by Grace Green
‘My final decision had nothing to do with him—’
‘That’s arguable. But let’s suppose that’s the case. Even so, you’re going to feel isolated in Rockfield, after Boston. Look, Steph,’ he swept back his hair with an impatient gesture, ‘let’s talk this over. Have dinner with me tonight—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her face was pale, her luminous pine green eyes enormous. She had never looked so beautiful—nor had she ever looked so fragile and vulnerable.
Remorse stabbed him. ‘No.’ His voice was gravelly. ‘I’m the one who should be sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For putting pressure on you—for trying to make you do something you don’t want to do.’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to have dinner with you—’
‘I wasn’t referring to the dinner.’ His eyes darkened. ‘I meant...I’m sorry for trying to persuade you to stay. It was selfish of me. I’ll... miss having you around.’
‘You shouldn’t be saying things like that to me.’ If anything, her face had become paler. ‘Dinner... or staying...I can’t do either. It’s best I go. There’s no point in becoming any more involved with you than I already am. Under the circumstances.’
‘Circumstances?’
‘You know what I mean. There’s no point in prolonging this...’ Her voice trailed away weakly.
‘This what?’ he persisted, and cursed himself again for putting her under more stress.
This...whatever there is between us.’
‘Relationship?’
‘No.’ Her cynical laugh was in itself a denial of his suggestion. ‘We don’t have a relationship. In order to have that, two people have to trust. They have to open up, to give of themselves, tell all their secrets—’
He retorted, with an edge of flippancy, ‘I know a whole lot about you, Miss Redford!’
He knew by the expression in her eyes that she had noted his attempt at humor, but was not about to allow him that protective shield.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you do, but I know next to nothing about you. Oh, I know you were once married—but you gave me the information under duress. I know, too, that your wife was pregnant when she died—’ he flinched ‘—but that was something you didn’t care to mention to me. I’ve talked to you about my home and my family but I know nothing about yours. You know I love Christmas...and I accept your right to hate it, but you haven’t offered to tell me why you do. You’ve told me you’ll never remarry, but your reasons remain known only to you. A relationship? I don’t think so. What we have here is a one-way street—’
‘Oh, sorry.’ Joyce’s voice came breathlessly from behind. ‘I didn’t realize you were with someone—’
Stephanie had forgotten all about her assistant, who had been doing some chores in the back room. She turned now, and said, ‘It’s okay, Joyce. Have you finished?’
‘Yes, just finished. Hi, Mr. McAllister! Lovely day, isn’t it? Steph, I’m going out for lunch. I’ll be back in half an hour.’ She swept across the store, and the bell pinged behind her as she left.
Stephanie exhaled wearily. ‘Look, I have to be out of here the day after tomorrow, and I still have a lot to do—’
‘You want a two-way street? I’ll give you a two-way street.’ McAllister’s voice was harsh. ‘You want to know about Ashley? I married her because she was—’
‘Please don’t, it’s—’
‘Pregnant’ He barreled right on. ‘We’d been seeing each other for over a year, with no strings on either side. She was a fashion designer with a brilliant career ahead of her, and her focus was on that career, which was fine with me, as I wasn’t looking for a wife. She’d been on the pill, but something went wrong—she blamed a flu that had made her violently sick. At any rate we were both appalled when we found out we were to have a child. But though marriage had never figured in our plans, we decided—for Felicia’s sake—to tie the knot.’
Stephanie leaned back against the counter to support herself as she digested this unasked-for barrage of information. After a moment, she said, ‘Felicia?’
‘Ashley’s mother. Felicia Cabot was in her seventies, and terribly frail after two heart attacks. She was... of the old school... and neither of us wanted to hurt her.’
‘So you and Ashley weren’t...in love?’
‘We respected each other,’ he said slowly, after a moment’s thought to search out the best way to explain. ‘We gave each other space. And we liked each other. Very much. But in love?’ He shook his head. ‘I certainly wasn’t, and I’m not sure Ashley had it in her to give herself totally to any man. Her burning passion was her work, and she herself was like a dazzling flame—I used to wonder if she was afraid to slow down, in case the flame flickered, because if it did, she’d have had to accept that there were shadows, and Ashley was a golden girl. She didn’t like shadows.’
‘Were you close?’
‘As close as two people can be, when one is afraid of shadows, and the other lives in the dark.’
He couldn’t believe he had just said that. What did this woman do to him, that he could reveal something so intensely personal about himself? He felt a tearing pain in his heart as memories crowded in on him, memories of his childhood, as far back as he could remember, and perhaps even farther, to that time when darkness had fallen over his soul... an ugly darkness that had never lifted.
She started toward him, her eyes brimming with concern, and compassion...and questions. He moved away, crossed to the window, turned his back on her deliberately. He balled his hands in his pockets, his stance rigid.
