by Anne Stuart
"It's very nice," he murmured, closing the door behind them, closing them in the room.
It was a small room. She was not a tiny woman, but he was a very tall man, and the room felt crowded, by the two of them, by the sensual awareness he couldn't escape as he looked down at her.
He knew if he lifted his hands they'd be trembling with the need to touch her. In his short, misspent life he'd never felt so quintessentially alive as he did now, standing so close to her he could feel the heat from her body, could breathe in the flowery scent from her skin. He wanted her with a desperation that was an ache in his bones, and he knew he couldn't have her.
She smiled up at him, and for a moment he thought she was serene and untouched by his burning need. Until he looked into her eyes at the troubled shadow that burned beneath the bright blue. He could see the rapid flutter of pulse at the base of her throat, the faint color in her skin. He could see the hardness of her nipples through the soft cotton top, and the room was toasty warm.
She took a step back, one that seemed perfectly natural, but he wasn't fooled. She was even more wary of him than he was of her.
"You should be comfortable here. As soon as you get used to Maggie."
The change of subject, even though the other was unspoken, startled him. "What?"
"How could you have reached the age of thirty-something and not seen a woman nurse a baby?" she asked, her voice a gentle tease.
"I've done my best to avoid it," he said gruffly.
"It's only natural."
"So is death. That doesn't mean I have to like it."
"You'll get used to it," she said serenely. "Won't you want your wife to breast-feed your children?"
"I don't have a wife."
" But you will someday."
"No."
He'd shocked her. "Why not?"
He was letting too much out. He shrugged. "I just can't imagine it. What about you?"
"I don't intend to have a wife," she said with an impish smile.
"What about babies and breast-feeding?"
He'd pushed enough to get a reaction, and he saw the pain and denial darkening her eyes. "That's none of your business."
"But my reproductive plans are yours?" he countered.
"You're right, I've been too nosy. It's a failing of mine."
She obviously wasn't going to have babies any more than he was. Not unless he could make a miracle. He looked at her and wondered what kind of miracle she needed. Whether he could put his hands on her and somehow cure her.
For the moment he was afraid to try. If he touched her he wouldn't be content with comfort, with healing. If he touched her he'd try to draw her down onto that narrow, sagging bed. And despite, or perhaps because of, her wariness, he knew there was a good chance she'd go with him.
He took a step back away from her, noting without comment the relief in her eyes. "That's all right," he said. "When I make my plans about babies you'll be the first to know."
And suddenly the relief vanished, leaving only the beginnings of an impossible longing. Impossible for both of them. And he started thinking that even the other place might be easier than this one. And a woman he couldn't touch.
Chapter Five
« ^ »
"You don't talk much, do you?" Lars Swensen was leaning over a piece of cherry-colored wood, running a strip of sandpaper down the edge with the tenderness of a mother smoothing her child's hair.
"No," Gabriel said, picking up a block of wood that someone, probably Lars, had begun carving and then abandoned.
"Well, I'm used to that. In case you hadn't guessed, I'm from Scandinavian stock myself, and most Swedes aren't much in the talking department. Course, Maggie says I make up for my family. I like a little conversation now and then."
"You won't get idle chatter from me." Gabriel leaned one hip on the high stool and picked up a tiny chisel.
"I don't need idle chatter. The shop gets lonely here. I'd appreciate the company, even if you don't want to talk. Though you strike me as a man who'd have a lot to say, given the right circumstances."
The wood felt rich, alive beneath Gabriel's rough fingertips. "I don't know what those circumstances would be," he said absently, digging a little bit into the wood with the razor-sharp chisel.
"You done much work with carving? That piece was part of the nativity scene I was doing for the church. I've done most of it, and then I get stuck. You know they talk about writer's block? Well, carpenters get it, too, sometimes. I've wasted more wood, trying to carve the rest of the figures."
Gabriel snicked off another chip of wood. "What have you got left to do? "
"I've done the holy family with no problem at all. I've got the shepherds and the wise men just about finished. But no matter how hard I try I can't carve the angels."
