The Giving Season

by Rebecca Brock

  “Wasn’t Ed Gein a farmer in Wisconsin?”

  Michael smiled slightly and Jessy’s instincts got the better of her. She didn’t want him to be this nice. It made things that much harder for her.

  “I would really appreciate it,” he said softly, “if you’d do me the favor of coming in from the cold. You can trust me. Honest.”

  Jessy studied him for a few moments. Yeah, he looked like a decent enough guy—but then again, so had Ted Bundy.

  “Besides,” he added, “if you don’t come in, I’ll worry myself to death. I’ve got three kids. Worry is coded in my DNA.”

  He smiled at her again, and as much as Jessy wanted to see something devious and insincere in that smile, she couldn’t. She couldn’t even pretend. And maybe she’d live to regret it, but she sensed that she could trust him—for one night, anyway. She’d just sleep lightly and keep her guard up. And since she figured she probably outweighed him, she was fairly certain he wouldn’t attempt to try anything. Besides, it was her. When had a man ever attempted to try anything with her?

  “Fine,” she said as she rose, faltering as the bus seemed to tilt and rock beneath her feet. She staggered slightly and Michael instantly grabbed her elbow, steadying her as she regained her balance. Jessy tried to ignore the gentleness of the gesture.

  “But I’ve got one condition,” she said as she took her arm back. “I’m paying you back for half the room. That way I don’t owe you and you don’t owe me. Deal?”

  “Sure thing.” Michael grinned as he allowed Jessy to step in front of him, following her down the bus aisle. “But I call dibs on the little bars of soap.”

  Jessy stopped in her tracks and turned to face him again, shaking her head slightly when she saw the wide, teasing smile on his face.

  She had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The lock clicked softly as Michael closed the door, plunging the room into darkness. Jessy instantly stiffened, suddenly all too aware that she was alone in a locked room with a strange man. God—how did she manage to get herself into these situations?

  “You wouldn’t happen to be close to a light, would you?” Michael’s voice in the darkness was followed by a solid thud—his shin against a table, from the sound of it—and a muttered curse. Jessy found the bedside lamp, turning it on to find Michael sitting in one of the molded vinyl chairs, gingerly massaging his right shin.

  “Found the dresser,” he said with a crooked grin.

  Jessy nodded, managing a faint smile as she forced herself to look away from him and study her new surroundings. It was a motel room like every other motel room she had ever seen in her life, filled with bad artwork, cheap fabrics, and cigarette-scarred furniture. She hefted her threadbare suitcase onto the dresser, setting it beside the bolted-down television. At least the place didn’t have a mirrored ceiling.

  “Not bad for twenty bucks,” Michael said, smiling as he put his suitcase on the small table centered between two plastic chairs. “What do they call this decorating style anyway? Early American Fugly?”

  “I think it’s stuck in the ’70s.” Jessy had to smile, glancing back at him as he shrugged out of his coat. In his flannel shirt and jeans he appeared sturdy and strong, the classic farm-boy look. He glanced up and caught her staring, and Jessy quickly averted her eyes, huddling in the safe depths of her coat.

  Damn it, why was he making her so nervous? It wasn’t just because he was a stranger. It was because Michael Forrester was a good-looking man, and she knew all too well how good-looking men tended to react to her. Once they saw how overweight she was, they either ignored her or pitied her or, in some cases, ridiculed her. If given the choice, Jessy would rather be ignored. Especially since the whole Charlie fiasco.

  She couldn’t look at him, so she focused her attention on the room instead. “Tacky” was about the kindest thing she could say about it. The orange and green polyester bedspread shared the same zigzag pattern as the curtain. The lamps, in the shape of chubby, gold-plated cherubs, were sorely in need of a paint job. The shag rug, an unnatural shade that managed to blend every color in the spectrum into a sickly gray-green, was bare in patches, a path worn between the bed and the closeted bathroom.

  And in the middle of all this splendor, she noted with a sudden jolt, there was only one bed.

  One bed. Two people. She didn’t have to be Einstein to do the math on that one.

