“A day or so. It stopped snowing about an hour ago. I heard a bulletin that said all the work crews are out. Power is the first thing that has to be restored. I’m fortunate in the sense that I have gas heat and a backup generator in case power goes out. When you live in the country these things are mandatory.”
“Do you think the phone is out in the big house on the hill?”
“If mine is out, so is theirs,” Marcus said quietly. “This is Christmas, you know.”
“I know,” Mo said, her eyes misting over.
“Eat!” Marcus said in the same authoritative tone he’d used the day before.
“My mother always puts marshmallow in her sweet potatoes. You might want to try that sometime. She sprinkles sesame seeds in her chopped broccoli. It gives it a whole different taste.” She held out her plate for a second helping of turkey.
“I like the taste as it is, but I’ll keep it in mind and give it a try someday.”
“No, you won’t. You shouldn’t say things unless you mean them. You strike me as a person who does things one way and is not open to anything but your own way. That’s okay, too, but you shouldn’t humor me. I happen to like marshmallows in my sweet potatoes and sesame seeds in my broccoli.”
“You don’t know me at all so why would you make such an assumption?”
“I know that you’re bossy. You’re used to getting things done your way. You ordered me to take a shower and get out of my wet clothes. You just now, a minute ago, ordered me to eat.”
“That was for your own good. You are opinionated, aren’t you?”
“Yep. I feel this need to tell you your long underwear scratches. You should use fabric softener in the final rinse water.”
Marcus banged his fist on the table. “Aha!” he roared. “That just goes to show how much you really know. Fabric softener does something to the fibers and when you sweat the material won’t absorb it. So there!”
“Makes sense. I merely said it would help the scratching. If you plan on climbing a mountain…I’m sorry. I talk too much sometimes. What do you have for dessert? Are we having coffee? Can I get it or would you rather I just sit here and eat.”
“You’re my guest. You sit and eat. We’re having plum pudding, and of course we’re having coffee. What kind of Christmas dinner do you think this is?” His voice was so huffy that Murphy got up, meandered over to Mo, and sat down by her chair.
“The kind of dinner where the vegetables come in frozen boil bags, the sweet potatoes in boxes, and the turkey stuffing in cellophane bags. I know for a fact that plum pudding can be bought frozen. I’m sure dessert will be just as delicious as the main course. Actually, I don’t know when anything tasted half as good. Most men can’t cook at all. At least the men I know.” She was babbling again. “You can call me Mo. Everyone else does, even my dad.”
“Don’t get sweet on my dog, either,” Marcus said, slopping the plum pudding onto a plate.
“I think your dog is sweet on me, Mr. Bishop. You should put that pudding in a little dessert dish. See, it spilled on the floor. I’ll clean it up for you.” She was half out of her chair when the iron command knifed through the air.
“Sit!” Mo lowered herself into her chair. Her eyes started to burn.
“I’m not a dog, Mr. Bishop. I only wanted to help. I’m sorry if my offer offended you. I don’t think I care for dessert or coffee.” Her voice was stiff, her shoulders stiff, too. She had to leave the table or she was going to burst into tears. What was wrong with her?
“I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’ve had to learn to do for myself. Spills were a problem for a while. I have it down pat now. I just wet a cloth and use the broom handle to move it around. It took me a while to figure it out. You’re right about the frozen stuff. I haven’t had many guests lately to impress. And you can call me Marcus.”
“Were you trying to impress me? How sweet, Marcus. I accept your apology and please accept mine. Let’s pretend I stopped by to wish you a Merry Christmas and got caught in the snowstorm. Because you’re a nice man, you offered me your hospitality. See, we’ve established that you’re a nice man and I want you to take my word for it that I’m a nice person. Your dog likes me. That has to count.”
Marcus chuckled. “Well said.”
Mo cupped her chin in her hands. “This is a charming little house. I bet you get the sun all day long. Sun’s important. When the sun’s out you just naturally feel better, don’t you think? Do you have flowers in the spring and summer?”