She came no closer. ‘Your oil painting,’ she said softly, hesitantly, ‘the one with the hovering eagle and the black valleys... when did you paint it?’
‘Five years ago.’ His voice was muffled.
Five years ago. Right after his wife and baby died. It was in the dullness of his tone; he had no need to say the words.
‘When I was at your place in Vermont,’ she murmured, ‘you told me you’d built your house there because of the scenery, for your painting, but...I didn’t see a studio...?’
He turned around. ‘I don’t paint anymore.’ His tone was absolutely flat.
What a waste of talent, she ached to say...but she could tell it was something he didn’t want to discuss.
There was an awkward pause. After a moment or two, he looked around restlessly. ‘Can you close up for a while? Go round to the park, take a stroll?’
After a brief hesitation, she said, ‘Okay, but it’ll have to be a quick one. I really do have a ton of stuff to do.’
Barclay Lake Park was just a short walk from the store.
On this lovely April day, young mothers pushed babies in strollers; retired couples sat talking on benches; and men played shuffleboard in an open area by the tennis courts. The grass was wet underfoot after a spring shower, so McAllister led Stephanie to a path that circled the lake.
She sensed he wanted to talk to her, so she walked in silence, waiting. He didn’t speak, till they were halfway around the lake. When he did, it was in a steady voice.
‘That year,’ he said, and he had no need to explain which year he was talking about, ‘I went up to Vermont in mid-December. I’d just finished a big project and needed a break. Ashley was too busy to come with me, but she said she’d drive up on the twenty-fourth so we could spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day together—’
‘You were going to celebrate Christmas?’ Stephanie stopped walking, and turned to look at him in surprise.
His skin looked too tightly stretched over his face. ‘I was going to try,’ he said. And taking her hand, gave it a tug and started her walking again. ‘It was strange...my initial shock on learning I was to become a father had begun...very gradually...to give way to a heady feeling of anticipation. A new life was on the way. I was going to have a child! I found myself drifting off into thoughts of how it would be—’
His voice caught, and Stephanie said quickly, ‘You don’t have to go
on if it’s too—’
‘Ashley phoned me, late on the evening of the twenty-third. She sounded tremendously excited...and happy. She told me the baby had begun to make fluttery movements, and she couldn’t wait to see me, so I could put my hand on her belly and feel the movements, too. I knew then that her feelings about the pregnancy-like my own—had done a complete turnaround.’
Emotion had thickened his words, and he cleared his throat, before going on. ‘We spoke for some time, we had one of the best talks we’d ever had, and before she hung up, I told her how much she had come to mean to me, and I wished her a safe trip the following day. The forecast was good and the roads were clear of fresh snow, so I wasn’t concerned about her making the journey alone. Ashley was an excellent driver.
‘On the way, she was involved in a freak accident. A couple of spaced-out teenagers had stolen a Cessna 172 from a local airport and they started buzzing the traffic on Route 89. They lost control and crashed into a transport rig. Eight vehicles were caught in the pileup. Ashley’s white Porsche was the one directly behind the rig.’
‘Oh, God.’ At some point while he’d been talking, he’d dropped her hand. Now Stephanie pressed it to her collarbone as she felt a choking sensation in her throat. ‘I remember reading about it. Ten people were killed.’
‘Ten adults...and an unborn baby. And when she heard the news of her daughter’s death, Felicia Cabot collapsed. She died in hospital next day. Christmas morning.’
An aura as impenetrable as a barbed-wire fence surrounded him. Stephanie clenched her hands into fists to stop herself from reaching out to him. ‘Your own family...did they help you through that rough time?’
‘I had no family.’ He had his back to the sun. His face was shadowed, but she could see his eyes clearly, and the expression in them chilled her. ‘My mother died of cancer when I was three, my father was an alcoholic, a foul-tempered washed-up boxer whose only interest in life was booze—and he was dead by that time. Dead but not, by God, forgotten.’ His lips moved in a travesty of a smile. ‘You wanted me to open up—no, don’t stop me. There’s more. You wanted to know about my home? It was a grungy little house in Seattle, on the wrong side of the tracks. My very first memory is of my mother screaming as my father beat her up. After her death, he started in on me. My childhood—’
Stephanie gave a little sob, and he broke off, his jaw grimly set.
‘Is that enough for you, Miss Redford? It’s not exactly the kind of stuff one brings up with a woman if one wants to enter into a meaningful relationship, is it! Especially when that woman is part of a family so warm and close they would make even the Waltons look dysfunctional!’
Stephanie closed her eyes, unable to bear the pain she saw in his. She knew now why this man avoided Christmas; and knowing, how could she ever ask him to share her joy in that season of wonder, when all it had ever brought him had been misery and death.
