Some Enchanted Season (22 page)

And certainly no making love. No laying Maggie down naked on that handloomed rug in front of the tree. No sliding inside her the way he’d done hundreds of times before. No losing himself there the way he had every one of those hundreds of times.

His jaw tightened—and so did his body. He
didn’t
want her. It was just the power of old memories and the curse of having gone a very long time without sex. It didn’t matter that she was beautiful, that they’d been married a long time and were still married. He didn’t want her. Couldn’t have her.

Couldn’t
.

He moved toward the tree. The boys had set it up in the same place last year’s tree had stood, in front of the large windows that looked out on the street. It filled the space, stretching toward the ceiling and over-whelming the room with its fragrance. He hoped Maggie wanted it there, because there was no way the two of them alone would be able to move it.

She’d slept soundly all afternoon. Neither the doorbell nor the three boys had disturbed her. He’d checked as soon as they were gone, and she was still
curled on her side, breathing deeply. For a longer time than he could justify, he’d stood beside the bed and watched her. He had deliberately blanked his mind—had refused to think, to feel—and had simply stood there while she slept, and in spite of his best intentions, he’d felt something anyway. Hurt. Lost. Afraid.

The hell of it was, he wasn’t sure what he was afraid of. The marriage ending? He was prepared for that, had been for a long time. Maggie no longer being a part of his life? She had been only a very small part for several years. The truth coming out?

His smile was thin, its bitter mockery directed at himself. He’d been afraid of that from the beginning. From the first moment he’d realized that he was actually going to bed with a woman other than Maggie, he’d feared the truth, the pain, the anger. He had hoped desperately that she would never find out, but in the end, after all the lies and careful subterfuge, he had been the one to reveal his own sins. One careless act, and Maggie had known everything. That night she had paid the price.

Then he had hoped she would never know. Now he prayed that she would never remember. Maybe it was stupid—certainly it was selfish—but some small, vain part of him liked knowing that she thought him a better man than he was. It meant something that after all they’d gone through, she still believed in him. He didn’t want to destroy her faith a second time, didn’t want to see the scorn and revulsion once again darken her eyes, to know he’d hurt her once more.

Please, God.

With a sigh he turned away from the tree. There
was a ladder in the utility room and strings of tiny colored lights in the library. The least he could do while waiting for Maggie to wake up was get the tree ready for her.

He worked in silence, concentrating on nothing more than his task. After positioning the final light—number eight hundred by his count—he stepped back to look.

“It’s beautiful.”

He turned to face Maggie standing in the doorway. Looking at her, a person would never guess that there’d been anything wrong with her a few short hours earlier. She looked well rested, lovely, and her eyes were bright with anticipation. That didn’t change when he spoke two chiding words. “The stairs.”

“I held on to the banister very tightly.” She came to stand beside him. “Thank you for doing my least favorite part of the decorating. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

He murmured in agreement, but he wasn’t looking at the tree. He didn’t want her, he reminded himself as he felt the first stirrings of desire. So she was standing only inches away looking lovely and warm and touchable. So the fragrance she wore—had always worn—was so closely associated with their lovemaking that a mere whiff of it had long been enough to arouse him. All he really wanted was sex, preferably with any woman in the world
except
her. He wanted her happy and healthy and whole, but that was the extent of it. Under the circumstances, anything more would be disastrous.

After a moment she turned her attention from the tree to him. “You’re so quiet. Are you still angry?”

“No. Just thinking. Remembering.”

She didn’t ask, Remembering what? No doubt she could guess. Her long-term recall was excellent. She hadn’t forgotten all the times they’d done this ritual together, all the nights they’d made love in the glow of the Christmas lights. She remembered every little intimacy that had been so much a part of them—that they had lost, one by one, until they’d lost themselves.

“Shall we get started?” She moved to the stereo in the corner cabinet, checked, and, not surprisingly, found Christmas CDs already in the changer. With the press of a button the solemn notes of “Ave Maria” filled the room.