“You name it, I’ve got it. Murphy digs up the bulbs sometimes. You should see the tulips in the spring. I spent a lot of time outdoors last spring after my accident. I didn’t want to come in the house because that meant I was cooped up. I’m an engineer by profession so I came up with some long-handled tools that allowed me to garden. We pretty much look like a rainbow around April and May. If you’re driving this way around that time, stop and see for yourself.”
“I’d like that. I’m almost afraid to ask this, but I’m going to ask anyway. Will it offend you if I clean up and do the dishes?”
“Hell, no! I hate doing dishes. I use paper plates whenever possible. Murphy eats off paper plates, too.”
Mo burst out laughing. Murphy’s tail thumped on the floor.
Mo filled the sink with hot, soapy water. Marcus handed her the plates. They were finished in twenty minutes.
“How about a Christmas drink? I have some really good wine. Christmas will be over before you know it.”
“This is good wine,” Mo said.
“I don’t believe it. You mean you can’t find anything wrong with it?” There was a chuckle in Marcus’s voice so Mo didn’t take offense. “What do you do for a living, Morgan Ames?”
“I’m an architect. I design shopping malls—big ones, small ones, strip malls. My biggest ambition is to have someone hire me to design a bridge. I don’t know what it is, but I have this…this thing about bridges. I work for a firm, but I’m thinking about going out on my own next year. It’s a scary thought, but if I’m going to do it, now is the time. I don’t know why I feel that way, I just do. Do you work here at home or at an office?”
“Ninety percent at home, ten percent at the office. I have a specially equipped van. I can’t get up on girders, obviously. I have several employees who are my legs. It’s another way of saying I manage very well.”
“It occurs to me to wonder, Marcus, where you slept last night. I didn’t realize until a short while ago that there’s only one bedroom.”
“Here on the couch. It wasn’t a problem. As you can see, it’s quite wide and deep—the cushions are extra thick.
“So, what do you think of my tree?” he asked proudly.
“I love the bottom half. I even like the top half. The scent is so heady. I’ve always loved Christmas. It must be the kid in me. My mother said I used to make myself sick on Christmas Eve because I couldn’t wait for Santa.” She wanted to stand by the tree and pretend she was home waiting for Keith to show up and put the ring on her finger, wanted it so bad she could feel the prick of tears. It wasn’t going to happen. Still, she felt driven to stand in front of the tree and…pretend. She fought the burning behind her eyelids by rubbing them and pretending it was the wood smoke from the fireplace that was causing the stinging. Then she remembered the fireplace held gas logs.
“Me, too. I was always so sure he was going to miss our chimney or his sleigh would break down. I was so damn good during the month of December my dad called me a saint. I have some very nice childhood memories. Are you okay? Is something wrong? You look like you lost your last friend suddenly. I’m a good listener if you want to talk.”
Did she? She looked around at the peaceful cottage, the man in the wheelchair, and the dog sitting at his feet. She belonged in a scene like this one. The only problem was, the occupants were all wrong. She was never going to see this man again, so why not talk to him? Maybe he’d give her some male input where Keith was concerned. If he offe
red advice, she could take it or ignore it. She nodded, and held out her wineglass for a refill.
It wasn’t until she was finished with her sad tale that she realized she was still standing in front of the Christmas tree. She sat down with a thump, knowing full well she’d had too much wine. She wanted to cry again when she saw the helpless look on Marcus’s face. “So, everyone is entitled to make a fool of themselves at least once in their life. This is…was my time.” She held out her glass again, but had to wait while Marcus uncorked a fresh bottle of wine. She thought his movements sluggish. Maybe he wasn’t used to so much wine. “I don’t think I’d make a very good drunk. I never had this much wine in my whole life.”
“Me either.” The wine sloshed over the side of the glass. Murphy licked it up.
“I don’t want to get sick. Keith used to drink too much and get sick. It made me sick just watching him. That’s sad, isn’t it?”
