Wrapped in Red: A Three Rivers Romance Novella

by Meghan M. Gorecki

  He meant what he said. And a lot more. Merry spun the roll of tape around her wrist now, working to find words. Any words. She worked around books full of words every day. She used to write thousands of words a week. What was wrong with her?

  What if Sam didn’t last until One Day?

  Oh, but what if he did?

  “Okay, Sam, enough with the puppy-dog eyes. I need your help.” Just in the nick of time, Kristin Daniels click-clacked her way up to the stage in her commanding wedge boots—and still didn’t meet Merry’s five-five height.

  Two tools hit the stage with a loud crash, sending Merry jumping around only to behold Sam clumsily scooping up the hammer and electrical tape that had sprung lose from his hold for some odd reason. “Yes ma’am.” He awaited further instructions standing “at-ease”—but Merry couldn’t miss how his cheeks almost matched his shirt and she bit back a pleased smile. Had he really been making eyes at her?

  “Would you mind playing a few bars of something so I can see how it sounds from the audience? I’m not sure if we’ll need to mic the piano during that one scene in the play. And Merry, you can join me in a minute.” Kristin scribbled something on her clipboard and marched off the stage. Merry began to follow, and made the mistake of glancing over her shoulder where Sam stood pale under the glaring stage lights in front of a blue Victorian storefront.

  “I…I haven’t played in years. Ah, Merry, you don’t play, do you?” His voice came out strangled, and he barely moved a muscle. Marching over to Sam, Merry opened her mouth to ask if he was all right, but he was looking everywhere but at her now.

  She slipped onto the piano bench and flexed her fingers. “I’ll play a few scales and you can see how it sounds, Kristin.” Summoning to mind eight-note exercises from grade school was like riding a bike, but Merry glanced through the opening of the baby grand piano to watch Sam half-trip over his own feet as he collected his tools—strong, broad shoulders raising at her every crescendo and key change with every ascending scale.

  “Thanks, Mer. You remember that scene where little Timmy plays piano? You think we should mic it with little Ben playing or no?” Kristin bit her pencil in the audience, but Merry caught her eyeing Sam as he jogged down the steps off the stage. Standing, Merry pushed the piano bench in and tried to recall the scene Kristin referred to—except Sam. She had read the script four times through, and now she had to work to remember that scene.

  Where had he gone?

  “Probably a good idea…” Merry squinted through the bright stage lights making the dark of the worship center appear almost black, but there it was—a flash of bright red flannel going through the back door. Despite being in church—and on its stage, no less—that old urge to run now sped her steps towards someone instead of away from something. An urge that was new, and a bit alarming—and Merry prayed her mother’s friend wouldn’t assign her any more tasks for the night.

  Kristin stood and slipped her clipboard into her humongous tote bag. “I agree. Now why don’t you go run on after that young man and see if he’s okay?”

  Merry scooped up her coat off the front row seat and jogged up the aisle. “I think I’d better.”

  Bursting into the dark lobby, she strode over to the front doors. Where had Sam gone? She shoved the doors open and the biting scent of a coming snow met her nostrils, but the man whose face had all but crumpled at the mention of a piano was nowhere to be seen.

  The need to know he was okay sent her feet skidding over old road salt in the parking lot, but she kept walking. Even though she knew she was being ridiculous. Caring too much led to hurt. But such a risk didn’t seem to matter. Not right now. The parking lot was dusted with a sparkling glaze that had her feet slipping as she made her way to her car and she barked a prayer on a laugh into the frozen air. “God, what am I doing?”

  She was risking falling in more ways than one. She should know better. Especially to literally chase after a guy. All her short-lived forays into online dating this year alone should have her beating a hasty retreat to her car, and then to her home—never to darken the doors of anywhere Sam Shepard could be.

  But she couldn’t just let him go. Not like that.

  Church bells began pealing the hour from around the South Hills just as the first few soft, wet snowflakes met her eyelashes. Skidding to a stop at a streetlight pole, Merry pressed her bare hands to the steel and blew out a breath. “Where are you?”

