Everything worked out just the way her mother said it would.
The April showers gave way to May flowers. June sailed in with warm temperatures and bright sunshine. The only flaw in Mo’s life was the lack of communication where Marcus was concerned.
Shortly after the Fourth of July, Mo piled Murphy into the Cherokee on a bright sunshiny Sunday and headed for Cherry Hill. “Something’s wrong—I just feel it,” she muttered to the dog all the way up the New Jersey Turnpike.
Murphy was ecstatic when the Jeep came to a stop outside his old home. He raced around the side of the house, barking and growling, before he slithered through his doggie door. On the other side, he continued to bark and then he howled. With all the doors locked, Mo had no choice but to go in the same way she’d gone through on Christmas Eve.
Inside, things were neat and tidy, but there was a thick layer of dust over everything. Obviously Marcus had not been here for a very long time.
“I don’t even know what hospital he went to. Where is he, Murphy? He wouldn’t give you up, even to me. I know he wouldn’t.” She wondered if she had the right to go through Marcus’s desk. Out of concern. She sat down and thought about her birthday. She’d been so certain that he’d send a card, one of those silly cards that left the real meaning up in the air, but her birthday had gone by without any kind of acknowledgment from him.
“Maybe he did give you up, Murphy. I guess he isn’t interested in me.” She choked back a sob as she buried her head in the retriever’s silky fur. “Okay, come on, time to leave. I know you want to stay and wait, but we can’t. We’ll come back again. We’ll come back as often as we have to. That’s a promise, Murphy.”
On the way back to her house, Mo passed her old office and was surprised to see that it had been turned into a Korean vegetable stand. She’d known Miss Oliver had subleased it with the rent going directly to the management company, but that was all she knew.
“Life goes on, Murphy. What’s that old saying, time waits for no man? Something like that anyway.”
Summer moved into autumn and before Mo knew it, her parents had sold their house and rented a condo on the outskirts of Wilmington. Her father worked full-time in her office while her mother joined every woman’s group in the state of Delaware. It was the best of all solutions.
Thanksgiving was spent in her parents’ condo with her mother doing all the cooking. The day was uneventful, with both Mo and her father falling asleep in the living room after dinner. Later, when she was attaching Murphy’s leash, her mother said, quite forcefully, “You two need to get some help in that office. I’m appointing myself your new secretary and first thing Monday morning you’re going to start accepting applications for associates. It’s almost Christmas and none of us has done any shopping. It’s the most wonderful time of the year and last year convinced us that…time is precious. We all need to enjoy life more. Dad and I are going to take a trip the day after Christmas. We’re going to drive to Florida. I don’t want to hear a word, John. And you, Mo, when was the last time you had a vacation? You can’t even remember. Well, we’re closing your office on the twentieth of December and we aren’t reopening until January second. That’s the final word. If your clients object, let them go somewhere else.”
“Okay, Mom,” Mo said meekly.
“As usual, you’re right, Helen,” John said just as meekly.
“I knew you two would see it my way. We’re going to take up golf when we get to Florida.”
“Helen, for God’s sake. I hate golf. I refuse to hit a silly little ball with a stick and there’s no way I’m going to wear plaid pants and one of those damn hats with a pom-pom on it.”
“We’ll see,” Helen sniffed.
“On that thought, I’ll leave you.”
At home, curled up in bed with Murphy alongside her, Mo turned on the television that would eventually lull her to sleep. She felt wired up, antsy for some reason. Here it was, almost Christmas, and Marcus Bishop was still absent from her life. She thought about the many times she’d called Bishop Engineering, only to be told Mr. Bishop was out of town and couldn’t be reached. “The hell with you, Mr. Marcus Bishop. You gotta be a real low-life to stick me with your dog and then forget about him. What kind of man does that make you? What was all that talk about loving him? He misses you.” Damn, she was losing it. She had to stop talking to herself or she was going to go over the edge.