The chisel slipped, slicing into Gabriel's hand, and he dropped the block of wood back onto the workbench. "Really?" he said mildly enough, staring at the bright red blood welling from the shallow gash on his knuckle.
"Maybe you could give it a try," Lars continued, still concentrating on his block of cherry.
"Angels aren't my thing," Gabriel said.
Lars looked up then, obviously struck by something in his voice. "All right," he said finally. "But feel free to play around with it. I'm certainly not getting anywhere."
For a moment Gabriel's hands stilled as he stared at the wood. He knew nothing about carving, nothing about tools. And yet the plain block of wood had begun to take on a form. Not much of one, and yet he could see it clearly beneath the rough texture of the block of fine-grained cherry. The wings were delicately etched, widespread in silent flight. The face was calm, with an almost unearthly beauty. It was the face of the stranger he'd seen in the mirror.
He put the block down on the bench. "Maybe later," he said, and he could hear the strain in his deep voice.
She was standing behind him. He knew it without looking, without hearing, knew it with an instinct as certain as it was frightening. He didn't understand the effect she had on him, the feeling of destiny. And why couldn't he have felt it before, in another lifetime for both of them? Or had he?
He turned slowly, filling his eyes with her. She was standing silhouetted in the doorway, the baby in her arms, and he stared for a moment, wishing he could see a happy ending for her. Wishing he could see babies and health and a future, just as he'd seen the angel in the block of wood. But all he could see was a woman with a sorrow so deep and so eternal that no miracle of his could change it.
"Believe it or not, I'm going to the mall," she announced, her cheerful voice both startling and yet completely believable. "Maggie and I can't believe the Christmas season is really starting unless we partake of that madness, at least vicariously, so you've got the baby for the afternoon."
"I wanted to get some work done," Lars protested, reaching out for the child with welcoming arms despite his grumbling.
"It's the day after Thanksgiving. No one needs to work then."
"They do if they want to get the crèche ready by the first Sunday in Advent."
"You've got all of Saturday," she said. "Besides, you need Mary, Joseph and a donkey to start out with, right? You've already finished those."
"And an angel," he said morosely. "Don't forget the angel."
"Gabriel can do it. He's got the right name for it."
She wasn't looking at him, and he knew it was deliberate. He wasn't even surprised by her suggestion. If he questioned her she'd doubtless simply make a joke of it. But despite common sense, he knew there was a connection between the two of them, one she felt just as strongly as he did. The difference was, she didn't know what was behind it.
"You've got your choice, Gabriel," Lars said cheerfully, beaming down at his baby daughter. "You can hold the baby, or you can see what you can do for an angel. Carrie's right—we need one for Sunday morning. Mary, Joseph and the donkey start in the rear window of the church, heading toward Bethlehem. We need an angel waiting at the stable
over on top of the organ."
For a moment Gabriel didn't move, once again certain he'd stumbled into a group of religious fanatics at the very least, or perhaps one of those extremely weird cults. Neither Lars nor Carrie seemed the slightest bit fanatical about it, however, merely matter-of-fact and almost alarmingly cheerful about the whole thing.
"What will happen if you don't have the angel? Does God strike you dead, or something?" he drawled, his hand drifting toward the piece of wood that held the angel imprisoned inside.
"Nope," Carrie said. "We'll use our imagination. Or maybe dredge up the battered papier-mâché angel from the Sunday school crèche." Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his hands, and she took a sudden step toward him. "You've cut yourself," she said, putting her small, delicate hands over his.
He looked down at them, at her hands on top of his large, strong ones, and for a moment he said nothing, feeling the life flowing through her into him. "Just a scratch," he said, and indeed, the blood had stopped.
"Let me get you a bandage—"
Gently he removed his hands from her grasp, and she released him, stepping back. "It's fine," he said. "Go shopping, and I'll see what I can do about an angel."
