Some Enchanted Season (13 page)

Ross stared down at the vinyl floor, neat squares of ivory ingrained with a pale blue pattern. When he was growing up and they’d had the good fortune to eat dinner without his father, his mother had always insisted on saying grace—simple little prayers giving thanks, asking for blessings. She had believed in the power of prayer, had kept her faith through long years of miserable living and even through the hellish year it had taken the cancer to kill her.

He had prayed, too, that last year—first for her to live, and later for her to go quickly. God hadn’t been listening though. She’d died one agonizing, heartbreaking day at a time, and he had never prayed again until he’d stood beside another hospital bed with another woman he’d loved. But was Maggie’s survival a testament to the power of prayer, or merely to the medical miracles money could buy?

He neither knew nor cared. He was simply thankful she had survived.

“Go with us today, Lord,” the pastor intoned, “and keep us safe in Your love. Amen.”

A chorus of amens echoed through the rooms, then the chatter returned to its earlier volume and the line slowly began to move. Ross leaned forward, his mouth close to Maggie’s ear. “See the guy in the plaid flannel shirt?”

She looked and nodded.

“That’s Dr. Grayson, the psychiatrist Dr. Olivetti referred you to.”

She looked again, with more interest this time. “He’s cute,” she said with surprise. “The rehab center may have had the best doctors in the country, but none of them was good-looking. I bet his female patients fall all for”—impatiently she tried again—“all fall for him.”

Ross looked at him again, making brief notes—big, tall, blond, blue-eyed. “I didn’t know the rugged, out-doorsy type appealed to you.”

Her smile softened as Grayson swung someone’s two-year-old into his arms and carried her through the crowd to her mother. “Not particularly, but the sweet, compassionate, soft-spot-in-his-heart-for-children type will get me every time.”

And he missed on all three counts, Ross thought moodily.

“Are you talking about J.D.?” Melissa asked, turning to include Ross in the question. “We’ve been trying to get him married ever since he came here last year, but we’re not having much luck. I don’t suppose you have
an unmarried friend who’s looking to leave Buffalo for the slower and much sweeter life we have here in Bethlehem.”

“I’ll see if I can think of anyone,” Maggie said with a secretive smile. She would soon be single, she intended to stay in town, and she very much wanted a family. He wanted her to have one too—but not with J. D. Grayson. She didn’t need a full-time shrink.

“He’s good catch,” Melissa went on. “He did his undergraduate work at Boston College, went to medical school at Harvard, then set up practice in Chicago. He was highly respected there.”

“So why did he come here?” Ross asked.

“Because he discovered that there’s more to life than twelve-hour workdays, big-city living, high crime rates, pavement, crowds, and traffic everywhere you turn.”

“If Bethlehem can support a highly respected, Harvard-educated psychiatrist, then it must not be as wonderful a place to live as everyone thinks.”

Melissa gave him a gentle smile. “Life is simpler here. The cost of living is more manageable. In addition to his private patients, J. D. does counseling at the schools, works with social services, and sees patients at both the hospital and the nursing home. It’s enough to meet his expenses, but not enough to interfere with having a life. What more could a person want?”

He
could want a hell of a lot more, Ross acknowledged, and did. If Grayson didn’t want his work to interfere with his life, great. But all Ross wanted was for his life to not interfere with his work.

It was an incredibly selfish attitude. He understood
that. But it was the way he was and he couldn’t change. He also understood that.

He hoped Maggie did too.

T
he feasting was over and every woman in the place was gathered in the kitchen, all trying to help the sisters with the cleanup.

“Out,” Miss Corinna commanded. “Everyone under the age of fifty, go away and leave us old ladies to catch up on our visiting while we clean.”

Her mother’s strict upbringing forced Holly McBride to resist, even though doing dishes was her least favorite chore in the world. “Now, Miss Corinna, that doesn’t make any sense. Why don’t all you ‘old ladies’ pat yourselves on the back for a meal well done, then go make yourselves comfortable and catch up on your gossiping—I mean visiting,” she amended with a grin. “We’ll take care of this mess in here.”

