Holiday in Your Heart (26 page)

He slipped a pillow under her butt so that when she bent her knees and spread her legs, her pelvis tipped upward. He stroked her lightly, the roughness of his fingers increasing the stimulation. “You're so wet,” he murmured. “So hot and swollen.”

Naughty talk. She liked it, as well as the way he firmed his strokes, and how he brushed against her clit.

“So ready.” He tapped her clit and she shuddered.

“So close,” she whispered. “Please, Mo.”

His tongue replaced his fingers, licking her folds, each long stroke carrying her closer to the edge. Pleasure and pain mingled inextricably, so fierce as to be almost unbearable.

“Please,” she begged again.

He sucked her clit between moist lips, flicked it with his tongue. She squirmed against him, moaning as her body tightened. He flicked it again, and her body clenched and then let go hard, sharp, in a shattering burst that hurt yet felt so good. She cried out at the blessed release.

When the spasms finally died, her legs flopped down. From head to toe, she felt boneless, and the pain in her tummy eased slowly away.

Mo came up the bed, smiling, but his smile faded when he saw her face. “Shit, I hurt you.” Gently, he touched her cheek, and for the first time she realized that tears had seeped from her eyes.

“No,” she assured him, mustering the strength to lift a hand and touch his mouth. “Or yeah, maybe, but the good kind of pain. You gave me exactly what I needed.”

As he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her lips, she wondered if this man she'd fallen in love with would be able—or want—to give her the rest of what she so badly craved: love, a baby, a life together.

Chapter Fourteen

Late in the day on Wednesday, Maribeth was still at Days of Your. Mo was going to come by, and they were going to dine with Ms. Haldenby and Ms. Peabody. When Maribeth had called on Monday to invite the two women to her open house, they'd reciprocated with a dinner invitation. Maribeth had accepted with thanks and gladly taken the excuse to defer any discussion of Evan until that time.

After closing the shop at five thirty, she had decided to be productive while she waited for Mo and was changing the window display. The new one featured a woman in sweats holding up a cherry-red party dress, surrounded by rolls of wrapping paper and unwrapped gifts that included a man's leather jacket and little girl's cowboy boots. She hoped it was a tasteful way of saying both “come shop for a new holiday outfit” and “buy Christmas gifts here.”

She was just tweaking the final touches when Mo and Caruso came down the sidewalk and stopped outside to peer in at her. She climbed out of the window and opened the shop door. Caruso declined the invitation, but Mo stepped inside, holding a gift bag with a bottle of wine.

Maribeth wrapped her arms around him, under his jacket. “Hi, you.”

He hugged her back and kissed her, his lips and body giving off a chill freshness. There was definitely nothing cool about his kiss, though, nor the heat that flooded through her.

She pulled back in his arms. “You're in a good mood.”

“I am. I saw Evan today.”

“Oh my gosh! Really? Tell me about it.”

“Best to do it on the way. I'm running behind—why do the emergency repairs always come in at the end of the day?—and we don't want to be late for dinner. By the way, when you get a chance, would you see if you've got a heavy jacket in my size? This one did better in November than December.”

“And it only gets colder from here on in,” she said over her shoulder as she hurried to get her coat and the red poinsettia plant she'd purchased earlier in the day.

Outside, Caruso's tail wagged when she greeted him. The dog was warming to the humans in his life, just as, it seemed, Evan was slowly coming to accept Mo. Life was on a positive roll.

When the three of them were in her car, heading for Mo's landladies' house, she said, “Tell me about Evan.”

“He phoned and asked if I could get away for a little while at lunch. Hank said sure. Evan picked me up and drove to Gold River Park so we'd have privacy. He'd brought sandwiches and coffee, and we sat in his car and talked.”

“What changed his mind about seeing you?”

“He said he was being nagged at, made out to be the bad guy. I said it wasn't fair of people to do that. He replied that his family'd already told him I'd said that. Apparently that was the factor that tipped the scale and got him to call.”

“Good. How did it go when you talked?”

“Well, there wasn't any great moment of ‘I forgive you and absolve you of all sins,' but I never even hoped for that. We talked about many of the same things I'd told him before, but this time he listened. He asked questions, gave his perspective. Made me realize for the first time what it was really like for him, growing up.”

“What was it like for him?” she asked quietly, already having a pretty good idea but wanting to hear it in Mo's words.