  “You’re going to keel over if you don’t get out of those wet clothes,” Michael said as he pulled off his heavy work boots. “That cough sounds bad enough as it is. You don’t need it to get worse.”

  Jessy nodded, but made no move to get out of anything as she sank down on the foot of the bed. Her heart pounded hard and fast, her palms slick with cold sweat. Oh Lord, but she hated to feel this way. She knew from long years of painful experience that it did her not one iota of good to let herself be aware of attractive men—especially a man as handsome as Michael Forrester. He probably had that all too typical male mentality that decreed a woman should have a chest the size of Texas and a wasp waist—with an I. Q. to match her age. On that standard, Jessy knew she failed big-time. A supermodel she was most definitely not—although lately she’d been questioning her own intelligence. She hadn’t exactly been making the wisest of decisions.

  “Listen,” Michael said, startling her into looking up at him again. He was unbuttoning his flannel shirt, revealing a black thermal undershirt beneath. “I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot—”

  Jessy smiled faintly, not quite able to maintain eye contact with him. “I think that’s pretty much safe to say.”

  “So let’s start again.” Michael sat beside her on the bed and she immediately tensed. She couldn’t look at him, staring at the rug at her feet while her cheeks burned with embarrassment and her entire body trembled. She silently cursed at herself; now she was just being ridiculous. She was far too old to be acting like such a child.

  “I’m Michael Forrester,” he said and smiled, extending his hand. “And you are—?”

  Jessy hesitated a moment, gazing at his offered hand. She had to admit it was one of the nicest she’d ever seen: long fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and wide, almost delicate wrists. His forearms, exposed by his pushed up sleeves, were sprinkled with dark hair and nicely muscled. He had the hands of an artist, not a farmer.

  “Uh—Jessy,” she finally stammered, managing a very faint smile as she quickly met his gaze. “Jessy Monroe.”

  Tentatively, she slipped her hand into his. His palm was warm, with a wonderful texture that fell somewhere between soft and rough. Touching others, even in such a casual way, had never come easily to Jessy, but she found herself relaxing as his fingers enveloped hers and they shared a smile.

  “I’m glad to know you, Miss Jessy Monroe.” His dark eyes shone with an almost teasing glint as he studied her, and Jessy suddenly felt acutely self-conscious. Reluctantly, she slipped her hand out of his grasp and stood, crossing the room to the clothes rack bolted to the far wall. Distance was good. Distance was very good.

  “So,” she said, and laughed nervously. “Mr. Forrester—”

  “Please,” he said, and smiled. “Call me Michael.” He leaned against the headboard of the bed, folding his arms behind his head as he crossed his long legs at the ankles. “‘Mr. Forrester’ just makes me feel old.”

  “Okay—” Jessy returned his smile, glancing over her shoulder to him as she fumbled with the buttons on her coat. Her skin felt as cold and slick as ice, but she dreaded shedding the one crucial layer that skimmed over the bulges without clinging, almost disguising the extent of her size. The only person she fooled was herself—after all, no amount of ‘slimming’ black could disguise a hundred extra pounds—but she took her comforts where she could. Right now Michael was treating her, more or less, like any other woman he might meet, but Jessy knew that once he saw how big she really was his whole attitude towards her would change. One glimpse of h
er less than perfect body and the smiles would stop as she ceased to exist in his world.

  Suddenly angry that she should even care what he thought, she kept her back to him and peeled off her sopping coat. She wore a baggy green sweatshirt over loose jeans—both of which made her look even bigger and dumpier, she thought grimly. It was too late to do anything about it now anyway. She turned to face him again, expecting to see disgust or surprise or disappointment—or all three.

  But instead he was watching her with an unsettling intensity, one corner of his wide mouth curled up in a half-smile. Jessy didn’t know how to react to that. And it made her even more nervous than before.

  “So—” Jessy cleared her throat, fighting back a cough as she sat in one of the plastic chairs, careful to keep a good distance between herself and the bed. She smiled pleasantly and forced herself to keep eye contact with him. “I guess we should try to get to know each other, huh?”

