Some Enchanted Season (14 page)

I
n the middle of the conversation about Bethlehem’s annual Tour of Lights, Ross returned from the Winchesters’. Maggie watched as he went into his office, wondered as she gazed at the closed doors what was important enough to bring Tom Flynn so far on a holiday. Of course, like Ross, Tom recognized holidays only as days when it was difficult to catch people in their offices or answering their calls. Also like Ross—and like her—he had no family, or at least none who claimed him, and he shied away from any woman who might try to take him home to share the day with her own family.

She would feel a little sorry for him—as sorry as she could feel for a cold-blooded snake—but she doubted he had any clue what he was missing.

Realizing that the room had gone quiet, she refocused her attention to find all four women watching
her. With a faint flush staining her cheeks, she asked, “So when is the Tour of Lights?”

“It starts in a couple of weeks.” Emilie Bishop’s tone was perfectly normal, but there was something about it that told Maggie it was a repeat.

“You just told me that, didn’t you?”

“A few minutes ago.”

“Sorry. Sometimes I get easily distracted.”

“Then let me distract you some more.” Holly glanced over her shoulder at the office doors, then lowered her voice. “Who’s this Tom person?”

“He’s Ross’s lawyer. He’s running the company for him while Ross is here.”

“Attractive and capable. Nice combination. Is he married?”

Maggie stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “No, no, no. You are
not
interested in Tom, believe me.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not married because no woman with half a brain would have him—and that’s the kind of woman he prefers. They’re all cool, beautiful, elegant, with an IQ smaller than their bust size. They’re all blond, with legs up to their necks, and they’re all greedy enough for his money to put up with his perpetual bad humor—for a while. None of them sticks around, and none of them ever comes back to give him a second chance.”

“But he’s attractive in a ruthless way.”

Maggie glanced across the hall again, though the solid doors hid the topic of discussion. Attractive? Tom?
She’d
never thought so—but then, she had never
liked the man. From the day he’d gone to work for Ross, it seemed to her that things had begun to change. Each man’s ambition had fed off the other’s, until they’d no longer been merely doing their best, striving to make a place for themselves, working hard for success. They had become driven, with all the negative connotations. Business had become more and more important, and gradually she had become less important.

For years she’d blamed Tom, but it wasn’t his fault. Without Tom’s help Ross would have still reached that point where nothing else mattered. The lawyer was just a convenient scapegoat.

But that didn’t make him suitable for a relationship with a woman she liked, and she liked Holly McBride.

“Maybe he is attractive, but he’s an exercise in futility. He’s never remained on a friendly basis with a woman he’s dated. They all go away hating him. The most important thing in his life is business. He came all the way out here on Thanksgiving Day for some papers, for heaven’s sake.”

“That’s an awfully long drive,” Melissa remarked.

“Oh, he didn’t drive. I promise you, he called one of Ross’s pilots and made him give up his holiday to fly him to the nearest airport where he could rent a car.”

“ ‘One of Ross’s pilots,’ ” Emilie repeated with a sigh. “It must be
nice
. Last year, when things had gotten about as bad as they could get, I’d get the kids to sleep, then I would fall asleep there in the homeless shelter and dream about having money. Not just having enough, as I’d had before, but being
rich
. Rich enough to never worry again, to protect the kids, to
always keep them safe.” Smiling, she shook her head at the memory.

“And then she went and married a cop,” Shelley said with a laugh. “A profession not known for its fabulous salaries.”

“No,” Emilie agreed, “but it’s enough.”

And she meant it. Maggie knew, because that was all
she’d
ever wanted. Just enough—and Ross. He would see to it that they both always had enough, but the price had been too high. They’d lost each other.

The money wasn’t worth it. If she could go back ten years and change everything, if she could trade the money and the success for a happily-ever-after for the two of them together, she would do it. But, of course, she couldn’t. All she could do was make certain that her future was better than her past.

