Some Enchanted Season

by Marilyn Pappano

  Her voice was deadly calm, deadly angry, and too late he realized that the horror he felt must have shown on his face. He slid to the edge of the bed, but she stepped away. By the time he was on his feet, she was in the bathroom, slamming the door in his face, locking it before he thought to push his way in.

  He rested his palm against the wood. “Maggie, I’m sorry.” Sorry and sickened by the evidence of what he’d done to her. He was responsible for the obscene scars and all the pain behind them. If not for him …

  “Maggie, please open the door.”

  There was complete silence in the bathroom.

  “Please, Maggie, just let me explain.… ”

  The sound of rushing water broke the quiet as she turned on the shower. A moment later, from the change in tenor, he knew she’d stepped underneath the spray and, frustrated, he banged his fist on the door. “Damn it, Maggie! I didn’t mean …” The frustration dissolved, and he turned slowly away from the door.

  She’d been right about one thing. It was all his fault. Everything. And he had to live with that.

  • • •

  When her skin had shriveled and the water had turned cold, Maggie shut off the shower, but she didn’t get to her feet. She remained where she’d spent the last twenty minutes, huddled on the tiles. The water had sprayed over her bowed head, cocooning her in a loud, wet world, but she’d still been able to hear Ross.

  She’d still been able to see his revulsion, to feel his disgust.

  Tears welled, and she angrily dashed them away. She wouldn’t cry over this. So she was damaged goods. So he probably wouldn’t have wanted her if he’d seen her first. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want any man who could look at her that way simply because she was flawed. There were worse things than having a few scars—like dying.

  Like seeing that the very sight of your body sickened the man who had just made love with you.

  Lifting her head, she listened to the room outside the door but heard nothing. He was gone, thank God. She didn’t want to see him again, not yet.

  Slowly she got to her feet, stiff, a little sore. She dried her body, combed her hair. Opening the door just a crack, she peered out and saw that his clothes were gone from the floor. Quickly, she dressed, applied makeup, fixed her hair, then ventured into the hallway, half expecting to find him waiting.

  His voice came faintly from downstairs. Even at a distance she recognized anger. Once he’d satisfactorily ruined her day, he must have decided to do the same for Tom or some other poor sucker who worked for him.

  Downstairs she tiptoed to the hall closet. She took out her coat and purse, added a scarf and gloves, then slipped out the side door. She needed time alone, and a walk to Harry’s for breakfast seemed just the ticket.

  The snow was heavy on the sidewalk but not impassable. Out there in the cold, the quiet, the solitude, she could be numb to the hurt, the shame. She could be alone and pretend that it was what she wanted. She could recapture her dreams for the future—for getting Ross out of her life and falling in love with someone new.

  By the time she reached Harry’s, though, she was cold but far from numb, and she hadn’t come close to finding her way past the fear that a future without Ross was no future at all.

  With her arms full of dishes, Maeve greeted her cheerfully. “You just find a seat wherever you can, Maggie, and I’ll be right with you.”

  She was scanning the café for a seat when a wave from the last booth caught her attention. It was J. D. Grayson, inviting her to join him. Because any company was better than her own this morning—except Ross’s—she accepted the invitation.

  “Are you out alone this morning?” he asked.

  “I’m a grown woman. I’m allowed to go out by myself.”

  “Hey, you’ll get no argument from me. This is just the first time I’ve seen you out without Ross.” When her only response was to look down at her hands, in a more serious tone he asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing you’d want to know about.”

  “I’m a psychiatrist. I want to know about everything.”

  She shook her head as Maeve arrived with coffee. After Maggie placed her order, the waitress asked, “Is that handsome husband of yours joining you?”

  Smiling tautly, Maggie shook her head.

  After Maeve left, Dr. Grayson fixed his gaze on her. “You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”

  She knew he was right, but she remained stubborn. “I’d rather not discuss it,” she said firmly, then, for good measure, changed the subject. “I saw you were with Holly last night. Are you two involved?”