  The sound of an engine rounding the corner spun Merry around into the glare of a red truck’s headlights. It pulled up alongside her and the window rolled down. “You okay?”

  Merry growled, exasperated with herself and the man sitting safely in his big, warm, red truck. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  Something shifted in those eyes hooded with longer than fair eyelashes, but he half-grimaced, half-grinned. “You have a minute?”

  Merry rubbed her hands up and down her arms as relief—Sam was okay—and frustration coursed through her. “How many minutes does it take to get hypothermia?” Or worry yourself sick? The man seemed to finally snap out of whatever fog he’d been in and leaned over to the opposite door in his truck. “Hop in. I’ll park by your car.”

  Didn’t need to tell her twice. Once she climbed into the passenger seat, Merry held up her hands in front of the heating vent and paid close attention to Sam’s face in her peripheral vision. Once he parked alongside her tiny PT cruiser and turned to face her, Merry could feel her fingers again. Which was good, because the guy deserved her punch in the arm. “Are you sick? Did you get bad news? What happened back there?”

  She heard her voice go up a few notches on the shrill scale, but she didn’t care. Still not completely warm, Merry folded her arms tight and tilted her head to get a good look at the man. He worked to swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and though the truck was in park, his hands flexed, a finger at a time, over the steering wheel.

  Scooting over just a hair, Merry patted his arm. “Sam…why didn’t you want to play the piano?”

  “I haven’t played in almost eight years.”

  That was all he was going to give her? He doesn’t owe you anything, stupid. Pushing back the voice that told her to stop pushing the issue, Merry faced forward again and let the heat blast her cold face.

  “Listen, even Kristin noticed something was up. Was it stage fright?” That got a tiny smile teasing his soft laugh lines to crease deep. So deep, a shadow of a laugh burst out of the man as he leaned his head back against his seat.

  “You’re a puzzle, you know that?”

  That nettled, but Merry saw his point clear as day. She hadn’t exactly been the most communicative with him, either, in spite of his friendliness. And now here she sat demanding he confess why he had booked it out of the church at the mention of playing piano. Something about him though begged someone to just be there for him. With no answers. Just…presence.

  The Thanksgiving prayer came back to her memory with a rush of warmth as she thought about how right it had been with her hand in his. He hadn’t persistently pressed her about why she was emotional—thank goodness—but just been there.

  She had to give him that same grace. Her hand still lay on his slick winter parka and she whipped it snapped back into her lap. “Forget I asked. Just answer me the question a smug snowman once asked me not so long ago…” Was the car’s heat on high? Merry watched a grin bloom beneath Sam’s five o’clock shadow as he finally turned to her, waiting. She took as deep a breath as her butterfly-filled lungs would allow. “Are you okay?”

  Sam’s chin met his chest in a single nod, before he finally raised his gaze back up to meet hers. And there went the oxygen in the car again.

  “I am now. I just haven’t played since…since my mom passed away.”

  That would explain it. Merry’s butterflies receded into a deep ache for the man sitting too close and yet too far away from her in the cab of his truck. Empathy pressed all but a few paltry words from her mind. Reaching over the seat,
Merry covered Sam’s right hand lying idle beside him with her own.

  “I’m so sorry.” I know how much it hurts. And yet I can’t imagine. No wonder you don’t play anymore. It’s not okay. It’s not fair. But I’m here were the words Merry wanted to say. But a lump rose to her throat when Frank Sinatra began singing Ave Maria on the radio streaming low. That had been one of Grandpap’s favorite Christmas songs. The regrets had faded with time—but the missing?

  The missing still took her breath away.

  “Were you looking for me? Running around in the parking lot?” Sam upturned his hand so their palms rested in each other’s, and the missing of one of her biggest fans left. And taking its place was a swirl of butterflies rather resembling a snow globe all shaken up in her stomach.

  Her cheeks probably glowed bright red like Rudolph’s nose, but Merry cleared her throat before responding lest tears make an unwelcome appearance. “Maybe.” She really was ridiculous. Chasing a man she barely knew, had just met two weeks earlier…and flirting. Badly.

