He took strong, silent type to a whole new level. Still, he’d been there. He hadn’t even fled the room when Rosemary had called in hysterics, worried that Emma had half-drowned herself in a Canadian ocean and demanding that she come back home immediately.
Emma had placated her mother as best she could before breaking the news—she was staying here. She asked her mother to courier her a copy of her birth certificate so that she could begin the process of applying for a work visa. Until then, Charlie was just going to give her gifts. The gifts happened to be envelopes of cash that she’d earned at the store. Emma knew that she should be horrified by the notion of getting paid under the table, but found that instead she delighted in it.
She’d wanted something, and she’d made it happen.
Her wrist ached a little in the cold as she lugged a light but large box down Main Street. Christmas was close now, and activity in the shops had picked up, making it harder to find space to walk. She liked it, though—liked having so many friendly faces jammed into a small space, spreading their holiday cheer.
Nerves settled in the closer she got to the studio. She hadn’t been here since the day she’d fallen from the hiking trail. It was entirely possible that Nick was going to be here.
She’d thought she had him figured out. She knew he cared for her more than he wanted to, but still, she’d never anticipated that he’d push her away so wholly. She supposed that she shouldn’t have been surprised—they’d only known each other for a matter of days. Wonderful, intense days in which she had felt she’d known him forever.
As she walked over the snowy gravel drive, she reminded herself that she didn’t—she didn’t really know him at all.
She would be just fine. But that didn’t ease the ache around her heart.
The familiar crackle of a welding torch greeted her as she opened the door awkwardly, balancing the unwieldy box with one hand. Her pulse stuttered.
A quick glance showed her that Nick wasn’t there. Relief and disappointment warred, but she focused on Mike, who turned off the torch and pushed back his shield when she entered.
“Thought you might be the one delivering that.” Meeting her halfway across the studio, he hefted the box from her arms. “Didn’t think you’d be walking.”
“It’s not heavy,” she protested as he took it away, huffing a large sigh when she realized she had no choice. “What do you want with beeswax, anyway?”
Dropping the box onto his table hard enough to make her flinch, Mike sliced open the packing tape with a scrap of metal. He tugged out a brick-sized block of beeswax, lifting it to his nose for a smell. “Thought I could use a change of medium.”
With the sure movements of a man in his element, he retrieved a battered toolbox, two chairs, and a second brick of wax, which he passed to Emma. He gestured for her to sit in the second chair before seating himself.
She hesitated, eventually shrugging. She didn’t understand him, likely never would, but he was making an effort. The least she could do was be open to it.
Running her fingers over the smooth block warmed it, and the scent of honey hit her nose. She inhaled it deeply as she watched Mike open his toolbox and select something the size of a pen, which he used to start scraping strips off the block.
The silence was hypnotic as she watched those golden strips of wax fall away, smelled the sweetness. They’d been silent so long that when he finally spoke, his voice sounded extra loud.
“I met your mother at a party.”
A tendril of excitement whipped through her. Was he finally going to give her some answers?
Holding her breath, she stared down at the beeswax, afraid to speak and distract him.
“I’d been traveling around the States some. Had been invited to a house party by some people I’d met at the beach. Your mother was out by the pool the first time I saw her, about to dive off the edge. I couldn’t look away. Every movement she made was so precise, so in control. Everything I never was.”
He could have been talking about Emma’s own relationship with Rosemary, and she felt a sting at the back of her nose, her eyes.
“We were inseparable for three months.” Pulling a second tool from the box, he handed it to her. “Give it a try. Can’t be worse than your other piece.”
He gestured toward the shelf, where her spindly metal Christmas tree was centered in display. In the late morning light it reminded her of the pathetic little tree from that cartoon—what was it? Charlie Brown.
She couldn’t help but laugh. Taking up the tool, wanting to please him so that he’d start talking again, she scraped at her block of wax.
“Oops.” She’d used too much pressure, and a large chunk crumbled off. Mike just chuckled, working on his wax with fine, precise strokes.
“You prone to depression at all?” Emma jolted at the question, thinking immediately of Nick’s mother.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You’d know.” Mike pushed a pile of wax shavings aside. “You’ll have to watch your kids for it, someday. Can be hereditary.”
“You have depression?” Emma studied him curiously. He was taciturn, a little grumpy, but she wouldn’t have called him depressed.
“Clinical. Take pills for it now.” He selected another tool. “Back then, I didn’t know you could. Anything could set me off. I’d never been an overly happy kind of person, but I managed all right. But the smallest thing could set me off. I’d be so depressed I couldn’t get out of bed. No energy, not even to shower or eat. Nothing but pain. The kind that makes you want to tear open your skin just to get it out.”
“I…” Sympathy flooded her, but she didn’t know what to say. She’d never experienced that herself, so how could she truly offer condolences?
“Anyway. I’d been doing all right when I met your mother. We were so different—she was a fancy debutante. I was a liberal Canadian kid who didn’t even know what that was. Still, we thought we could make a go of it. But then I met her parents.”
Emma tensed along with Mike.
“They disapproved of every single thing about me. It wasn’t that I cared so much about what they thought. But their negative opinions set off this chain reaction inside of me, making me wonder if I truly was everything they thought.”
He paused. Emma held her breath.
“Rosemary…she didn’t handle it well. We fought, and I left. I knew she’d find someone better for her than me.”