Sensing her mood, Murphy snuggled closer. He licked at her cheeks, pawed her chest. “Forget what I just said, Murphy. Marcus loves you—I know he does. He didn’t forget you, either. I think, and this is just my own opinion, but I think something went wrong with his operation and he’s recovering somewhere. I think he was just saying words when he said he was used to the chair and it didn’t bother him. It does. What if they ended up cutting off his legs? Oh, God,” she wailed. Murphy growled, the hair on the back of his head standing on end. “Ignore that, too, Murphy. No such thing happened. I’d feel something like that.”
She slept because she was weary and because when she cried she found it difficult to keep her eyes open.
“What are you going to do, honey?” Helen Ames asked as Mo closed the door to the office.
“I’m going upstairs to the kitchen and make a chocolate cake. Mom, it’s December twentieth. Five days till Christmas. Listen, I think you and Dad made the right decision to leave for Florida tomorrow. You both deserve sunshine for the holidays. Murphy and I will be fine. I might even take him to Cherry Hill so he can be home for Christmas. I feel like I should do that for him. Who knows, you guys might love Florida and want to retire there. There are worse things, Mom. Whatever you do, don’t make Dad wear those plaid pants. Promise me?”
“I promise. Tell me again, Mo, that you don’t mind spending Christmas alone with the dog.”
“Mom, I really and truly don’t mind. We’ve all been like accidents waiting to happen. This is a good chance for me to laze around and do nothing. You know I was never big on New Year’s. Go, Mom. Call me when you get there and if I’m not home, leave a message. Drive carefully, stop often.”
“Good night, Mo.”
“Have a good trip, Mom.”
On the morning of the twenty-third of December, Mo woke early, let Murphy out, made herself some bacon and eggs, and wolfed it all down. During the night she’d had a dream that she’d gone to Cherry Hill, bought a Christmas tree, decorated it, cooked a big dinner for her and Murphy, and…then she’d awakened. Well, she was going to live the dream.
“Wanna go home, big guy? Get your stuff together. We’re gonna get a tree, and do the whole nine yards. Tomorrow it will be a full year since I met you. We need to celebrate.”
A little after the noon hour, Mo found herself dragging a Douglas fir onto Marcus’s back patio. As before, she crawled through the doggie door after the dog and walked through the kitchen to the patio door. It took her another hour to locate the box of Christmas decorations. With the fireplaces going, the cottage warmed almost immediately.
The wreath with the giant red bow went on the front door. Back inside, she added the lights to the tree and put all the colorful decorations on the branches. On her hands and knees, she pushed the tree stand gently until she had it perfectly arranged in the corner. It was heavenly, she thought sadly as she placed the colorful poinsettias around the hearth. The only thing missing was Marcus.
Mo spent the rest of the day cleaning and polishing. When she finished her chores, she baked a cake and prepared a quick poor man’s stew with hamburger meat.
Mo slept on the couch because she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in Marcus’s bed.
Christmas Eve dawned, gray and overcast. It felt like snow, but the weatherman said there would be no white Christmas this year.
Dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a warm flannel shirt, Mo started the preparations for Christmas Eve dinner. The house was redolent with the sme
ll of frying onions, the scent of the tree, and the gingerbread cookies baking in the oven. She felt almost light-headed when she looked at the tree with the pile of presents underneath, presents her mother had warned her not to open, presents for Murphy, and a present for Marcus. She would leave it behind when they left after New Year’s.
At one o’clock, Mo slid the turkey into the oven. Her plum pudding, made from scratch, was cooling on the counter. The sweet potatoes and marshmallows sat alongside the pudding. A shaker of sesame seeds and the broccoli were ready to be cooked when the turkey came out of the oven. She took one last look around the kitchen, and at the table she’d set for one, before she retired to the living room to watch television.