Across the hall the pocket doors slid open, and Ross and Tom stepped into the hallway, then left through the front door. Would this visit and whatever business they’d discussed whet Ross’s desire to get back to work? Would she go looking for him later today or tomorrow or the next day and find him on the computer or the phone, right back in the thick of things? Probably. And would she be disappointed? Maybe. A little.

She expected Ross to squeeze in a few last instructions on the walk to the car, then return to the house. But it was long after the sedan drove past the front windows that he came back, and he was carrying a plastic grocery bag filled with foil-wrapped packages.

“The sisters are divvying up the leftovers,” Holly said as she slid to her feet. “That means it’s about time
to head home. Maggie, thanks for the tour. Come by the inn sometime. We’ll have lunch. Shelley, Melissa, you come too. My assistant manager, Emilie, and I, of course, will be there.”

“I’d like that.” Maggie accompanied them to the door, exchanged good-byes, then watched as they returned to the Winchester house. She was smiling when she turned and found Ross waiting a few yards away.

“I went to thank the Winchesters for their hospitality, and they sent me home with enough food to last through next week.”

“So you’re saved from eating my cooking for a while.”

“Would you have preferred that I turn down their offer?”

The edge to his voice surprised her. “Of course not. Leftovers are the best part of Thanksgiving dinner.” Then she remembered their discussion that morning about cooking. “It wasn’t a criticism, Ross. It was just a comment.”

She went back into the living room and sat down on the sofa. As she tucked her feet between the cushions, he settled in the armchair she’d just vacated. “I had a really good time. I’m glad we went.”

“So am I,” he agreed.

She wondered if his words were sincere and decided to believe they were. So what if loud, homey family gatherings suited him even less than large formal affairs without a single genuine friend in the place suited her? Maybe he’d truly enjoyed himself, or maybe he was just saying so for her benefit. Either way, she would take his words at face value.

“You look worn out.”

She tried to resist a yawn. “I am. I haven’t talked to so many people in … well, longer than I can remember.”

“Since last December. The Fairingtons’ Christmas party.”

“Gala,” she said sleepily. “Candace Fairington always calls it a gala.”

“You wore a red dress that made Candace turn green with envy, and you danced with the governor and charmed the mayor, and all the time you were wishing you were here.”

And now she was, she thought, her eyes slowly closing. And she was here to stay.

Home to stay.

T
om Flynn drove slowly down the streets of one of Buffalo’s poorer neighborhoods. His Porsche was out of place on the empty streets where the only cars were burned-out hulks stolen from someplace more prosperous, stripped, then set afire.
He
was out of place in his five-thousand-dollar suit, his custom-made shoes, his fifteen-thousand-dollar wrist-watch.

Of course, appearances could be deceiving. No one belonged there more than he did. He’d grown up in that building over there, had stolen food from the market across the street, had been kicked out of the school down the block, and said confession at the church up ahead. Empty, abandoned, haunted buildings—all except the church.

The place was shabby, run-down. The diocese had never been a wealthy one, and Holy Cross had been the poorest of its churches, serving the neediest of its people. The building should have been condemned fifteen years earlier, and would have been if there’d been a building inspector brave enough to come into the war zone.

Nobody cared but Father Pat. Patrick Shanahan had come in a young, idealistic priest. He’d done his best, helped a few souls, lost hundreds more. Thirty years down there had made him old, but he kept trying.

The church doors were unlocked despite the punks who ran the streets. Few lights were on—trying to keep the electric bills down—and few candles were lit, giving the place a spooky air. Even in better days, though, it had always scared the hell out of Tom.

He stopped a few feet from the confessional, remembering the sweaty palms, the cramped space, the fear of retribution. He hadn’t been to confession since he was sixteen, hadn’t set foot in church since then either.

“Have you come to say confession?” The quiet old voice came from behind him, startling him more than could be explained by dim lights and deep shadows.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
.

His list of sins was long and detailed, spanning more than twenty years and destined to spin out across the next twenty. There wasn’t a priest in the world with the power to absolve him of all he’d done and all he would do.