“This is my kitchen, child, and if something’s being done in it, I’ll be here to help. Go on now. Scoot, all of you.”

Years of dealing with guests and the inn’s ever-changing staff had taught Holly when to argue and when to retreat. She’d never known anyone who’d won an argument with either Winchester sister, and so she retreated. “Come on, guys. Let’s find our own quiet place and visit for a while.”

Followed by Maggie, Emilie, Melissa, and Shelley, she led the way through crowded rooms, down the hall, and into a dimly lit parlor. Matching wing chairs curved in front of an overstuffed sofa, with a petitpoint
hassock in the middle. They settled in, kicked off their shoes, and propped their feet on the hassock.

“Has this mob scene thoroughly confused and bewildered you, Maggie?” Holly asked.

“I still have a few short circuits in my brain, but I think I’ve kept most things straight. You own the inn where I used to stay when I came here.” When Holly nodded, Maggie turned to Emilie on her left. “You live across the street, you’re married to Nathan, who’s a police officer, and your nieces and nephew live with you.”

“Alanna, Josie, and Brendan,” Emilie answered, the sounds softened by her Georgia accent. “Lannie’s ten going on twenty, which is a great improvement, because last year she was nine going on ninety. She’s learning to be a child again. And Josie and Brendan are the sweetest, quietest, most demure angels you’ve ever seen.”

Amid a round of snickers and snorts, Holly chided her friend. “You shouldn’t fib this close to Christmas, Em. Santa won’t bring you anything.”

Emilie wasn’t concerned. “That’s okay. Last Christmas I got a home, a husband, all new friends, and permanent custody of the kids. Those gifts are enough to last a lifetime.”

“And in the spring you and Nathan will have a baby of your own,” Melissa added. Her smile was gentle, but it couldn’t hide her envy. It was no secret that she and Alex had been trying for years to start a family. Her first three pregnancies had ended in miscarriages, and a fourth had simply never happened.

Holly wasn’t the mothering type at all, but she felt
sorry for Melissa. If she ruled the world, all women who wanted babies would have them and women who lacked the nurturing instincts—like her, like her own mother—wouldn’t. But she didn’t rule the world, just her own very small part of it, and that gave her no power beyond wishes and prayers to help the Thomases.

Maggie returned to her recitation of the facts she considered important. “Melissa owns the nursery, does beautiful flower arrangements, sings in the church choir, and organizes the Christmas pageant every year because she was going to be an actress before she got married and came here.”

“No, no, she
was
an actress,” Shelley clarified, “and a very good one too.” When Melissa protested, Shelley overrode her. “It doesn’t matter if they were just local productions. You were good. The reviewers said so.”

And she was still good, Holly thought privately. After the last miscarriage, she’d been able to convince practically everyone in town that her heart wasn’t breaking a little more each childless day. Holly wasn’t sure how much more of the disappointment Melissa could take.

“And Shelley …” A flush tinged Maggie’s cheeks. “I tried to pay attention when we talked, but I think the whole time I was envying you your baby. When is it due?”

“Two weeks. An early Christmas blessing.”

And the women, Holly thought, were a blessing in themselves. She’d gone through a long period when she’d had little use for women, when running the inn had consumed her days and looking for love—while
settling for affection or lust—had filled her nights. The experience—and the failure to find anything more meaningful than a short-term affair—had left her skeptical of the whole concept of love.

Oh, she knew it existed. Miss Corinna had had forty wonderful years with her husband, and it was clear to anyone with eyes in their head that Nathan, Alex, and Mitch absolutely adored their wives. But she’d never experienced it firsthand—not romantic love and not much in the way of familial love.

And so she’d given up looking—well, had significantly cut back. In doing so, she had given up the idea that all other women were potential competitors in the search for Mr. Right and had discovered some wonderful friends. They were her support, her family, sometimes her sanity.