Murphy leaped from the couch, the hair on his back stiff. He growled and started to pace the room, racing back and forth. Alarmed, Mo got off the couch to look out the window. There was nothing to see but the barren trees around the house. She switched on more lights, even those on the tree. As a precaution against what, she didn’t know. She locked all the doors and windows. Murphy continued to growl and pace. Then the low, deep growls were replaced with high-pitched whines, but he made no move to go out his doggie door. Mo closed the drapes and turned the floodlights on outside. She could feel herself start to tense up. Should she call the police? What would she say? My dog’s acting strange? Damn.
Murphy’s cries and whines were so eerie she started to come unglued. Perhaps he wasn’t one of those dogs that were trained to protect owner, hearth, and home. Since she’d had him he’d never been put to the test. To her, he was just a big animal who loved unconditionally.
In a moment of blind panic she rushed around the small cottage checking the inside dead bolts. The doors were stout, solid. She didn’t feel one bit better.
The racket outside was worse and it all seemed to be coming from the kitchen area. She armed herself with a carving knife in one hand and a cast iron skillet in the other. Murphy continued to pace and whine. She eyed the doggie door warily, knowing the retriever was itching to use it, but he’d understood her iron command of No.
She waited.
When she saw the doorknob turn, she wondered if she would have time to run out the front door and into her Cherokee. She was afraid to chance it, afraid Murphy would bolt once he was outside.
She froze when she saw the thick vinyl strips move on the doggie door. Murphy saw it, too, and let out an ear-piercing howl. Mo sidestepped to the left of the opening, skillet held at shoulder height, the carving knife in much the same position.
She saw his head and part of one shoulder. “Marcus! What are you doing coming in Murphy’s door?” Her shoulders sagged with relief.
“All the goddamn doors are locked and bolted. I’m stuck. What the hell are you doing here in my house? With my dog yet.”
“I brought him home for Christmas. He missed you. I thought…you could have called, Marcus, or sent a card. I swear to God, I thought you died on the operating table and no one at your company wanted to tell me. One lousy card, Marcus. I had to move out of my apartment because they don’t allow animals. I gave up my office. For your dog. Well, here he is. I’m leaving and guess what—I don’t give one little shit if you’re stuck in that door or not. You damn well took almost a year out of my life. That’s not fair and it’s not right. You have no excuse and even if you do, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Open the goddamn door! Now!”
“Up yours, Marcus Bishop!”
“Listen, we’re two reasonably intelligent adults. Let’s discuss this rationally. There’s an answer for everything.”
“Have a Merry Christmas. Dinner is in the oven. Your tree is in the living room, all decorated, and there’s a wreath on the front door. Your dog is right here. I guess that about covers it.”
“You can’t leave me stuck like this.”
“You wanna bet? Toy with my affections, will you? Not likely. Stick me with your dog! You’re a bigger jerk than Keith ever was. And I fell for your line of bullshit! I guess I’m the stupid one.”
“Morgannnn!”
Mo slammed her way through the house to the front door. Murphy howled. She stooped down. “I’m sorry. You belong with him. I do love you—you’re a wonderful companion and friend. I won’t ever forget how you saved my life. From time to time I’ll send you some steaks. You take care of that…that big boob, you hear?” She hugged the dog so hard he barked.
She was struggling with the garage door when she felt herself being pulled backward. To her left she heard Murphy bark ominously.
“You’re going to listen to me whether you like it or not. Look at me when I talk to you,” Marcus Bishop said as he whirled her around.
Her anger and hostility dropped away. “Marcus, you’re on your feet! You can walk! That’s wonderful!” The anger came back as swiftly as it had disappeared. “It still doesn’t excuse your silence for nine whole months.”
“Look, I sent cards and flowers. I wrote you letters. How in the damn hell was I supposed to know you moved?”
“You didn’t even tell me what hospital you were going to. I tried calling till I was blue in the face. Your office wouldn’t tell me anything. Furthermore, the post office, for a dollar, will tell you what my new address is. Did you ever think of that?”
