Maitland Maternity Christmas

by Judy Christenberry; Muriel Jensen; TINA LEONARD

  I love to see ornaments for sale in September, garlands hanging in October and listening to my Christmas carol tapes in November. I'd like to condition myself to shop early, too, but I'm afraid I'll miss something wonderful in the final rush of sales in the middle of December.

  So for months I don't do anything productive in preparation for Christmas. I'm not a good cook or skilled at crafts. I just wander around and absorb the atmosphere. I window-shop, hoard holiday magazines, watch all the television specials - it isn't Christmas until I've seen White Christmas at least twice. And I plot Christmas books.

  Christmas is the perfect romance novel element: families gathering despite their conflicts, food in abundance, children everywhere, and most recently two lonely people hoping to find the world in each other. Add to that Maitland Maternity Clinic "where the luckiest babies are born," and you have everything necessary for a holiday story to put you in a festive mood.

  Merry Christmas! And don't forget to linger under the mistletoe!

  Muriel Jensen P.O. Box 1168 Astoria, Oregon 97103

  THE ENDS OF THE EARTH

  CHAPTER ONE

  Diane Blake sat in a corner of Anna Maitland Cahill's elegant, crowded living room balancing her buffet plate and coffee cup wishing she were somewhere else. On a tropical island, maybe, with scented winds caressing her body. Or on the parapet of a Scottish castle looking down onto the wild Atlantic.

  This wedding luncheon was just the kind of social event she dreaded. It wasn't that she disliked people, but that she liked them one at a time, not in large, intimidating groups that made her feel shy and tongue-tied.

  As a teacher of social studies at Bluebonnet High, she spoke all day to what everyone else considered a tough audience. But she loved teenagers, and it was a great pleasure for her to teach them about the subject that so excited her, the people and places that populated their world.

  She knew her shyness was the result of growing up in a household with a father and two older siblings who knew precisely what they wanted in life, and had the determination and the smarts to get it.

  That was how this luncheon came to be. Diane's father, Hugh Blake, a corporate lawyer, fell in love with Megan Maitland, CEO of Austin, Texas's Maitland Maternity Clinic. She was mother, mother-in-law, or grandmother to most of the guests here today. Megan lived a very busy life and had had a million excuses why she didn't have time for a relationship, but Hugh had been determined.

  The wedding was scheduled for Christmas Day - a mere six days away.

  Diane's siblings, Tom and Suzanne, inherited their father's people-personality and his preference for having things his way. Tom was a partner in a thriving family-law practice. Suzanne founded and managed a fashion accessories house that had made the December cover of W this year. A scarf she'd designed was the hit of the retail season with proceeds going to breast cancer research.

  Diane, on the other hand, took after their mother, Ellie, a shy, gentle woman who had loved people but hated parties. She'd cooked and gardened and enjoyed reading and needlework - an unapologetic throwback to the fifties woman. The only difference between them was that Ellie had felt rooted in her home and never cared to go anywhere. Diane, however, had been born with wanderlust and preferred travel books to fiction.

  So far, she'd been unable to indulge that desire; every time she planned a trip, something came up to prevent her going.

  Her trip to Mexico had fallen through when Suzanne broke her leg and Diane spent spring break caring for her.

  She'd had to bow out of a cruise to the Mediterranean that she'd planned with two other teachers when her car died of old age and she'd had to buy a new one. Responsibility, she'd thought, required that she use her savings and leave her trust fund untouched.

  The trip to Scotland and Ireland she'd planned for last August had been canceled when Whitney Davis, one of her favorite students, had appeared on her doorstep, hysterical. Because of a thinly supervised social life and a charming but irresponsible boyfriend, who'd since moved with his family to another state, she was pregnant.

  "Mom threw me out of the house," she'd told Diane tearfully over a cup of cocoa.

  "But we talked about this when you first learned you were pregnant," Diane said. "Your mother told you you could stay with her."