  Sam snort-laughed like a delighted little kid and Merry’s heart flip-flopped. “What?” Laughter came too easily with this man. Except thus far, more often than not—it was so needed.

  “I’m not laughing at you.” Sam sobered and pressed both hands to the steering wheel once more, and the lack of warmth startled her.

  “Then why are you laughing?” Merry leaned her head against the passenger seat and let her gaze bore into Sam’s profile. His jawline was stronger when he smiled…there was a tiny cleft in his chin that she hadn’t noticed before.

  “Because I think God may have a sense of humor.” And at that, Sam turned back around and raised his brows. “Can I take you out on a date?”

  Whoa. The man just told her his mom was gone. Not to mention she couldn’t be the warmest and fuzziest person in his acquaintance—probably the prickliest. And a puzzle? Cole had called her worse, sure. But why would anyone want to take her out on a date?

  She was too used to doing the asking.

  At the subtle clearing of his throat, Merry’s head jounced off the seat and back into reality. She had just been asked out. By Sam. The one guy she swore up and down she was not interested in. Which she now knew was a bold-faced lie that she had told, unwittingly, one too many times to herself—and her family—the last two weeks. If she wasn’t interested she wouldn’t have gone skating across the parking lot looking for him to be sure all was well—this man with the chocolate crinkle eyes and caught-in-the-cookie-jar smile. And she wouldn’t have kept showing up to play practices, or invited him into her family’s home for movie night and hot chocolate.

  This man, who hadn’t stopped pursuing even when she had her guard so high up she couldn’t see over it. It just took him hurting for her to look up from her own hot mess of a self. Ouch…

  A man she was keeping in suspense. Which was getting more amusing by the minute based on how he was fidgeting—but not fair. She waited for a hesitation or warning bell to sound in her heart, but none came. Not a one. The excitement, the heady feeling of hope for this future date—all harmonized together in her heart into one thing:

  Peace. Something she could get used to. Is this finally it?

  “I would love to go out with you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  She actually said yes. Twice.

  The puzzling, confounding, adorable, beautiful, defining-adjectives Merry Grainger had agreed to go out with him. A second time. Sam focused his gaze back on his computer screen and his eyes immediately flew to the time. Just one more hour before he’d clock out early thanks to not taking a lunch break, and fly out the door to meet Merry for dinner in Market Square and ice skating at PPG Place.

  Last week’s hours with Merry flew back to his memory like flipping through a scrapbook. With every step they took through the mild evening around the glittering fountain that marked the point of where all three rivers met, she had opened up more and more. At first they talked about everything, and nothing. Their jobs, coworkers, even a funny anecdote here and there. Much as she rolled her pretty blue eyes about her admittedly meddlesome family—her fierce love and gratitude for them shone through. She had talked with her hands, gesturing grander and grander telling her stories and laughing. Oh, the laughter that bounced off the gentle ebb and flow of the Allegheny River they walked along. And, an incredible bonus—he’d discovered she was almost as big a nerd about Marvel as he was.

  “Got another hot date tonight? You’re zoning.” Aaron strode by with his afternoon coffee and Sam waved him away—to hearty, gleeful laughter.

  The woman didn’t know how special she was, based on her genuine surprise every time he held a door, ushered her forward in deference…and oh, those eyes had grown as big as saucers when he asked her out for a second date. But ever since that night he hadn’t stopped thinking about her. Trying to figure her out, why she could be warm, hilarious, and almost outspoken sometimes—and other times, rigid and guarded. He’d grown almost angry in the days that followed when he thought about the possible scenarios of what had carved such scars on her beautiful heart. Who had hurt her so gravely? But he focused on doing everything in his power to not so much woo her, but earn her trust. And put her fears and pain to rest. She was beginning to trust him, and the gravity of such a fact had only grown after saying goodnight at Gateway Station. Her nearness when the sidewalks grew congested with other people going past had all but struck him dumb with the urge to protect and guard her. And when they parted, it just didn’t feel right.