“No. I thought you…well, what I thought was…you’d absconded with my dog. I lost the card you gave me. I got discouraged when I heard you’d moved. I’m sorry. I’m willing to take all the blame. I had this grand dream that I was going to walk into your parents’ house on Christmas Eve and stand by your tree with you. My operation wasn’t the walk in the park the surgeon more or less promised. I had to have a second one. The therapy was so intensive it blew my mind. I’m not whining here, I’m trying to explain. That’s all I have to say. If you want to keep Murphy, it’s okay. I had no idea…he loves you. Hell, I love you.”
“You do?”
“Damn straight I do. You’re all I thought about during my recovery. It was what kept me going. I even went by that Korean grocery store today and guess what? Take a look at this!” He held out a stack of cards and envelopes. “It seems they can’t read English. They were waiting for you to come and pick up the mail. They said they liked the flowers I sent from time to time.”
“Really, Marcus!” She reached out to accept the stack of mail. “How’d you get out of that doggie door?” she asked suspiciously.
Marcus snorted. “Murphy pushed me out. Can we go into the house now and talk like two civilized people who love each other?”
“I didn’t say I loved you.”
“Say it!” he roared.
“Okay, okay, I love you.”
“What else?”
“I believe you and I love your dog, too.”
“Are we going to live happily ever after even if I’m rich and handsome?”
“Oh, yes, but that doesn’t matter. I loved you when you were in the wheelchair. How are all your…parts?”
“Let’s find out.”
Murphy nudged both of them as he herded them toward the front door.
“I’m going to carry you over the threshold.”
“Oh, Marcus, really!”
“Sometimes you simply talk too much.” He kissed her as he’d never kissed her before.
“I like that. Do it again, and again, and again.”
He did.
The Christmas Stocking
Chapter One
Los Angeles, California
October, Two Months Before Christmas
It was a beautiful five-story building with clean lines, shimmering plate glass and a bright yellow door. A tribute to the architect who designed the building. An elongated piece of driftwood attached to the right of the door was painted the same shade of yellow. The plaque said it was the Sara Moss Building. The overall opinion of visitors and clients was that the building was impressive, which was the architect and owner’s intent.
The young sun was just creeping over the horizon when Gus Moss tucke
d his briefcase between his knees as he fished in his jeans pocket for the key that would unlock his pride and joy, the Sara Moss Building named after his mother.
Inside, Gus turned off the alarm, flicked light switches. He took a moment to look around the lobby of the building he’d designed when he was still in school studying architecture. He thanked God every day that he’d been able to show his mother the blueprints before she’d passed on. It was his mother’s idea to have live bamboo plants to match the green marble floors. It was also her idea to paint clouds and a blue sky on the ceiling. The fieldstone wall behind the shimmering mahogany desk was a must, she’d said. Fieldstones he’d brought to California from Fairfax, Virginia, in a U-Haul truck. There was nothing he could deny his mother because he was who he was because of her.
There was only one picture hanging in the lobby: Sara Moss standing next to a sixty-foot blue spruce Christmas tree that she had his father plant the day he was born. That tree was gone now from the Moss Christmas Tree Farm, donated to the White House by his father the same year his mother died. Over his objections.
He’d gone to Washington, DC, that year and took the Christmas tour so he could see the tree. He’d been so choked up he could hardly get the words out to one of the security detail. “Can you break off a branch from the back of the tree and give it to me?” For one wild moment he thought he was going to be arrested until he explained to the agent why he wanted the branch. He’d had to wait over two hours for one of the gardeners to arrive with a pair of clippers. He’d had a hard time not bawling his eyes out that day but he’d returned to California with the branch. Pressed between two panes of glass, it now hung on the wall over his drafting table. He looked at it a hundred times a day and it meant more to him than anything else in the world.
Gus stared at the picture of his mother the way he did every morning. As always, his eyes grew moist and his heart took on an extra beat. He offered up a snappy salute the way he’d always done when she was right about something and he was wrong. At this point in his daily routine, he never dawdled. He sprinted across the lobby to the elevator and rode to the fifth floor where he had his office so he could settle in for the day.
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