“I’ve come to make a donation.” He turned to face the old man, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled
out the bracelet. He turned the priest’s hand over, then let seven inches of gold and twelve carats of flawless diamonds and sapphires puddle in his palm. When the clasp slipped through his fingers, Tom folded Father Pat’s hand over the treasure. “Happy Thanksgiving, Father. Put that to good use.”

And then he walked out, back into the cold, back into the night, and he drove out of the old neighborhood for the last time.

T
he snow started sometime during the night. When Maggie settled in the rocker in the kitchen with a cup of fresh coffee, the backyard was completely covered with white. Clumps of snow topped the fence, and drifts piled wherever the wind blew it. It looked incredibly cold and beautiful outside but it was warm and cozy in the house. All she needed to make the scene perfect was the smell of something baking and a fire popping in the fireplace. She wasn’t adventurous enough to try her hand at baking again, not yet, and Ross would build a fire when he came down.…

The thought gave her pause. It was so easy, after so many years, to still think in terms of his responsibility or hers. She could build a fire. She had logs, matches, kindling—even better, a supply of compressed sawdust fire starters. Soon the chore would be hers every cold morning she spent in this house. Why not get some experience now?

Within minutes the well-seasoned wood was burning brightly. She reclaimed her coffee, then stayed on
the floor, leaning against the hearth, staring into the flames.

At the Winchesters’ yesterday, she’d learned that last year the house had been done up with hundreds of white lights and dozens of farolitos. It had looked beautiful, everyone agreed, and so she’d decided to do it like that again.

Her first Christmas tradition.

Next weekend she would put up her tree—her second tradition—and sometime before Christmas she would have that party she’d missed out on last year. This time she would have to cater it, but next year, and every year to follow, she would do all the cooking herself. The house would be filled with people, and there would be music and laughter, and she would—

Long fingers appeared before her face and snapped, jarring her out of her reverie. She blinked, then turned to find Ross seated on the hearth, a cup of coffee beside him.

“Where were you?”

She smiled dreamily. “Christmas future.” She moved to sit on the brick and felt an immediate blast of heat on her back.

“And what did you see there?”

“People. Kids. Bethlehem.” She wondered what he saw in his own future Christmases.
Not her
, came the immediate answer with a quick stab of pain, a sharp, tight breath. Probably work, work, and more work. He would fulfill all his holiday social obligations, but other than that December would be just another month, the twenty-fifth just another day. She felt sorry for him, but if he was happy having no life outside his office—and
she knew from experience he was—then that was all that mattered.

“And what do you see in the near future?” he asked. “Like for breakfast?”

“We have turkey, ham, dressing, pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, banana cream pie, the Winchesters’ home-baked rolls, candied yams—”

“How about a turkey sandwich?”

“Sounds fine.”

He headed for the refrigerator, and she watched him. When building the mansion, he’d insisted that the kitchen be perfect—large, state-of-the-art, with enough room and equipment to prepare dinner for fifty—but once it was completed, he’d never set foot in it. He’d hired the staff before they’d moved in and had trusted them to know what was where.

He seemed at home in
this
kitchen—as at home as he could be in a place as foreign to him as Bethlehem was.

“What are your plans for today?” he asked as he worked.

“I want to unpack the ornaments.”

“When are we getting the tree?”

“Next weekend. Melissa’s getting in a shipment of live trees. After Christmas we can plant it in the backyard.”

“If you’re not getting the tree for more than a week, maybe you should wait—”

“I know. But I want to do it today.” She wanted to look at every ornament, wanted to remember when she got it and why, wanted to feel the warmth of nostalgia wash over her the way it did every year.

“If that’s what you want,” Ross agreed with a shrug. “Mayonnaise or mustard?”

“Mayonnaise.” After sixteen Thanksgivings together, he should know that she always put mayonnaise on her turkey sandwiches. Maybe the fact that he didn’t had something to do with why there wouldn’t be a seventeenth.