  “We’re friends. Does that count?”

  “I think that’s the best kind of ‘involved’ a man and a woman can have.”

  “Like you and Ross.” At her sharp look, he shrugged. “You two certainly seemed friendly last night.”

  “It was thirty degrees and snowing. Everyone was friendly. We were trying to stay warm.”

  “Where is he this morning?”

  “Home. Working.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No.” But that was a lie. It wasn’t that she’d wanted to find him waiting after her shower. She just wanted what had happened to mean enough to him that he couldn’t think of anything like work.

  “It can’t be easy, living together but not … well, living together.”

  “It’s been fine.” Unlike her previous answer, this one was true. It had been fine, right up until the middle of last night. Why hadn’t she let him go back to his room when he’d started to? Why hadn’t she locked the door then instead of in the morning, when it was already too late? So she’d had a bad dream. At least it had been one she could wake from. This one she had to live.

  “You know, Dr. Grayson,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “I could call for an appointment Monday, and you could get paid for this.”

  “For having breakfast with a friend?” he asked innocently as Maeve brought their meal.

  With the arrival of the food, the conversation eased into more comfortable, less significant subjects. Maggie relaxed enough to laugh a few times—to forget for odd moments that morning’s scene in her bedroom. The pain always came back, though, sometimes sharper than ever.

  After they paid their checks, Dr. Grayson walked outside with her. “I’m parked right over here. Can I give you a ride?”

  “No, thanks. I’d rather walk. But thanks for the offer—and for the company.”

  “It was my pleasure. And if whatever you don’t want to talk about is still bothering you Monday, make that call, will you?”

  With a noncommittal nod she watched him walk away. He was about to climb into a mud-spattered sport utility truck a few yards away, when abruptly, surprising even herself, she blurted out, “He saw the scars for the first time.”

  His gaze flickered across her face, but those scars were well covered with makeup. He came back a few feet, and she moved closer. “I take it his reaction was less than diplomatic.”

  “He was appalled.”

  “Of course he was.” Her own expression must have been appalled too, because he hastened to explain. “It’s one thing for him to know that you had surgery. It’s another to see the scars where they cut you open, and it’s still another entirely when they cut you open to repair damage from injuries suffered in an accident for which he bears some responsibility.”

  “It wasn’t his fault,” she said defensively. “He had nothing to do with it.”

  “Why were you on the highway that night?”

  She shoved her hands into her pockets so he couldn’t see the fists that formed. “I—I’m not sure. We—we’d had an argument.”

  “And you couldn’t stay there any longer. Ross took part in the argument. He was your biggest reason for leaving. By his own admission to the sheriff, he didn’t try to stop you from leaving. He does bear some responsibility, Maggie, at least in his mind.”

  Stubbornly she shook her head. She might not remember
what happened that night, but she knew herself well enough to realize that if she’d been angry enough to leave Bethlehem on Christmas Eve, no one ould have stopped her short of physically restraining her.

  “My point, Maggie, is that Ross believes he’s to blame for your injuries—for your scars. Seeing them was a vivid reminder of his guilt. He can look at you like this”—with one gloved hand, he made a sweeping, head-to-toe gesture—“and forget that anything ever happened. But it’s hard to forget when you’re looking at the scars.”

  She wanted to believe he was right, wanted it more than she would have guessed, but it wasn’t easy. Appearance had always been important to Ross. He’d wanted her to look perfect, and now she hadn’t a chance in hell of even coming close.

  Dr. Grayson’s voice softened. “Don’t blame him for having an honest reaction, Maggie. Just because he found the scars—what was your word? Appalling?—doesn’t mean he finds you that way too.” He shrugged, offered a crooked smile. “The fact that he even saw certain of these scars tends to suggest otherwise.” After a brief pause, he asked, “Are you sure I can’t give you a ride?”

  Her face warm with a flush, she changed her earlier answer. She was cold, sore, and had no place to go but home. “I would appreciate it.”