Ross’s jaw tightened. “I’ll get the ornaments from the kitchen.”

“Ave Maria” had been playing when the doorbell rang nearly a year ago. He’d stood beside the tree—had stood there more than an hour, looking out the window, watching the snow fill in the tire tracks that had marked her leaving. He still held the glass he’d been holding when she walked out, and the music she’d started had played on, though he heard none of it.

Not until the doorbell chimed. He hadn’t had even an instant’s false hope that it was Maggie, over her anger enough to return until the weather cleared, because he’d watched the unfamiliar truck pull into the driveway and the stranger climb the steps. The man introduced himself as Sheriff Ingles, and Ross had known. That was when the soaring organ and the Latin verse of the hymn had registered.

It had seemed fitting that he’d learned his wife was dying with such a reverent score in the background.

He made a dozen trips between the kitchen and living room. By the time he’d reached the last box of decorations, the song had ended, and another had begun, this one lighthearted and silly. Inwardly he sighed with relief.

“What do you want to do about Christmas?” Maggie asked as she slid thin wire hooks into the loops of brightly colored glass balls.

“Do?”

“Well, we’ll spend it here, obviously. Would you like to invite anyone? Maybe Tom or Lynda?”

He accepted the balls she handed him and hung them one at a time on the tree. “You’re actually volunteering to have Tom Flynn and Lynda Barone in your house on Christmas Day?”

She smiled. “Goodwill to man and all that. My biggest problem with Tom was always that he came between us and you let him. Now that there’s no ‘us’ to come between, I can be gracious and overlook the fact that he’s a cold-blooded reptile.”

Some part of that little speech settled uncomfortably on Ross. Was it the implied criticism of him for not keeping their marriage safe from Tom? The unfair insult of the man who was the closest he’d ever come to a best friend? Or the
no “us”
part?

He didn’t want to know.

“And what was your problem with Lynda?” he asked instead.

She answered as pleasantly as if she were discussing the weather with one of the Winchester sisters. “Beyond the fact that she’s a bitch? Nothing.”

“She’s not—” He broke off when she sent a sharp warning look his way.

“It wasn’t that she saw more of you than I did. Or that she knew more about you than I did. It wasn’t even that you used her to keep me away. I disliked her because she
enjoyed
all that. She took pleasure in the fact that she was more a part of your life than I was. She liked telling me that you didn’t have time for me.”

He took another handful of ornaments from her. “You never told me.”

“And what would you have done? Fired her?” She gave a skeptical shake of her head. “I never would have forced you to choose between her and me, because I was afraid of what your decision would be. After all, a good wife is a lot easier to find than a good assistant.”

He stared at her. “You’re kidding, right?”

She picked up a handmade Santa, its white clay beard ending in a point of curlicues, and looped its red ribbon over a sturdy branch. When she turned, the look she gave him was full of challenge. “What
would
you have done? If I’d told you what I just did, would you have fired her? Would you have said you’d take care of it, then forget it? Or would you tell me that she was too valuable to lose and I should learn to deal with it?”

“I would like to say that I would have fired her, but it’s not true. She
is
too valuable to lose. Probably the best I would have done was talk to her—warn her to treat you appropriately.”

“She treated me the way she saw you treat me. She probably thought that
was
appropriate.”

“Well, hell, Maggie, this is fun,” he said. “Which of my other failings would you like to discuss tonight?”

She didn’t apologize, didn’t try to defend her comments. Instead, she moved around the tree, where he couldn’t see her. “I was only answering the question
you
asked,” she pointed out mildly.

“Pardon me for not suspecting that your answer to ‘Why did you dislike Lynda?’ had nothing to do with Lynda and everything to do with me.”

“Of course it had everything to do with you. If not for you, I wouldn’t know she existed. She’s nothing to me except in the context of you.” The branches between them shifted, and her face became visible in the small space. “We can discuss
my
failings if you’d prefer.”

“What failings?” he asked with a scowl.