It was the wrong thing to say. Her eyes lit up, and she looked like a child who'd been given a new pony for Christmas. He didn't want to bring her that much joy. He wanted to save her life, right whatever wrongs he'd done her, and then leave her to some other man to live happily ever after with. Didn't he? His eyes met hers, and something danced between them, a current of feeling with a life all its own. He wanted to pull back, needed to pull back, and yet he couldn't. All he could do was stand there, watching her.
Carrie hadn't moved, staring at him, entranced. "Get a move on, girlie," Lars boomed, and the baby in his arms jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. "If you and Maggie intend to buy anything more than sore feet and a headache, you'd better get started. Let's leave the man in peace and see what he can come up with. This little girl needs changing, I need some coffee and doughnuts."
The moment passed almost as if that thread of silent communication had never happened. "We won't be too long," Carrie said, backing away, her eyes still lingering.
"Promises, promises," Lars grumbled cheerfully. "We'll probably see you a few hours before Saint Lucia's Day."
"That's part of why we're going. You know who the oldest girl is this year," Carrie said, her attention finally off Gabriel.
He could feel some of the tension ease from him. As long as she watched him, concentrated on him, he felt intensely, painfully alive. He preferred the dull cocoon of life he'd been existing in. Except it hadn't been life, had it?
"What's Saint Lucia's Day?" he asked anyway, knowing it would bring her eyes, her attention back to him, unable to resist.
"You don't know Saint Lucia? Then again, I don't suppose she's much of a Catholic saint. The Scandinavians have pretty much taken her over," Carrie said.
For a moment he was about to deny his implied Catholic heritage, then wisely closed his mouth. He was Gabriel Falconi from the North End of Boston. He couldn't be anything but Catholic.
"We've got a lot of saints," he muttered. "I always liked Saint Jude."
"Patron of lost causes? The people in Angel Falls know a lot about that," Lars said. "You'll like Saint Lucia's Day, Gabriel. The oldest girl gets to wear a crown of candles and a white dress and serve cake to everyone."
"It doesn't sound like much of a holiday to me," he drawled.
"Wait till you taste the cakes." Lars patted his own estimable stomach beneath the comfortable burden of the baby. "You're going to have the best Christmas season of your life."
Gabriel glanced over at Carrie. "I have no doubt of that whatsoever," he said evenly.
And Carrie blushed.
Maggie slid back in the passenger seat of Carrie's old car, closing her eyes for a moment. "I shouldn't be doing this," she said. "I'm behind on the laundry, Nils needs help with his algebra, Lars needs to work on the crèche, not watch the baby."
"You can't take care of all the people all the time," Carrie said in her most reasonable tone of voice.
Maggie turned her head and looked at her, a faint ghost of amusement in her weary eyes. "You might listen to your own advice. You're running yourself ragged."
"Oh, a perfect saint I am," she mocked, uncomfortable. "You know perfectly well I don't have half the demands on my life that you have."
"You only wish you did."
The image of baby Carrie hit her hard, sneaking up on her as it did so often. "Well, I don't. And won't, for that matter. I told you, I'm not cut out for a family and kids. Look on the bright side, Maggie. I can come and get my baby-longing taken care of by a good solid dose of your kids, and it gives you a break at the same time. It works out very well for both of us."
"Not that well for you. I just wish…"
"I just wish we didn't have to talk about it," Carrie said firmly. "It's the beginning of the Christmas season. Let's think about what we can afford to buy."
"Not much," Maggie said in her gloomiest voice.
"What is this, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas? We can always come up with enough for a sack of peppermints, and what could be more Christmassy? I think our finances can spread to some new hair ribbons for Kirsten, maybe even some gold stars for her Saint Lucia crown. You were going to get some yarn for a new work sweater for Lars, one he can wear in the woods."
Wrong subject, Carrie thought, as Maggie's face crumpled in sudden grief. "I'm frightened, Carrie. So very frightened. The woods are dangerous, and you know as well as I do that Hunsicker runs a sloppy operation. If two of his men hadn't been injured there'd be no work for Lars."