  They relied again on small talk to cover the short distance to the house. He pulled to the curb, and she climbed out before facing him again. “Thanks.”

  “Call me anytime. I keep regular hours at the hospital and at Harry’s on weekends.”

  With a faint smile, she closed the door. As she turned to the house, though, the smile disappeared and despair stabbed through her. If only she could slip in unnoticed and hide away in her room …

  There was just one problem: keys. She didn’t have any. With all the grimness of a prisoner going to the firing squad, she climbed the steps and rang the bell. Too quickly to have come from the office, Ross opened the door. He looked cold and angry.

  “I—I don’t have any keys,” she said as greeting and explanation rolled into one.

  He walked away into the office, then came straight back to drop a key ring—house keys and car keys—into her hand. Before she could say thanks, he returned to the office and closed the doors.

  Chapter Twelve

  He was a first-class bastard.

  Ross had spent most of the day reminding himself of that and worrying about Maggie. Wondering what the hell she’d been doing with Grayson. Wanting to apologize to her. Wanting to run like hell away from her.

  Just plain wanting her.

  Now it was six o’clock and nothing had been resolved. Once she’d returned from wherever she’d met the damn shrink, she’d avoided him the rest of the day. They hadn’t spoken one word. He hadn’t made one apology.

  It was time.

  He left the office, where he’d accomplished nothing all day, and met her in the hall. She was dressed in leggings and a heavy sweater, and she carried a jacket—one of his—over one arm. In her free hand a pair of skates dangled by the laces. When she saw him, she stopped abruptly. Guiltily.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Ice skating.”

  “Ice skating,” he repeated blankly.

  “At City Park. The Thomases invited us.”

  “And you just happened to forget to tell me.”

  His sarcasm made her flush. “You don’t skate, and I … I don’t want you to go.”

  The defiant words sent a sharp pain through him. He deserved that—and so much more—but it still hurt. Pushing it aside to deal with later, he said, “I don’t think you should go either. You haven’t skated in years. What if you fall?”

  “One year,” she corrected him. “I went with Melissa and Alex last year. And of course I’ll probably fall. People do. But don’t worry. J.D. will be there.”

  J.D. When had she started calling the shrink by his first name? he wondered as jealousy clawed through him. Exactly what had gone on between them that morning? “I don’t give a damn if Grayson will be there. He won’t be here to deal with it if you get hurt.”

  “You seem to think I need your permission, but you’re wrong. I’m going skating whether you like it or not. My friends will all be there, and we’re going to have fun. Remember having fun?” She slapped her forehead. “Oh, I forgot. Your idea of fun is making more money and accumulating more power. Well, you have your fun tonight, and I’ll have mine.”

  When she started to move, he stepped aside to block her way. “You’re not going.”

  “I am.”

  “Not unless I go too.”

  Behind him, the doorbell rang. He stopped her from answering it.

  “That’s Melissa,” she said stiffly. “She said they would pick me since you couldn’t make it.”

  “You can go with me or not at all.”

  Her eyes brightened like fire. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s always been my business. Last night made it even more so.”

  “Last night didn’t—” She bit off the words and her jaw worked to keep them inside. Last night didn’t give him any rights? Didn’t change what was between them? Didn’t mean a damn thing?

  He didn’t try to choose the most likely possibility. It would hurt too much. Instead, he coolly, obstinately, repeated, “With me, Maggie, or not at all.”

  The doorbell pealed a second time, and she swore. “All right. But I hope you have a miserable time.”

  He had no doubt he would. But miserable and watching her—especially around friends like Grayson—beat miserable and home alone anytime. “Tell Melissa that my plans have changed and we’ll meet them there.”

  Scowling darkly, she pushed past him and walked to the door, where she told Melissa just that. The other woman responded with a cheerful “See you there,” then Maggie closed the door and turned a chilly glare on Ross. Ignoring her, he went upstairs to trade his T-shirt for warmer clothes. Back downstairs, once he’d claimed his coat and gloves, they left for a silent, short trip across town.