“I never could stand a man who couldn’t hold his liquor,” Marcus said.
“You sound funny,” Mo said as she realized her voice was taking on a sing-song quality.
“You sound like you’re getting ready to sing. Are you? I hope you aren’t one of those off-key singers.” He leered down at her from the chair.
“So what if I am? Isn’t singing good for the soul or something? It’s the feeling, the thought. You said we were going to sing carols for Murphy. Why aren’t we doing that?”
“Because you aren’t ready,” Marcus said smartly. He lowered the footrests and slid out of the chair. “We need to sit together in front of the tree. Sitting is as good as standing…I think. C’mere, Murphy, you belong to this group.”
“Sitting is good.” Mo hiccupped. Marcus thumped her on the back and then kept his arm around her shoulder. Murphy wiggled around until he was on both their laps.
“Just what exactly is wrong with you? Or is that impolite of me to…ask?” She swigged from the bottle Marcus handed her. “This is good—who needs a glass?”
“I hate doing dishes. The bottle is good. What was the question?”
“Huh?”
“What was the question?”
“The question is…was…do all your parts…work?”
“That wasn’t the question. I’d remember if that was the question. Why do you want to know if my…parts work? Do you find yourself attracted to me? Or is this a sneaky way to try and get my dog? Get your own damn dog. And my parts work just fine.”
“You sound defensive. When was the last time you tried them out…what I mean is…how do you know?” Mo asked craftily.
“I know! Are you planning on taking advantage of me? I might allow it. Then again, I might not.”
“You’re drunk,” Mo said.
“Yep, and it’s all your fault. You’re drunk, too.”
“What’d you expect? You keep filling my glass. You know what, I don’t care. Do you care, Marcus?”
“Nope. So, what are you going to do about that jerk who’s waiting by your Christmas tree? Christmas is almost over. D’ya think he’s still waiting?”
Mo started to cry. Murphy wiggled around and licked at her tears. She shook her head.
“Don’t cry. That jerk isn’t worth your little finger. Murphy wouldn’t like him. Dogs are keen judges of character.”
“Keith doesn’t like dogs.”
Marcus threw his hands in the air. “There you go! I rest my case.” His voice sounded so dramatic, Mo started to giggle.
It wasn’t much in the way of a kiss because she was giggling, Murphy was in the way, and Marcus’s position and clumsy hands couldn’t seem to coordinate with her. “That was sweet,” Mo said.
“Sweet! Sweet!” Marcus bellowed in mock outrage.
“Nice?”
“Nice is better than sweet. No one ever said that to me before.”
“How many were there…before?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s true, it isn’t any of my business. Let’s sing. ‘Jingle Bells.’ We’re both too snookered to know the words to anything else. How many hours till Christmas is over?”
Marcus peered at his watch. “A few.” He kissed her again, his hands less clumsy. Murphy cooperated by wiggling off both their laps.
“I liked that!”
“And well you should. You’re very pretty, Mo. That’s an awful name for a girl. I like Morgan, though. I’ll call you Morgan.”
“My father wanted a boy. He got me. It’s sad. Do you know how many times I used that phrase in the past few hours? A lot.” Her head bobbed up and down for no good reason. “Jingle Bells…” Marcus joined in, his voice as off-key as hers. They collapsed against each other, laughing like lunatics.
“Tell me about you. Do you have any more wine?”
Marcus pointed to the wine rack in the kitchen. Mo struggled to her feet, tottered to the kitchen, uncorked the bottle, and carried it back to the living room. “I didn’t see any munchies in the kitchen so I brought us each a turkey leg.”
“I like a woman who thinks ahead.” He gnawed on the leg, his eyes assessing the girl next to him. He wasn’t the least bit drunk, but he was pretending he was. Why? She was pretty, and she was nice. So what if she had a few hangups. She liked him, too, he could tell. The chair didn’t intimidate her the way it did other women. She was feisty, with a mind of her own. She’d been willing to share her private agonies with him, a stranger. Murphy liked her. He liked her, too. Hell, he’d given up his room to her. Now, she was staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to talk about himself. What to tell her? What to gloss over? Why couldn’t he be as open as she was?