He sighed. “Evan was so smart, well-behaved, and self-sufficient from such an early age. Brooke and I tended to ignore him and figure he was okay. But of course he wasn't. And it wasn't just the occasional physical injuries or the stress of seeing Brooke and me fight. Ignoring him hurt, too. Not praising him. Not supporting him when other kids teased him for being an egghead or a klutz.”

She nodded, again feeling supremely grateful to her parents, who had always been there to support, encourage, and praise her. “The first time you and Evan got together, you said he was really angry. How about this time?”

“Sometimes I'd hear it in his voice, but mostly he was calmer. He said something like, ‘I know you can't change any of this now, but I want you to hear it.' And I told him I wanted to, and I listened.”

“Often, listening's the best thing, the only thing, you can do.” They were nearing the house and she said, “How was it for you, Mo? Sitting there with him, listening to him recite, uh . . .”

“The long list of my sins? Partly, I felt crappy. Like something slimy that had crawled out from under a rock and ought to head straight back. And yet I felt good, too. My son was there beside me, taking the time, spending the emotional energy to actually communicate with me. The first time we met, his mind seemed so closed and he told me to stay out of his life. This time it was different. It felt more like a door had opened. Maybe just a crack, but it had opened.”

She reached over to squeeze his jacketed arm. “I'm so glad. How did the two of you leave it? Did he say anything about Sunday?”

“He said he needed to think some more, but he might be there. Even if he isn't, I feel like I could call him and offer to buy him a coffee one day, and we'll talk some more.”

“That's wonderful, Mo. Evan's a good man. He'll come around.” It was all going to work out. It might take some time, but in the end Mo was going to be part of his son's large and already complicated family.

And who knew, maybe so would she.

* * *

Mo's pleasure at the way things had gone with Evan had given him a boost that went a long way to overriding his nervousness about the upcoming dinner with his landladies. Still, he told Maribeth, “I'm sure glad you're with me.”

“They're just people, Mo.” She gave a quick splutter of laughter. “Or so I tell myself. Ms. Haldenby was my teacher—the strict kind, not the motherly type—and that's hard to get over. So I'm glad I'm with you.” She pulled up to the curb in front of his landladies' house and turned to him. “And of course that's the only reason we're happy to be together, just for the mutual support, right?”

“Oh, totally. For me it has nothing to do with how pretty you look, how great you smell, or the thought of having sex later on.”

“Taking me for granted, are you?”

“Nope. Eternally hopeful.” He'd said the words jokingly, but once he'd uttered them he thought that he would never before in his life have used that phrase to describe himself. And yet, here in Caribou Crossing with Maribeth, he did feel hopeful. Not just about the prospect of great sex tonight, but about life in general. A month ago, on that bus approaching Caribou Crossing, he'd never imagined he could feel this way.

He and Maribeth climbed out of her car and he let Caruso out. “Maribeth and I are going in the front,” he told the dog. “If you want to go inside, use your own special door.” He hadn't figured out whether the dog really understood English or was good at reading his mind, but it didn't surprise him when Caruso ran around the side of the house.

As Maribeth came around the car holding the poinsettia plant she'd bought, Mo reached out his hand to her. When she took it, he drew her toward him and leaned in close to her cheek. “Mmm, yeah, you smell good.” Tonight, her scent was spicy, rather like cinnamon.

He captured her lips for a smiling kiss and then they headed up the front walk. “It feels odd coming to this door,” he said. “The only other time I did was the day I applied to rent here.”

“And now you're a guest. I see you're bringing wine.”

He held up the bag. “I happen to know that the ladies have a fondness for a good red. And that dinner is roast beef with Yorkshire pudding.” He rang the doorbell.

Ms. Haldenby, tall and straight-backed, tailored in navy pants and a blue-and-white striped blouse, opened the door. Her welcoming smile widened when they handed her the plant and wine. “You shouldn't have.”

“Of course we should,” Maribeth said. “It's so kind of you and Ms. Peabody to invite us for dinner.” To Mo's ear, she sounded a little stiff, not her normal bubbly self.

As Maribeth and Mo hung their coats in the hall closet, Ms. Haldenby said, “I know it's hard for my former students to move past the habits they learned in the classroom, but please call me Daphne. You as well, Mo. And my wife is Irene.” With a glint of humor in the blue eyes behind the thick lenses of her glasses, she added, “Irene's teenage granddaughter calls us Ire-nee. And I suppose there is a certain irony to having found your true love in your early twenties but not having the sense to actually get together until you're past eighty.”

Irony, or just sadness?

“Now,” Daphne Haldenby went on, “come sit down in the front room and let's have a drink and a snack while dinner finishes cooking.”