It was an old worry, one that Carrie had tried to calm innumerable times. It was hard work, soothing Maggie's fears, when Carrie knew how reasonable they were.
"We just have to trust, Maggie. Too many bad things have happened in the past few years, since the mill closed down. It's only natural to expect more disasters to follow, but they're not going to. Lars is a careful worker, and he keeps his tools in top shape. He's not going to get hurt…"
"You're right," Maggie said abruptly. "Let's not talk about gloomy things. We can't do anything but get depressed, and Christmas isn't the time for depression. Let's talk about something more cheerful."
"Like what?" Carrie asked warily.
"Like Gabriel Falconi. Pretty cute, isn't he?"
"I wouldn't call him cute."
"What would you call him? Don't try to pretend you haven't noticed what a hunk he is. He's the best-looking thing I've seen since Lars."
"Maggie!" Carrie said in mock horror. "And here I thought you and Lars were the perfect couple."
"Don't try to mislead me. You've got your eye on him. I see a romance in your future."
"I don't have my eye on anyone. I'm not interested in romance, and well you know it." She could hear the strain in her voice, and her hopeless longing hung heavy in the air—there was no disguising it with her oldest friend.
"Whoever he was, Carrie, he's not worth spending the rest of your life as a nun," Maggie said sternly. "Gabriel is here, he's gorgeous, unattached, obviously heterosexual…"
"What makes you assume that?" Carrie gave in to her curiosity.
"I've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is looking."
It shouldn't hurt, Carrie thought distantly. It shouldn't feel like a spear in her belly, the ache spreading outward through her body in a white-hot heat. She'd shut off her feelings, her vulnerability, content to be a wise mother superior, spreading asexual kindness around her like alms for the poor. She'd told herself her heart was buried with the cold son of a bitch she'd fallen in love with in New York, and it worked best for her to believe it. But now, in the space of less than twenty-four hours, her life had been turned upside down again, and all by the dark-eyed gaze of a man who looked like a fallen angel.
"You're imagining it, " she said flatly.
"I am not. Every time you walk into the room the intensity level rises ten degrees. He—"
"We're going to end up either furious with each other or in tears by the time we reach the mall," Carrie interrupted. "Wanna talk about recipes?" She got in line behind a motorcade of shoppers heading into the newly built mall on the outskirts of Saint Luke, the closest thing to a city their area of Minnesota boasted.
For a moment Maggie didn't say a word. Then she reached out and put her work-worn hand on Carrie's. "I like to use a trace of cardamom in my sugar cookie recipe."
Carrie flashed her a grateful smile. "Cardamom's fine, if you don't use too heavy a hand."
"Then again, coriander adds a nice touch."
"I can never tell the difference. My heavens, a parking place!" Carrie gasped. "Do you suppose this is a sign from God?"
"To get a parking spot right near the entrance? Absolutely. We're going to have the best Christmas ever."
Gabriel set the half-finished angel down on the battered workbench and stared at it in wonder. It was late afternoon, and he'd been alone in Lars's shop for uncounted hours, stopping only when Lars would appear carrying apple pie and strong Scandinavian coffee. The first hour he'd sat alone, staring at the block of wood as he tried to figure out how to use the tiny chisels. The more he'd concentrated the more he'd fouled up. When Lars made his first appearance after putting the baby down for a nap, he hadn't said a word about the carving. He'd simply left the food, turned on the tiny radio and left.
Gabriel had drunk the coffee, devoured the pie with more appetite than he'd ever remembered, and listened to the music. Christmas music already, he told himself in disgust. And yet, as he listened to the music and thought about all the reasons he shouldn't be enjoying some new-age rendition of "Good King Wenceslas," his hands picked up the piece of cherry and began to work.
Each time he stopped to think about it his hands would become clumsy. He'd never been a slow learner, and obviously the part of him that was Gabriel Falconi was equally adept. If he thought about it he wouldn't know what he was doing. So he concentrated on the music, on the soothing, flowing sounds, and let his hands do the thinking for him.