Irritation prickled. Why did men insist on making these decisions for the women in their lives, when those women were completely capable of deciding what they wanted themselves?
“Wasn’t until three years later that I understood why she’d been so upset with my…well, let’s call it what it is. My illness.”
“Because she was pregnant.” Emma’s voice was a whisper. Her pulse started to thunder in her veins. Her mother had been pregnant with her—this was her story. Where she’d come from.
“Because she was pregnant,” Mike agreed, setting down his tools. Propping his chin in one hand, he shifted in his chair to look at Emma. “She wrote me to tell me she thought I should know that I had a daughter. You have to understand—I wasn’t any better by that point. Fact is, it was one of the worst periods of my life. Mental illness wasn’t talked about as much then. I didn’t understand that there were things I could do to get help. We agreed, mutually, that it would be better for you if I wasn’t in your life.”
He gave Emma a sidelong glance, and she realized—he was feeling as uncertain here as she was.
Emotions churned through her, too many to count or to name, but she’d tuck them away and sort them out later. This was a chance to connect.
She found she couldn’t speak.
Instead, she reached out, tentatively took Mike’s hand—her father’s hand.
“You planning to stay?” His voice was gruff.
Emma heard footsteps overhead, knew that Nick was there, and her heart leapt. It was going to be awkward, living in a small tow
n with him, and he was probably not going to like it.
She wasn’t going to let what someone else thought determine the course of her actions ever again. Instead she squeezed Mike’s fingers, nodding. “Looks like I am.”
Chapter 29
It was Christmas Eve. Last year, Nick had spent the evening with Mike, eating Chinese food, drinking local beer, and watching the Die Hard trilogy at Mike’s condo. His plans weren’t that much different this year, but he was hoping that there would be one extra person there.
He left his jacket unzipped even though the temperature was glacial, letting the cold make him more alert. He would need all his senses to ask for what it was he wanted.
Mike had finally shared his past with Nick, had told him about his relationship with Emma’s mother and why he’d felt he had to leave her. He’d also strongly advised, in a that’s my daughter manner, that Nick not be an idiot—that he try to fix things up with Emma before it was too late.
And so here he was, pushing through the frantic last-minute shoppers, his pulse hammering faster and faster with every step he took.
He imagined the scenario fifteen different ways as he approached the Hippie Hive. They all flew out the window the moment he spotted Emma standing outside the shop by a display of small beeswax candles, talking to a customer.
The wind had coaxed a hint of pink out of her pale cheeks and was whipping the ends of her high ponytail all over the place. She wore dark-blue jeans that looked brand-new—no torn denim for his southern lady—and a thick hand-knit sweater that he recognized as the work of Meg, who ran a booth at the local artisan market when she wasn’t driving her cab.
She looked amazing. Stopping several feet away from the store, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and used the presence of the customer as a welcome distraction. He just watched Emma, drinking her in until she looked up, her eyes meeting his over her customer’s shoulder.
“Why don’t you head on inside, where it’s warm? Charlie has some tea with her wildcrafted honey going in there. It’s sure to warm you up.” Patting the customer on the shoulder, Emma sent her inside, then crossed her own arms over her chest, though Nick couldn’t tell if it was because she was cold or because she was feeling defensive at the sight of him.
It didn’t matter. He had to say his piece.
“I’m sorry.” He wanted to look at the ground instead of at those eyes that saw everything. He didn’t, keeping his stare fixed on hers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You already know this, but I was scared. You crashed into my life and bulldozed down those walls I’d tried so hard to weld shut when I wasn’t even ready for someone to knock at them.”
“Don’t you tell me this is my fault—”
“No! That’s not what I’m saying. Jesus.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’m making a mess of this. I’m just saying, I was scared. I was an asshole. And I will spend a million lifetimes trying to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”
“What’s changed?” She eyed him warily, hugging herself. “Because you were absolutely an asshole. An epic one.”
“My life is so much better with you than without you.” He spoke slowly. Mentally, he pictured pulling his heart out of his chest and offering it to her in the palm of his hand. “I’m hoping you’ll give me a chance to prove that I can make yours better, too.”
She remained silent, though she was thinking so loudly she was sure that the people across the street could hear her.
“I don’t expect things to be perfect right this minute. We moved too fast. Now we have time to take it slow.” Slowly he took a step closer to her, then another, as though approaching a wild animal. “And I thought as a start, you could join me and Mike tonight for Christmas Eve. Chinese food and Top Gun. And you.”
“If you think I can be lured with that offer, you’ve taken leave of your senses.” She sniffed, raising her chin haughtily. His spirits sank. “Make it pizza and How the Grinch Stole Christmas, and you have yourself a deal.”
She looked so cute, he couldn’t resist. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her in hard against his chest. When she lifted her chin and offered him her lips, he took them eagerly, kissing her hard enough to make her gasp, then grin.
“I’ll do whatever it takes, Peaches.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Anything at all.”
“You’re being crazy again.” Nuzzling into his chest, she let out a contented sigh. “Whatever we need to do? We’ll do it together.”
About the Author
Lauren Hawkeye published her first story in 2007 and has since written over thirty short stories, novels, and novellas with Harlequin Enterprises (Spice and Nocturne), New American Library (as Lauren Jameson), Avon HarperCollins, and Entangled Publishing, and has also built a strong self-publishing career. Her work has been mentioned in Time magazine.
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Christmas Sanctuary Page 11