She smiled sunnily. “Thanks. I couldn’t think of any either.”

As the branch snapped back into place, he gritted his teeth, then finally gave in to the faint smile that she’d meant to coax from him.

“I know you’re smiling,” she said from the back side of the tree. “You can’t resist, because I’m being charming.”

“
This
is charming?” he asked dryly.

“I know. It’s been so long that you’ve forgotten what it’s like—and I’m a little rusty at it, to say the least. There was no need for charm at the rehab center. That was the staff’s job. The patients were expected to be irritable, frustrated, and depressed.”

“I never saw you irritable or depressed.”

“I was. Especially in the beginning, when the therapists
would say ‘Just try one more time’ after I had already tried—and failed—a hundred times. Or when they forced me to work when the only thing I wanted to do was curl up in a corner and die. There were times when I was irritable enough to do someone physical harm. I just didn’t have the bodily control to do it. I couldn’t even tell them to go to hell.”

She spoke of her helplessness so matter-of-factly that it somehow seemed even worse. He couldn’t begin to understand what she’d gone through. He’d never had a broken bone, never even a sprain, and finding the right words to say exactly what he wanted had never been a problem.

Except in those weeks after she awakened from the coma. Back then he hadn’t known what to say to her except
I’m sorry
a million times over, and
sorry
lost some of its cathartic value when she didn’t have any idea what he was apologizing for.

“Before I wiggle out of here, why don’t you hand me a tray or two of ornaments?”

“You ever planning to use those baking sheets for baking?” he asked as he did so. “You can start with white chocolate macadamia cookies. Those were always my favorite.”

She remained silent for a long time, then returned to their earlier subject. “I don’t think I ever told you,” she said quietly, “but your visits to the center meant the world to me. They broke up the monotony of the therapy and gave me something to look forward to. They made me work harder because I wanted to show some progress every time I saw you.”

Shame warmed his face, tightened his throat. Four
to five hours a week—that was all he’d given her. He’d made it part of his routine—had written it in on his calendar, had treated those four visits as inviolable appointments. He’d left his pager in the car, turned off his cell phone, and given his staff strict instructions not to disturb him for any reason.

Why hadn’t he set such limits years ago? Why hadn’t he declared evenings with his wife as private times to be interrupted by nothing less than the end of the world? If he had made it clear to everyone that nothing took priority over her, if he had shown her that kind of commitment and respect, none of the last year would have happened.

So many ifs. So many regrets.

Satisfied with the distribution of ornaments on the back of the tree, Maggie eased out from behind it in time to catch the remorseful look on Ross’s face. She’d known practically from the beginning why he’d made the effort, but she hadn’t cared, not then, not now. All that mattered was that he had.

He put aside the remorse quickly, and she pretended not to have noticed it. Instead, she walked back to the doorway to check their progress, then claimed a pie plate filled with small clay figures from the coffee table. “What do you want for Christmas?” she asked as she hung the first of nine reindeer on the tree.

“Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve asked me that?”

“Ooh, so I do have one failing after all.” She cocked her head to one side to study Rudolph’s position on the branch, then answered his question. “Six years.”

“What?” he asked absently.

“The last time I asked you what you wanted. By then, you were making so much money that you just automatically bought everything that caught your fancy. Anything I could possibly think of that you might want, you’d already bought. So I began buying you duty gifts. Maybe you would use them and maybe you wouldn’t, but at least there was something under the tree. So what do you want this year? And, no, I won’t buy that little company down in Georgia that you’ve had your eye on.”

“Alabama. I bought the one in Georgia two years ago.” He was silent for a time, wearing the look that said he was seriously concentrating. When he finally found his answer, he met her gaze. “I want you to be happy.”

“Ross,” she gently chided, but he raised his hand to stop her.

“It’s a gift—trust me—and it’s one that only you can give me. I want you to be happy, and I want you to not hate me.”

“I’ve never hated you.”

“Yes, you have. Last year. You just don’t remember.”