  He nodded, an amused glint in his eye. “Yep—I guess so.”

  “Yep—” Jessy absently chewed on her lower lip, eyes darting from his steady gaze to the bed to the ceiling to the floor to anything but those smiling dark eyes. What was his problem? Why was he staring at her like that? Didn’t he get the memo that said he should be ignoring her by now?

  “So what do you want to know about me?” he asked as he leaned sideways on the bed, stretching out as he propped his head up on his fist. “Should I start with my prison record or the time I spent in South America as a soldier-of-fortune?”

  Jessy laughed despite her nervousness, triggering another round of whooping coughs. “Just the basics,” she managed to gasp as the worst of it had passed.

  “I can’t believe you think I’m joking,” he said with mock-seriousness, unable to hide the teasing smile in his eyes. “Okay—basics. Let’s see, I’m thirty-eight—no, wait a minute—thirty-nine. Forgot about that last birthday. Anyway, I run a small dairy farm up north, and I have three kids, five horses, and two dozen cows.”

  “What about the partridge in a pear tree?” Jessy asked with a smile.

  “Give me a while. I’ve still got a few weeks before Christmas.”

  Jessy leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs awkwardly; she settled on resting her ankle on her knee. “So what about the rest of the basics?” she asked, eyeing his ringless left hand. Kids usually meant a wife lurked somewhere at home, didn’t it? Not that she was about to come right out and ask.

  “Hmm—well, I enjoy painting, riding horses, and taking my kids fly-fishing—” He suddenly batted his eyelashes and smiled brightly. “And when I become Miss America, I hope to end starvation and make the world a better place for all the little children.”

  Jessy couldn’t help but laugh. “You’d never pass the swimsuit competition, buddy.”

  “Ah, well, I don’t think I could survive the bikini waxing anyway.” He lifted one jean-clad leg and flexed it, grinning as Jessy smiled again. “Actually, that’s about it for me. I’m a dairy farmer in Minnesota. I can’t think of anything more boring than that.”

  “Did you grow up on the farm?” Jessy winced inwardly at the inanity of the question, but her brain seemed to be taking a coffee break. She couldn’t remember ever being so antsy around a man.

  “Yep—” Michael’s smile softened, growing almost sad. “I left home for college so I could be a painter or graphics artist or something. Anything but a farmer.” His smile quirked downward, almost fading completely. “But Dad died a few years back and left Mom the spread. She asked me to come home and help her run it and—here I am. A farmer, just like Dad wanted.”

  Jessy heard the regret in his voice. “What about the rest of your family?”

  Michael smiled again, seeming to regain some of his good mood. “My older brother, Frank, is a sheriff in a small town up north. All I do is milk the cows and slop the pigs and clean the stalls.”

  “Sounds thrilling.”

  Michael shrugged, a mischievous smile curling his lips. “Most people would think it was udderly boring.”

  Jessy winced even as she smiled. “Oh, boo—bad, bad joke.”

  “Sorry.” His grin spread even wider. “When it comes to bad jokes, I just get a bovine inspiration.”

  “Please—” Jessy said as she laughed. “You’re milking this thing to death.”

  Michael lost his semi-straight face and laughed with her. Their gazes caught for an instant and held, the smiles lingering just a moment longer than they should have.

  Jessy sobered instantly. This wasn’t good. Not good at all. She was starting to like this man, and she knew from past experience exactly what road that would lead to. First, she’d start liking liking him, then she’d start acting really dumb and stupid around him—and then she’d say something that would send him screaming for the hills. After all, what man wanted a 220-pound woman interested in him? None that she’d ever found. Charlie had taught her that much.

  “What about your wife?” she asked quietly. Not the most subtle approach, but she was too tired to be discreet. She dreaded his answer almost as much as she wanted to hear it. “How does she like living on a dairy farm?”