  Whitney was sixteen, a fresh-faced redhead with yards of hair and a million freckles. She looked as though she should be going to summer camp instead of preparing to become a mother.

  Her dark-blue eyes streamed tears. "Yeah. But Wednesday, her boyfriend moved back in, and yesterday..." Her face crumpled again and Diane moved closer to put an arm around her.

  "What happened yesterday?" she asked gently.

  "My - my ultrasound," Whitney replied. She looked up at Diane with misery in her eyes. "It's twins! And I don't know what to do! Aunt Joyce said she'd take me in, she's moving from a studio apartment into a house, but the deal on it won't close until the end of December."

  Diane had checked with every agency in the county that worked with teens and there was no help for Whitney. All the teen foster homes were overpopulated, and even the shelter for pregnant teens was filled to capacity.

  So Diane had temporarily taken in a sixteen-year-old who was pregnant with twins and put off the trip to Scotland and Ireland.

  At the moment, Whitney sat across the room with her crystal buffet plate perched dangerously on the edge of her knees since she no longer had a lap. Sitting beside her was Beth Redstone, one of Megan's daughters. She had a four-month-old and Whitney was laughing as the baby gave her a gummy smile.

  A light flashed on them. Diane turned her head in annoyance, and found Anna's photographer who'd been the bane of her existence the past two weeks, focusing on the charming tableau.

  Without thinking twice, she placed her plate and cup carefully on the low table before her and wound her way through chatting knots of people to reach the photographer.

  Without looking away from the scene he focused on through the viewfinder, he stopped Diane with one hand upraised to hold her off several feet away.

  "Almost got it," he said, his attention on his task. "Just need a grin from the baby - come on, come on - there!" The camera whirred and flashed several times. Then he lowered it and turned to her with the knowing look that had irritated her since she'd met him. He was tall and fit in dark-brown slacks and jacket over a turtleneck that was just a shade lighter. He had dark hair cut short and clear blue eyes that seemed to look through her. He made her nervous in a way that had nothing to do with her customary shyness. She hated that. It made her feel more inadequate than she already did.

  "Miss Blake," he said, slinging the camera over his shoulder. He caught her arm and drew her with him toward the buffet table. "How are you today - besides angry? Every time I see you, there's murder in your eyes. That must be exhausting. Champagne?"

  Without waiting for her answer, he poured her a glass and handed it to her.

  She took it because she didn't want to make a scene in her soon-to-be stepsister's home.

  "I asked you to stop photographing Whitney," she said

  "No, you asked me to stop photographing you." He chose a toothpicked hors d'oeuvres from one of the many plates on the table and handed it to her. "And I haven't even come near you tonight."

  She pushed his hand away and he popped the little square of stuffed phyllo into his mouth.

  "I think that's what's bothering you." He made another selection - this one a shrimp skewered with a twist of red pepper. He offered it to her.

  She ignored it. A lineup of guests was filling their plates on the other side of the table. "What do you mean?" she demanded quietly so they wouldn't hear her.

  He picked up a small plate of chocolates and held it for her to make a choice. "Have one. Chocolate has mood-elevating properties."

  "I do not need mood elevating! I just need to be left alone!"

  "That was my point." He put the plate down again, then led the way across the room to a qu
iet corner on the other side of a large fireplace.

  Diane told herself she followed him only because she didn't get his point, and she wanted to in order to fight back.

  "Your family loves you but doesn't really consider you a force within their group, and you're doing your best to hide from the Maitlands because they're all bright and successful and you don't want to be held up in comparison. Why is that? Why do you strive to blend into the wallpaper?"

  She gasped in indignation. "I teach high school," she reminded him. "You cannot reach teenagers by blending into the wallpaper."

  He nodded, claiming one half of a mission-style settee and urging her down onto the other half. "That's right. You're different around children. Are you more comfortable with them?"

  "As a matter of fact, I am," she replied, bristling as she sat stiffly beside him. "But what business is that of yours?"