“I’m thirty-five. I own and manage the family engineering firm. I have good job security and a great pension plan. I own this little house outright. No mortgages. I love dogs and horses. I even like cats. I’ve almost grown accustomed to this chair. I am self-sufficient. I treat my elders with respect. I was a hell of a Boy Scout, got lots of medals to prove it. I used to ski. I go to church, not a lot, but I do go. I believe in God. I don’t have any…sisters or brothers. I try not to think too far ahead and I do my best not to look back. That’s not to say I don’t think and plan for the future, but in my position, I take it one day at a time. That pretty much sums it up as far as my life goes.”
“It sounds like a good life. I think you’ll manage just fine. We all have to make concessions…the chair…it’s not the end of the world. I can tell you don’t like talking about it, so, let’s talk about something else.”
“How would you feel if you went home this Christmas Eve and there in your living room was Keith in a wheelchair? What if he told you the reason he hadn’t been in touch was because he didn’t want to see pity in your eyes. How would you feel if he told you he wasn’t going to walk again? What if he said you might eventually be the sole support?” He waited for her to digest the questions, aware that her intoxicated state might interfere with her answers.
“You shouldn’t ask me something like that in my…condition. I’m not thinking real clear. I want to sing some more. I didn’t sing last year because I was too sad. Are you asking about this year or last year?”
“What difference does it make?” Marcus asked coolly.
“It makes a difference. Last year I would have…would have…said it didn’t matter because I loved him…. Do all his parts…work?”
“I don’t know. This is hypothetical.” Marcus turned to hide his smile.
“I wouldn’t pity him. Maybe I would at first. Keith is very active. I could handle it, but Keith couldn’t. He’d get depressed and give up. What was that other part?”
“Supporting him.”
“Oh, yeah. I could do that. I have a profession, good health insurance. I might start up my own business. I’ll probably make more money than he ever did. Knowing Keith, I think he would resent me after awhile. Maybe he wouldn’t. I’d try harder and harder to make it all work because that’s the way I am. I’m not a quitter. I never was. Why do you want to know all this?”<
br />
Marcus shrugged. “Insight, maybe. In case I ever find myself attracted to a woman, it would be good to know how she’d react. You surprised me—you didn’t react to the chair.”
“I’m not in love with you,” Mo said sourly.
“What’s wrong with me?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you. I’m not that drunk that I don’t know what you’re saying. I’m in love with someone else. I don’t care about that chair. That chair wouldn’t bother me at all if I loved you. You said your parts work. Or, was that a lie? I like sex. Sex is wonderful when two people…you know…I like it!”
“Guess what? I do, too.”
“You see, it’s not a problem at all,” Mo said happily. “Maybe I should just lie down on the couch and go to sleep.”
“You didn’t answer the second part of my question.”
“Which was?”
“What if you had made it home this Christmas and the same scenario happened. After two long years. What would be your feeling?”
“I don’t know. Keith whines. Did I tell you that? It’s not manly at all.”
“Really.”
“Yep. I have to go to the bathroom. Do you want me to get you anything on my way back? I’ll be on my feet. I take these feet for granted. They get me places. I love shoes. Well, what’s your answer? Remember, you don’t have any munchies. Why is that?”
“I have Orville Redenbacher popcorn. The colored kind. Very festive.”
“No! You’re turning into a barrel of fun, Marcus Bishop. You were a bossy, domineering person when I arrived through your doggie door. Look at you now! You’re skunked, you ate a turkey leg, and now you tell me you have colored popcorn. I’ll be right back unless I get sick. Maybe we should have coffee with our popcorn. God, I can’t wait for this day to be over.”
“Follow her, Murph. If she gets sick, come and get me,” Marcus said. “You know,” he said, making a gagging sound. The retriever sprinted down the hall.
I'll Be Home for Christmas Page 11