  “She didn’t.” Michael smiled, but his eyes were strangely flat. “It was the whole Green Acres thing—I loved the farm, but she loved the city. She’s still in Chicago, a reporter for the Tribune. The kids are with me at the farm.”

  “Oh,” Jessy murmured, slowly nodding. So he wasn’t married. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that—despite the fact that every nerve in her body was doing a quiet little happy dance.

  “And I think I just got a little too up close and personal,” he said abruptly, changing the mood with a grin that was just way too cute for Jessy’s comfort. “So what’s your story, morning glory?”

  Jessy’s smile held a few moments longer. She really didn’t want to get into the whole sorry saga of her trek North. What could she say? I uprooted my entire life and moved hundreds of miles away from home for a guy who didn’t bother to tell me he was engaged to somebody else? Bad enough that she already thought she was an idiot for being so naïve; she couldn’t stand the thought of Michael thinking the same thing.

  “Okay,” she said quietly, hoping she sounded casual enough. “Let’s see—I’m from Kentucky, I’m a third grade teacher—and, well—I guess that’s about it. The end.”

  “So you’re a teacher from Kentucky.” Michael’s smile widened. “Hold on while I try to process that overload of information.”

  “I told you I was boring.”

  “Well—where are you going?”

  Jessy shifted slightly, uncomfortable with the conversation’s sudden change of direction. “I’m just—going.”

  “I suppose that’s your polite way of saying it’s none of my business, right?”

  “Guess so.” Jessy abruptly stood, absently pulling at her sweatshirt to loosen it. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the dresser and grimaced. Dear Lord, but she looked horrible. Her hair hung in lank chunks around her puffy face, and the rest of her looked as wide as a house. It was a reality slap that she hadn’t particularly needed at just that moment. But it brought her back to Earth, like it or not.

  She turned away from her reflection and busied herself by digging through her small suitcase, coughing harshly into her balled fist. She felt as bad as she looked—if not worse. All she wanted was to take a hot shower to clear her aching sinuses and unkink her muscles. Then she wanted to sleep—preferably for days. She wanted to forget about the last few days of nonstop traveling. She wanted to forget that Charlie Wilks had ever existed. More than that, she wanted to forget that she could possibly be as gullible and dumb as she had been over him.

  “Something tells me that you’d rather I change the subject,” Michael said quietly, sitting up. Jessy forced herself to casually look at him again. Something about his expression confounded her; he actually seemed to be interested in what she had to say. He actually seemed to want to listen to her.

 
; For a moment she wanted very badly to confide in him, to trust her instincts and allow him to be her friend—but she couldn’t. The past few months had been an education she could have done without. People she thought she could trust had turned out to be hiding behind masks. The experience with Charlie Wilks had been a hard lesson, but one she’d taken to heart. Now she didn’t want to trust anyone—especially handsome men with big, bright smiles.

  “There—” she took a deep breath and forced a false smile. “There just isn’t anything else to talk about. That’s all.”

  “One more question,” Michael said, his friendly smile slowly replaced by a growing expression of concern.

  Jessy nodded. “Okay. One more.”

  He gazed at her for a few long, unnerving moments. “Who have you been crying over?”

  Jessy automatically turned away from Michael to the mirror. Her eyes were still red and swollen. Michael gazed at her with disconcerting intensity, his silence demanding that she answer. Only problem was, Jessy didn’t know what that answer would be.

  So instead of speaking, Jessy lowered her eyes and fumbled mutely with the clothing in her suitcase. She really didn’t want to get into her life story with this stranger. There were too many things she regretted, too many bad choices, too many missed opportunities.

  “It’s a long story,” she finally said quietly, forcing a slight smile as she looked up again. “Too long and too boring.”

  Without saying a word, Michael rose and stood beside her. He didn’t crowd her, didn’t touch her, but she was acutely aware of his strength, his warmth. She wished she could just wrap her arms around him and cry. She wished he would hold her until she didn’t feel so damn alone.

  But it was foolish to wish for that. After all, why should he care about her or her problems? He didn’t even know her. As soon as the snow melted, they’d board the bus and never see each other again.