  He smiled in the face of her hostility. "Because a photographer doesn't just freeze the moment and walk away. It's as though every photo taken becomes a permanent part of me. And I want to understand what I'm carrying around."

  She was startled by the notion that he might be carrying around images of her in his mind. "You've photographed me all of three times. I'm sure you can forget me."

  He shook his head, his expression pleasantly stubborn. "I can't. It's not the same as a memory. It's like...cells or tissue, part of my being. I see a woman with all the qualities that should give her great confidence - beauty, intelligence, a job at which she's very good - " He grinned wickedly. "Nice legs," he added, "and yet you sit shyly in a corner, attracting the children, but hoping none of the adults will speak to you."

  She made a face at him. "I suppose you're the kind of photographer who sheds light on a scar or a mole and considers it artful, when your subject probably spent his whole life trying to hide that very thing."

  "Shyness is hardly an ugly scar," he corrected. "But the fact that you think of it that way suggests you consider it something you want to be rid of."

  Diane pointed to her sister, Suzanne, who held court across the room with Dr. Doug McKay, to whom she was engaged. "Suzanne's very photogenic," she said, hoping to divert him. "Or, there are all these beautiful babies and children running around." She pointed as a group of toddlers ran past.

  "Diane," he said, leaning an elbow on the back of the settee and pinning her with his gaze. "You aren't under the mistaken impression that my interest is strictly professional, are you?"

  Her expression was priceless. He'd have liked to focus on her at that very instant. Her eyes were wide with surprise, her pink cheeks deepening in color, her soft mouth startled open. He was good at reading faces - female faces in particular. And as a photographer, he knew that the most interesting details were under the surface of an expression, the telltale hitch in the curve of a mouth that filled a smile with sadness rather than joy, the emotions in the depths of a pair of eyes that belied the exterior calm.

  But Diane puzzled him and he guessed that was why he found her so fascinating. Women often hid what they felt, but he guessed she didn't even know what she felt. It was as though the pretty, ingenuous woman whose body she wore was completely separate from the longing woman who looked out from her eyes.

  And she had no idea what to do with his direct approach. He saw her try to draw coolness around herself like a cloak.

  "Please," she said, her tone frosty to match the mood she thought she conveyed. But he saw the warmth in her eyes. "I'm just not a sexual being. I love children and education, and that's absolutely all I - "

  He wasn't sure what made him do it. Maybe it was this protracted exposure to the Maitlands, who were all style and good manners, that made him want to be wicked. Or the look in her eyes that said she was attracted while she made every effort to convince him that she could care less. The fortuitous presence of two men engaged in a lively discussion who happened to stop right in front of them as the younger one made a strong point, separated them from the view of the rest of the room. So Jason indulged himself.

  He cupped the back of her head in one hand while using the other to secure her chin in the notch between his thumb and forefinger. Then he kissed her firmly, making it clear that he didn't believe her claim for one moment.

  Her lips were cool and parted, ripe for his tender explorations.

  She put a hand against his chest as though she would push him away and he relaxed his hold on her, willing to allow her her freedom if that was the way it had to be. There was a moment of indecision.

  But as he nipped her bottom lip and coaxed her mouth into melding with his, her hand went lax and she seemed to decide the experience might be worth her while after all.

  He gave the contact everything he had, confidence mingled with finesse, art taking precedence over impressive performance. He cajoled her with nips and kisses until she responded with an impressive style of her own.

  He felt her fingertips on his cheek, his earlobe, in the hair just above the collar of his shirt.

  She drew away suddenly, her eyes still wide, but with confusion this time, as though being kissed by him - or perhaps kissing him herself - hadn't been at all what she'd expected.

  While he was trying to decide if that was good for him or bad, he became aware of being watched - and not by Diane. She was looking up into the faces of the two men who'd stopped in front of them to pursue their argument, and provided a convenient screen for the kiss.