She tuned back into the conversation—still about babies—and noticed the faraway look that had claimed Melissa. Heaving a great dramatic sigh, she pleaded, “No more talk about pregnancies, please. My feet are starting to swell, and I’m beginning to experience cravings. Maggie, how would you feel about giving us a tour of your house? I’ve been dying to see what you did with it, and you did plan a party last year to show it all off before …”

The look Maggie gave her was steady and friendly. “Before I slid off the mountain. What kind of party?”

“A post-Christmas, pre-New Year’s, pre-Emilie’s wedding party,” Shelley said. “It was scheduled for the Saturday after Christmas.”

“You had invited everyone from the inn, the neighbors, everyone you’d met—even the work crew,”
Holly went on. “But then you had the accident and the party was canceled. So how about showing us around now?”

Maggie got the keys from Ross, then they left, walking the short distance to the brick house.

The house was beautiful—Holly had expected that—and cozy. She
hadn’t
expected that. She’d seen a photo spread in some magazine of their home in Buffalo—the most sterile, unwelcoming, unlived-in-looking place she’d ever seen. She couldn’t imagine Maggie living in that house—or Ross living in this one. They had just settled in the living room to discuss Bethlehem’s holiday affairs, when the doorbell rang. Being closest to the door, Holly volunteered to answer it.

The man waiting impatiently on the porch wasn’t exactly handsome. His brown hair was a little too unruly, his face a little too rugged, his manner a little too arrogant. He looked like someone too used to giving orders—like someone too much like Ross McKinney.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Ross.”

Irked by his imperious pronouncement, Holly lounged against the doorjamb. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“At a neighbor’s house.”

“When will he be back?”

Holly shrugged.

“What about Maggie?”

She stepped back and pulled the door open wide with a sweeping gesture. “She’s in the living room.”

Giving her a look of pure annoyance, he walked
past. The faint scent of aftershave lingered in the air. He stopped in the wide doorway, and his dark gaze settled on Maggie.

“Hello, Tom,” she greeted him. The coolness of her voice told Holly she’d been right to start off disliking him.

“Maggie. I sent Ross some papers a few days ago to sign and return. Do you know where they are?”

“Probably in his office across the hall. Feel free to look.”

He nodded curtly and went into the opposite room. With a devilish smile Holly followed him again. When he opened the brightly colored envelope from the corner of the desk, he swore. “He didn’t sign them.” He combed his fingers through his hair, then seemed to notice her for the first time. “Do you know the number where he is?”

She nodded.

“Would you give it to me so I can call him?” He sounded impatient now.

“I’ll call.” As she made her way to the phone on the desk, she said politely, “It’s Thanksgiving, you know. A holiday. When most people don’t work.”

“I’m not most people.”

Oh, she could see that. Absolutely. She could also see, on second examination, that while he wasn’t exactly handsome, he was arresting. Interesting. And so absorbed in his work that he had no time for anything else. Not her type. But definitely interesting.

Mitch Walker answered the Winchester phone, and she asked him to tell Ross that Tom somebody was waiting at the house to see him. She half hoped as she
hung up the phone that Ross would keep the man waiting. It was no more than he deserved for interrupting their Thanksgiving with business.

“Couldn’t you have just called instead of coming here all the way from Buffalo?”

He gave her another of those irritated looks. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I did call. I called a half dozen times.” He glanced at the answering machine with its blinking message light, swore again, then scowled at her. “You don’t need to stand guard until Ross gets here. He put me in charge of his company. He won’t object to my being alone in his office.”

She went as far as the door before turning back. “Holidays. There are about a dozen of them every year. Great time for resting and relaxing and being with friends. It’s a wonderful concept. You ought to try it sometime.”

His only response was another grumbled curse that she barely caught. Even though he was definitely not her type, it was a good thing he lived so far away.

Because when it came to men and her type, she was nothing if not flexible.

Chapter Six