Some Enchanted Season (6 page)

“I thought we might get through the next few months as polite acquaintances, if not friends,” she said softly. “Let’s at least make the effort. I don’t want to fight with you. We’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime, and frankly, I’m just not up to it. I’m sorry I suggested you should buy a companion. I’m sorry I brought sex into the conversation at all. And I’m sorry that my being pleasant was a rare occurrence in our marriage.”

He’d been manipulated, all right, but he wasn’t sure if it had been Maggie pulling the strings, or his own
conscience. “It wasn’t so rare,” he admitted grudgingly. “Under the circumstances, I can’t blame you.”

“Of course you can. There’s plenty of blame to go around.” She smiled sadly. “I—I think I’ll go to my room now.”

“I’ll walk up with you.”

“It’s not—All right.”

He accompanied her to the top of the stairs, waited there until she closed the bedroom door behind her, then returned to the kitchen. After cleaning up, he made his way to the front of the house again.

For a moment he paused in the office doorway. Less than twelve hours had passed since he’d officially turned everything over to Tom—less than twelve hours free of business responsibility. The computer tempted him, invited him in, reminded him of all the work he could accomplish in the next few hours. It offered to keep his mind occupied, to leave him not even one moment to think about Maggie, or their marriage, or their divorce.

But he had promised Maggie and himself no work for the next few months. Besides, work wouldn’t make him forget the reminder he’d just gotten that no divorce, no matter how eagerly anticipated, was painless. Even though they both wanted to be free, they still had the ability to wound egos and hurt feelings.

And why shouldn’t they? They had loved each other more than anyone else in their lives had ever loved them. Though the love was long gone, there was still so much left—so many intimacies, so many disappointments, so many regrets. Those things hurt, and the
simple fact of saying “In two months we’ll file for divorce” couldn’t change that. Only time could.

Instead of giving in to the urge to use work to hide from life, he closed the pocket doors, shut off the hall lights, and headed up the stairs. Maybe if he’d set limits on work years before instead of on Maggie, they wouldn’t be where they were now.

But they were there, and the best he could do was no less than she deserved. No routine work, no accusations, insults, or arguments. She needed him for friendly support, and that was what he would give her.

And then she would give him his freedom. Forever.

Chapter Three
 

M
aggie awakened at her usual time Tuesday morning and, for a moment, simply lay with her eyes closed. The sounds that had greeted her for the past two hundred and forty—odd days were noticeably absent—the doctors making rounds, the staff going to help those patients who needed it, the housekeeping staff getting an early start on their day. The house was quiet, with no sound from Ross across the hall, and so was the neighborhood, except for the faint passing of a car.

When she opened her eyes, she saw that the sun was shining. Throwing back the covers, she eased out of bed, rubbing the stiffness from her hip. Quickly she dressed, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, then reluctantly opened the makeup case on the counter. She’d never been one to consider makeup an essential
part of her morning routine, but these days she felt she had little choice. Though she disliked the implication of vanity, she wasn’t yet ready to display her scars to the world. She couldn’t hide her occasional limp, her speech problems, or difficulty concentrating, but she could darn well hide her scars.

Once that task was completed, she left her room and made her way carefully downstairs. From the hall closet, she chose a heavy jacket, then went outside.

The front porch was broad, lit around the edges by the morning sun and made for kicking back, relaxing, and doing nothing. She sat down on the glider, propped her feet on the concrete shelf that capped the brick, and gave a soft, satisfied sigh.

Listening to the quiet, looking at the peaceful streets around her, she found it easy to believe that this was where she belonged. Bethlehem was a small-town-family sort of place, and she was a small-town-family sort of girl. She didn’t want to be rich, had no use for power. She wanted to putter about her own kitchen, to kneel in her own dirt and plant her own flowers, to exchange recipes and baby-sitting with neighbors who were also friends. Ross said some of these people had been her friends last year. She sincerely hoped they would be again.

As if conjured by her thoughts, two women came out of the big Victorian across the way on Fourth Street—the Winchester house, according to Ross—and turned in her direction. Coming to see her? she wondered with more pleasure than a simple visit with strangers should generate.

The women were elderly, but their step was lively as
they crossed Fourth, then Hawthorne, and turned onto her sidewalk. Seeing her on the porch, both women beamed welcoming smiles and one called a greeting. “Hello, Maggie. It’s so good to see you again.”

Maggie lowered her feet to the floor and started to rise as the women climbed the steps.

“Oh, no, dear,” the stouter one admonished. “Don’t get up. Stay right where you are.”

She obediently sank back as they came to a stop in front of her.

“You probably don’t remember us, dear—”

“You
know
she doesn’t remember us,” the other chided in a loud whisper.

“But I’m Agatha Winchester—”

“And I’m her sister, Corinna Humphries, and we’re your neighbors.” Corinna seated herself on the glider and patted Maggie’s hand. “We met you last year, dear, before that dreadful accident—”

“And we’re happy to see that you’re recovering so nicely.” Agatha sat on the brick wall and offered a foil-covered plate. “Fresh rolls. We love to bake—”

“And cook. Of course, you do too. You’re very good at it, you know.”

“You baked the bread we had with dinner last night. It was wonderful.” Maggie accepted the plate, lifted the foil, and breathed in the heavenly scent of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven. “I love cinnamon rolls. I remember … in the hospital …”

Both women beamed their million-watt smiles again, and Agatha bobbed her gray head. “We sent some with the sheriff when you awakened and he was able to interview you about the accident.”

Maggie remembered. She hadn’t been allowed food yet—she had still received her nourishment via IV—but the aromas, after nine weeks in a coma, had been almost as good as actually eating. Though he’d no doubt thought it best, it had nearly broken her heart when Ross had them taken away.