  After two weeks with the Maitlands, Jason knew them well. They were Hugh and Tom Blake - Diane's father and brother.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Hugh, a tall, impressive man with a big voice turned to Tom and said, "I thought you told me she wasn't seeing anyone?"

  Tom frowned at Diane, then at his father. "That's what she told me."

  Jason freed his pink-cheeked companion and got to his feet. "I just took advantage of the moment to prove a point," he said, offering his hand to Hugh. "I'm Jason Morris, the photographer hired by your wedding planner."

  Hugh took his hand and, however unconsciously, tried to grind it to powder. "Yes. I know who you are. I remember your press photos of the bombing in Oklahoma City."

  At the memory of that photo Jason could feel the horror of those days all over again.

  "You won the Pulitzer for that," Tom said.

  Jason nodded. "That assignment ended my career in photojournalism. Death is awful to photograph, but dead children... It is indescribable." He drew a breath and pointed to a stream of children running toward the kitchen. "Seeing loved and healthy children is much easier to take. You're acquiring quite a brood of grandchildren."

  Hugh watched the children with a grin. "Yes. I like that." He refocused his attention on Diane and held a hand down to help her to her feet.

  "And what point was Jason trying to make with you?" he asked.

  Diane gave Jason a look that told him he'd pay for this embarrassing moment. "I think he was trying to convince me that he's irresistible," she replied coolly. "It didn't work."

  "It looked like it was working," Tom disputed.

  Diane cast him a threatening glare. "But no one asked you, did they?"

  Tom ignored her. "I volunteer the information," he said with an amiable clap on Jason's shoulder, "because her mind is so occupied with the ends of the earth, that she seldom sees what's right in front of her face. She's a little thick sometimes. Getting through to her requires considerable and continuous effort."

  Diane watched Jason and Tom bond over a discussion of her shortcomings. And as though that wasn't bad enough, Suzanne suddenly burst into the group, looping an arm in their father's. "What's going on?" she asked interestedly.

  "We're picking on Diane," Tom replied, clearly pleased with that information.

  Suzanne smiled widely. "Oh, good. I love a worthwhile cause. What can I contribute? Her weakness is caramel, she's afraid of the dark, she has a life-size cutout of Harrison Ford in her classroom." She delivered those three points brutally and gleefully. "And it is vi
rtually impossible for her to see someone in trouble and fail to offer help. She's the quintessential Good Samaritan, and continues to be even when her efforts go unappreciated and unrewarded." Her eyes narrowed on Diane's. "You look...startled." To Jason, she added, "She's seldom surprised or upset by anything. She's always even-tempered and steady. Did you do something?"

  Suzanne had always been direct.

  Apparently, so was Jason Morris. "I kissed her," he replied.

  Suzanne looked pleased but surprised. "And she didn't slug you?"

  "There wasn't time. Your father and brother arrived."

  "We didn't slug him," Tom contributed, "because she seemed to be enjoying herself."

  "All right, that's enough." Diane asserted herself with her family only on rare occasions. She allowed them their questions and their advice because she appreciated their concern, but sometimes they went too far. "I would appreciate it if you wouldn't leave me out of your discussions about me! Whom I kiss or why is none of your business. Now, if you'll excuse us, Jason and I have things to talk about."

  Suzanne looked distressed. "But I have more questions."

  Tom took her arm and began to draw her away. "Save them. We'll wait until we can get it out of her without witnesses. Coming, Dad?"

  Hugh hung back as Tom and Suzanne started away. He shooed them on. "I'll be right behind you." He looked into Jason's eyes.

  Jason met his gaze evenly.

  Hugh's eyes went to Diane. "Did he take that kiss, or did you share it?"

  The truth was hard to admit to herself, but it was the truth nonetheless. "We shared it," she admitted.

  Hugh's eyes swung back to Jason. "She's the most generous woman on earth," he said gravely, "but she's held her emotions very closely. I know that artists sometimes...use others as a way to lend texture to their own lives and their work."

  Diane couldn't believe that her father was threatening Jason, however subtly.