he fixed their drinks while the soup heated in the microwave. Once the noodles were dished up and he’d located silverware and napkins, he turned back to find her, head bent, hands over face, shoulders shaking.
No crying, he silently pleaded as the panic returned. He’d never had to deal with tears from her, not in all those long months in the hospital, not ever. God help him, he wasn’t up to learning how tonight.
But whether he was up to it didn’t matter. The fact was, she was distressed and he had to do something about it.
He moved a few cautious steps closer. “Maggie?”
She didn’t lift her head, try to compose herself, or silence the soft, strangled sounds muffled by her hands.
“Maggie, it’s okay. The meat’s just a little well done. You know, even in the best burger joints now, that’s required by law in most states.”
Making a choking sound, she finally looked up. Her eyes were damp, all right, but not because she was sobbing over another bad meal. She was laughing.
“You find this funny.” He felt thickheaded, as if he didn’t have a clue.
She wiped her eyes and gave a great sigh. “Oh, Ross, if I don’t laugh, I’ll have to cry, and I’ve cried enough tears in my life.”
He didn’t want to know—honest, he didn’t—but the question slipped out anyway. “When?”
In an instant, she became utterly serious. “Nights when you were in the office. Weeks when you were out of town. Years when you were out of reach. A woman can’t watch her husband create a life for himself with no room for her without shedding a few tears.”
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know …”
“Maybe not about the tears, but you knew you were moving me out of your life. You just didn’t care.” She spoke matter-of-factly, as if she had long ago accepted that fact. Before the acceptance, though, there must have been heartache and disillusionment, because she, at least, had tried to make things work.
That was more than he could say for himself.
She tried her burger and shrugged. “It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse. I’ve cooked worse.” After another bite she said, “All those dinner parties I planned for you … What was wrong with them?”
“Nothing. The food was great. You were always great. They were fine.”
“Then why did you take them away from me? Why did you suddenly insist on having them catered?”
Sliding onto the stool beside her, he thought back to when he’d made that decision. He tried to remember what her response was. Had she b
een resistant, or had she quietly, meekly, gone along? Had she been grateful to be freed of so much responsibility, or had she felt rejected?
That last was easy enough to answer. Why did you take them away? wasn’t the question of a grateful woman.
“It was a status thing,” he said at last. “A way of subtly pointing out that we could afford such extravagances.” Seeking to ease his own discomfort, he said, “You never enjoyed those parties anyway—not the hours of planning or the days of shopping or even the cooking. What did it matter to you if someone else did it?”
“Because it was one less way you needed me. You’re right. I didn’t particularly enjoy the parties. But I liked doing them for you. I liked feeling that I had someplace in your life besides bed.” Suddenly she grinned. “But I have to admit, whatever problems were building between us, the sex was still great. I was always grace—grateful—that you never replaced me there. But you weren’t that type. All those times you were gone, all that distance between us, I always knew that there would never be another woman. That counted for a lot.”
The chill that hit Ross was guilt laced with shame. It made his lungs tight and filled his ears with a rushing that distorted her words as she continued to talk. She sounded so confident, so certain that she could trust him at least on that score, but she was wrong. Her gratitude was misplaced, because for one brief, unforgivable time, he’d been exactly that type. He had betrayed her and himself for a few hours’ pleasure, and in the process he had almost destroyed her.
Now he was betraying her again, because even as she hoped and prayed for her missing memories to return, he prayed that she would never remember.
God forgive him.
Because Maggie wouldn’t.
For Christmas trees, whether you cut your own or chose from the display near the road, Bill Grovenor’s farm was the place most of Bethlehem went. For live trees, though, with the root ball intact and ready for post-holiday planting, Melissa’s Garden was the only source. Maggie was determined to have just such a tree to mark the momentous occasion of her first Christmas in Bethlehem. Last year didn’t count, after all, since she’d been whisked away only minutes after midnight on Christmas Day and didn’t remember anything prior to that.
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