  The ice rink was situated at the opposite end of the park from the Tour of Lights setup. Bright lights illuminated the benches surrounding the rink and the skaters already on the ice. As they approached, he saw Alex and Melissa, Nathan and Emilie, Dean Elliott with a pretty blonde, Holly with a man. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, even Brendan Dalton, who glided along unsteadily, his hands securely clasped by Alanna and another young girl.

  Not only was he going to have a miserable evening, he would be the only one so suffering. No doubt that would make Maggie even happier than the mere sight of her friends already had.

  At one end of the oval rink, a small stone building served as skate rental, concession stand, and the only heat around. Ross looked at it longingly but followed Maggie to a bench. She was putting on her skates, when Holly slid to a stop at the rail in front of them.

  “Hey, glad you guys could make it. Did Melissa tell you that we’re all going back to the inn afterward for hot cocoa and dessert?”

  “Yes, she did,” Maggie replied.

  Another invitation she had failed to mention. So she didn’t want him there either. Ross felt a curious sensation—hopelessness?—take root inside.

  “Ross, where are your skates?” Holly asked.

  Before he could answer, Maggie did. “He doesn’t skate.”

  “Rent a pair, and we’ll teach you,” Holly offered. “Melissa and I are great teachers. We taught every kid out here.”

  Ross was tempted to take her up on the offer, if for no other reason than to wipe that smug look off Maggie’s face. Only the fact that she so obviously wanted him here on the sidelines—on the outside, literally, looking in—made him politely decline.

  She stood up, balancing carefully on the blades, and took a few wobbly steps. As she stepped onto the ice, he tried once more. “Maggie, I don’t think—”

  She cut him off with a sharp look. “No, you don’t, do you?” Without waiting to hear his response, she pushed of
f with Holly at her side. Her movements were awkward and jerky at first, but soon she found the natural, graceful rhythm.

  He watched for a few minutes, then sat down on the concrete bench. Though it had been swept clean of snow, it was like sitting on a slab of ice.

  “Try this. It’s a lot more comfortable.”

  He looked up, then accepted the vinyl cushion J. D. Grayson offered.

  Grayson sat down on his own cushion and cradled both hands around a foam cup of coffee. “You don’t skate?”

  “I never had a chance to learn. In my neighborhood, skating was for sissies.”

  “In my neighborhood, it was for hockey players—and we weren’t sissies. Why don’t you let Holly teach you? I heard her offer.”

  Rather than admit the truth and sacrifice his pride, Ross merely shrugged.

  “Not an activity of choice for the rich and powerful, huh? Why didn’t you just stay home, where you could at least be warm?”

  “I don’t think Maggie should be here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s got steel plates in her leg holding the bones together. Because she just learned to walk again a few months ago. Because she could do a hell of a lot of damage.” His tone was sharper than the question deserved. In contrast, Grayson’s was milder.

  “Actually, the plates and screws are titanium, and she’s walking fine. As long as she doesn’t try something fancy like a triple Salchow, she’s not in danger of hurting anything.”

  “If she falls—”

  “She’ll most likely land on her butt, which is generally the most padded portion of the human anatomy. I know your intentions are good, but don’t be overprotective, Ross. She needs to try things, to see for herself what she can do. We want her to be careful, not afraid.”

  He wanted her to be safe, not careful. He wanted her to never be hurt again. And he wanted to be the one to make sure of that.

  Morosely, he watched as Dean Elliott skated between her and Holly, linking his arms with theirs. His gaze followed them around the rink twice, then, as Holly’s date claimed Maggie’s other arm, he looked away, catching a glimpse of the Bishops. As long as he was deciding who should and shouldn’t be allowed on the ice, he would insist that Emilie leave too. What was Bishop thinking? If his wife were pregnant, the last place she’d be was sliding around an ice rink on a pair of narrow blades and only one hard fall away from disaster. If his wife were pregnant—