  “Go on, get out of here, dude. You’re useless around here. This way you have time to pick her up some flowers or something.” Aaron popped out of nowhere and spun Sam’s chair around. His friend had a point. And a great idea. Merry seemed like a roses girl—he hoped. While he shut his computer down and shoved a few stray sketches into his portfolio, Aaron raised his Styrofoam cup of Joe in mock salute. “Have a great time. You deserve it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite this happy. Especially at Christmas.”

  The elation at getting out of work early to wait for Merry faded when Sam glanced at the date on the calendar and older memories assaulted him. Not even Aaron knew the full extent of his past that lost him his scholarship, redirected him to architecture and solely by God’s grace—got him to where he was now. Even if the most important people in his life weren’t around to see that he had made good, and found—was finding—a new dream.

  A hand clapped to his shoulder and Sam startled back into reality. Aaron’s grip tightened and his smile was full of care—and empathy. The man had known his own loss, too, it seemed. “Your mom’s smiling down on you, man. But not if you’re late to meet your girl. Get out of here.”

  He was right. “Yeah—she’d read me the riot act.” Heart lighter than he thought possible, Sam grabbed his phone, ignoring the notifications from an unknown number, and relief swelled in his chest. Merry’s last text around lunch had been a hilarious old movie reference—that he bet she thought he wouldn’t get—and that she was looking forward to tonight. Now if he could just fix her old hurts—he’d be golden.

  “Right this way, sir.” The office's wispy-voiced receptionist could be heard toddling down the hallway, but Sam kept taking stock. Keys in his briefcase, phone in hand—he’d look up the nearest florist on his way to the parking garage. “His desk is right on the corner, sir.” Sam barely spared a glance up and moved to leave, but stepped right onto a pair of feet. Hands that had never once been kind or comforting reached out to grasp his arm as they righted themselves, and the one voice Sam never wanted to hear again spoke:

  “Son, we need to talk.”

  ***

  There may not be such a thing as luck—but Merry was glad she wore her red boots all the same. In college she had thought them lucky—she passed every test (but math) with flying colors when she’d worn them. Stomping her feet against the pavement beneath the shadow of one of the tallest skyscrapers in Pittsburgh, Merry craned her neck around the corner
to watch for Sam. He would stride right up Fourth Avenue, self-assured and quietly confident one minute—until the moment he’d spot her. A shiver of anticipation ran through her, and Merry shoved her hands in her pockets, not bothering to bite back her smile.

  Because the way Sam’s face would change on a dime the moment he spotted her? It was as if she were the only person in the world, he’d be so glad to see her. Falling into step with him would be instant, all-encompassing comfort—like her favorite deka quilt made up of pieces of her family history by Gram’s immigrant mother.

  The comfort of, just maybe, at long last—being enough. Just the way she was.

  Was the wondering and waiting about to be over?

  Raising her eyes to the darkening sky, Merry exhaled in a puff of white, “Thank You.” The winter wind whipped around the corner and with it, a twinge of conscience. When had been the last time she’d prayed?

  Merry grabbed her phone out of her pocket and checked the time. And for any sign of Sam. It was only ten minutes past the time they’d agreed upon—at the peak time of inner city rush hour, too.

  He was on his way.

  Pacing the length of sidewalk she had claimed, Merry watched the city come alive—this time with new eyes. She hadn’t been this excited about Christmas since…well, for far too long. Her city was truly beautiful. The darker it grew, the brighter the massive evergreen tree in the center of the ice rink became. A beacon of holiday sparkle that, today, didn’t cause her to hurry away or avoid it all together, wishing she had someone to ice skate with. Because, she dared herself to think in certainties—the right partner was on his way.

  The right partner with the laughing, chocolate-crinkle eyes. Merry rocked back and forth on her heels. These maybes and what-ifs were fairly intoxicating—like the scents that wafted up from Market Square. Brassy, bold coffees and tender, yeasty breads and baked goods from the shops mingled with a cacophony of foreign spices from Greek, Italian, and Mexican eateries.