She ushered them to the same rather formally decorated room where she and her wife had interviewed Mo when he'd inquired about renting. Tonight, it seemed more welcoming with the curtains drawn, a gas fire burning cheerfully, a couple of wreaths of holly and pine, and classical music playing in the background. Their hostess put the poinsettia on the mantel, where it added a splash of color.

When Maribeth chose to sit on a blue-and-white striped sofa, Mo sat beside her. He promptly got to his feet again as Ms. Peabody bustled into the room carrying a serving plate with steaming stuffed mushroom caps. She was less tailored than her wife, wearing a red sweater and black pants, her white hair in soft curls around her face.

After another round of greetings, Ms. Haldenby—Daphne—opened the wine and offered it around. Mo declined, and so did Maribeth, choosing instead to have nonalcoholic cider.

He tried one of the mushroom caps, finding that the stuffing was a mixture of shrimp, creamy cheese, and herbs. “These are delicious,” he told his hostesses.

“We like to cook together,” Ms. Peabody—Irene—said. “We love browsing through cookbooks and trying recipes.”

As they all ate appetizers, the women got onto the subject of Christmas decorations and Mo mostly kept quiet. He noticed that it took Maribeth a while to get comfortable and to use the older ladies' first names, but she got there. So did he, when he gave them a summary of his talk with Evan. He was pleased by their encouraging comments.

From time to time, Daphne or Irene excused herself to tend to things in the kitchen, and finally Irene announced that dinner was ready.

As they made their way down the hall, Daphne said, “We'll be eating in the kitchen. Maribeth, this house once had a dining room, but living on my own, I never used it. I converted it, as well as the main floor bathroom, into the flat that Mo rents.”

“And that Cassidy used to rent,” Maribeth said. “She's a friend of mine, too.”

“Of course. I remember seeing you at her and Dave's wedding, though we didn't have an opportunity to talk.”

Mo shook his head in amusement. Did everyone in this town know each other?

The kitchen was a spacious, old-fashioned one, and the table was set with an ivory tablecloth, gleaming china, and silverware.

“Mo,” Daphne said, “I know that you're good with engines, snow shovels, and tools.” He'd done some minor repairs and yard work around the house. “I imagine you can wield a carving knife quite competently?”

It was something he'd rarely done, but it couldn't be too difficult. “I'd be happy to try.”

A platter holding a sizable roast of beef sat on the counter with carving utensils beside it. He washed his hands thoroughly and got to work. As he sliced meat, Irene and Daphne put the rest of the food on the table and Maribeth topped up everyone's glasses.

When they were all seated, Maribeth said, “What a feast!”

Mo agreed. In addition to the beef, there were roasted turnips and carrots, a dish of green peas that smelled of mint, puffy individual Yorkshire puddings, and a big server of rich brown gravy.

After he'd tasted everything and complimented the food, Maribeth chimed in. “Yes, I'm very glad the two of you enjoy cooking, and we get to reap the benefits.”

“I'm a little surprised, Daphne,” Mo ventured, “that the two of you only got together recently.”

“Because we're so old?” the woman asked wryly.

He gave an embarrassed laugh. “Well, kind of. But it's just that you seem so right, so natural together. Of course I did know Irene had a grandson, so obviously . . .” Now he wished he hadn't raised the subject.

Irene didn't seem fussed, though, when she said, “Yes, I was married. For almost twenty years. But it wasn't a very happy marriage, I'm sad to say.” She sighed. “My family—which includes a younger brother, two children, five grandchildren, and my brand-new great-granddaughter—has been pretty accepting of my big ‘coming out.'” Her fingers put apostrophes around the phrase. “It probably helps that I'm so old. They want me to enjoy the last years of my life, and they're happy I'm with Daphne.”

“And so they should be,” Maribeth said firmly.

“I wish my ex-husband thought so,” Irene said. “He's the person who's had the most trouble with this. He feels betrayed. And he's right. Oh, I didn't mean to do it. I didn't know better at the time. I thought all girls were supposed to marry men and that what I felt for Daphne was . . . some childish passing fancy. Even now, I have no idea if I'm lesbian or bisexual. All I know is that Daphne is the one person in the world I want to be with.”

“The love of your life,” Maribeth said softly.

“Indeed.” Irene smiled at Maribeth. “But when I married my husband, I did betray him, and my own true self. I worked hard at that marriage, and that should have been a clue. When it's right, it shouldn't be so much work.”

“No, it shouldn't,” Maribeth said. “Things should click into place, shouldn't they?”