“So … we understand you and your husband are going to live here for a while,” Corinna said. “Once you’re settled in and feel up to it, we’ll have a welcome-home party to reintroduce you to all your neighbors.”

“Let’s not wait for a party.” Agatha leaned close to pat her knee. “Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow. We always cook a big dinner and have a lot of people in—family and friends and neighbors. Why don’t you and your husband join us?”

“Oh, please do,” her sister chimed in. “Thanksgiving is meant to be shared by a crowd. It’s much too big a holiday for just two people. Please come. You met everyone last year, and they’ll be so glad to see you again.”

Maggie felt a flutter of panic at the thought, no matter how well intentioned, of being on display for a crowd of strangers who knew her but had no place in her memories. At the same time, part of her relished the notion of spending a holiday with people who were genuinely happy to see her. That same part liked the idea of being welcomed into the community. After all, she was going to be a part of it.

“It sounds nice,” she said, meaning it in spite of the panic. She was going to have to face her fears at some point, and being a part of the holiday they were
describing seemed a perfect opportunity. “I’ll have to check with Ross, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Everyone starts gathering around eleven, and we eat at one or thereabout. We’d be happy to have you—and you don’t need to bring a thing. We always have plenty. Now, go ahead, eat,” Agatha encouraged. “There’s a napkin underneath the plate, though I prefer to just lick my fingers. Corinna, we should have made some hot cocoa. What good are cinnamon rolls on a nippy fall morning without hot cocoa?”

“They’re wonderful all on their own,” Maggie said as she broke off a piece. She savored the first bite and the next, until half of one roll was gone.

That was when Corinna took a look around. “Is your husband here, my dear?”

“He’s inside—still asleep, I think.”

“We never met him last year. On the rare trips he made here, he was always working.” Corinna clucked her tongue. “Young people need to learn to take it easy, to make time for what counts. Life doesn’t last forever, you know.” Abruptly, her cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry, dear. That was insensitive of me.”

Maggie smiled to put her at ease. “Not at all. It’s all too true, as I found out for myself.”

“You’re a very lucky girl. We saw your truck when the sheriff had it towed out of the ravine. It’s a miracle that you survived.” Agatha’s expression shifted from grave to joyous. “You got your very own Christmas miracle. We love miracles here in Bethlehem.”

“Then it’s a good place to be.” And as long as she was there, Maggie could use a few more small miracles—if she hadn’t already used up her share.

“Well, dear, we must get back,” Agatha said, getting to her feet. “We’ve got planting to do.”

“Planting?”

“We’re dividing our bulbs,” Corinna replied. “It should have been done weeks ago, but …” She waved one hand dismissively. “Things happened. But as long as we can work the ground, it’s not too late. Why don’t you bring your husband over sometime? We’d love to meet him, and we’re usually home, unless we’ve gone to the library with the children—”

“Or to help out at the church,” Agatha added, “or with something at the school.”

“I will,” Maggie agreed, though the chances of getting Ross to drop in unexpectedly on two old ladies whom he’d never met were slim, to say the least. “Thanks for the rolls. They’re really wonderful.”

“Take care,” one sister called as they made their way down the sidewalk. The other added, “Don’t be a stranger.”

Maggie watched until they disappeared inside their house. As she started on the second roll, a car left from the stone house directly across the street. Another stopped in front of the Winchester house, and a small boy barreled out and across the yard to the porch at full speed. Ross had called them surrogate grandmothers, and the boy’s eagerness to reach them seemed to support that.

Around the corner, shouts and laughter from unseen children were followed by the rumble of a school bus. Children in their Buffalo neighborhood were chauffeured to private schools in luxury cars by employees whose sole job was catering to their juvenile charges.
Maggie took such delight in the big yellow bus belching black smoke as it lumbered around the corner that the click of the front door hardly registered.

“We’re going to have to reach an agreement about you and the stairs.”

She glanced up as Ross crossed the porch and sat down at the opposite end of the glider. He wore jeans and a steel-gray sweater and looked too handsome for his own good. There’d been a time when every sight of him had made her heart beat faster and her hands tremble. Now she could simply look and appreciate him the same way she would appreciate anything of beauty. She didn’t have to feel a thing.

“A welcome gift from the Winchester sisters,” she said, offering him the final roll. Once he’d taken it, she responded to his comment. “Every morning for two hundred and forty days, I’ve gotten up at exactly the same time, gotten dressed, wheeled myself or hobbled or limped to the dining room for breakfast, then spent the rest of the morning and all of the afternoon in one sort of therapy or another. This morning I wanted to do something different, and I didn’t want to wait for you to wake up to do it.”

“You could have knocked or opened the door and shouted or thrown something across the room.”

She smiled faintly at the image of herself throwing anything more damaging than a tantrum. With all the exquisite breakables in his mansion, if she’d yielded to such desires, she certainly could have gotten his attention.

“Dr. Allen says you’re not supposed to take the stairs alone. He says you can’t afford to break your hip or
your leg or your head again. You could end up permanently disabled, which is a hell of a price to pay for being stubborn.”

“So what are you going to do? Tell on me? I’ve been discharged from his care. He’s not my boss any longer, and neither are you.” Then she yielded with a sigh. “Never mind. All right. I won’t come downstairs by myself again.”

“Or go up.”

“Or go up,” she agreed.

Ross took his victory quietly and changed the subject. “So you met the sisters. Did they seem familiar?”

“They reminded me of someone’s grandmother. Does that count?” Without waiting for a response, she shook her head. “They seemed to like me, though, and they want to meet you. They make a big deal out of Thanksgiving—fix a huge meal and invite a ton of people—and they asked us to join them.”