She could have him, she knew, if she were willing to settle for less. Less than her dreams. But her dreams were so much a part of her, and Christmas so much a part of those dreams, she couldn’t let them go. In any case, all he had ever offered her was an affair, and an affair was open-ended, like a plane ticket with no return date on it
She couldn’t live that way. She needed family, permanence, guarantees...
The agony she felt was like no agony she’d ever felt before.
“There’s something I want you to know,’ he said.
She opened her eyes, and felt the tears beading her lashes.
‘I’ve never talked about this before,’ he said. ‘Not to anyone.’
‘Surely Ashley knew you hated Christmas?’
‘She knew that, yes...but she didn’t know why.’
‘You didn’t tell her?’
‘As I said, I’ve never told anyone. Until you.’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘I wish—’
‘What do you wish?’
‘I wish things could have been different.’ She wiped away a tear, a tear she didn’t try to hide. ‘I wish...we...could have been different.’
He framed her face in his hands, and drifted his gaze over her features, slowly, with painstaking care...as if memorizing them for eternity...before his gaze locked with hers again.
‘If only wishing could make it so.’ His voice was sandpaper rough. ‘But I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. There’s more to having a relationship than just opening up—I think you know that now. It’s not that simple. It’s the secrets we don’t want to share, that make us the people we are. And sharing them doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t...unfortunately...change us.’
He pulled her close, held her close, for an endless bittersweet moment, before releasing her. ‘Goodbye, Stephanie Redford. I wish you luck in your new life.’
He walked away, and he didn’t look back. Not even once.
The cut he had made was a clean one, and she knew he was trying to be kind.
But his kindness was a two-edged sword. As it cut the cord between them, it also sliced her heart in two.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE weather changed on the last day of April. The temperature had dropped overnight, and when McAllister looked out his kitchen window in the morning, he saw a world that was gray. He decided its dismal mood matched his own.
He’d been late getting to bed, and then had had trouble falling asleep. When he’d finally drifted off, it had been to find himself smothering in dreams of silk. Brown glossy curls wound around his heart, cutting off his blood; soft silky lips provoked and tormented him, tantalizing him till he was a gibbering wraith. Waking up had been a relief.
Still he couldn’t dismiss her from his thoughts...
The shine, the spark was gone from her now. She’d lost her zest for living. He’d have noticed it, even if Marjorie Sutton hadn’t told him how worried Joyce was about her.
And did he have anything to do with that? Oh, God, yes, he knew he had. She didn’t want an affair, which was all he had to offer. She wanted it all: marriage, house with white picket fence, children. And a husband with whom she and those children could celebrate Christmas.
He’d give almost anything, anything in the world to see those eyes shine again, as they had when he’d dropped her off at Rockfield on Christmas Eve. But the one thing she wanted was the one thing he was unable to give.
Feeling sudden stifled, he leaned across the sink and threw open the window. The pure morning air immediately invaded the kitchen.
It held the unmistakable scent of snow.
When Stephanie got up, she found a note from Janey on the counter:
Flurries Are Forecast Wear A Warm Jacket Love J.
Thanks, Janey, she muttered, as she poured water into the coffeemaker. That’s all I need on moving day—snow!
She slumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs, elbows on the table, chin resting on cupped hands, as she waited for the coffee to drip. She couldn’t help thinking how she’d miss Janey. She was a real friend, always cheerful, always ready to lend a helping hand. Or give advice.
She smiled ruefully as she remembered how she’d ignored Janey’s warning not to drive her van to Rockfield without having it checked out. And she recalled how excited she’d been on Christmas Eve, when McAllister had driven her home.
She was going home again tomorrow, but this time, she felt no thrill of excitement. Of course she would enjoy seeing her family once she got there...but for the life of her, she couldn’t work up one single spark of enthusiasm.
With an unhappy sigh, she got up and crossed to the window. Throwing it open, she breathed in deeply to clear her head, cleanse her lungs.
There was a smell of snow in the air.
‘The moving van’s been at the Warmest Fuzzies all morning.’ Marjorie Sutton paused by the filing cabinet in her boss’s office. ‘Joyce says they expect to finish loading by noon, then as soon as she and that pretty Miss Redford wash the floors they’ll be gone, and—’
‘The Bellevue files, Mrs. Sutton!’ he sn
apped. ‘Are we going to have them today or tomorrow?’
‘Today, Mr. McAllister.’ She was not in the least put out by the belligerence of The McAllister’s tone. When she and Joyce had dined together last night, they’d agreed that since today was their very last chance to get Miss Redford and The McAllister together, the situation was desperate enough to require desperate measures.
Extricating the requested files, Marjorie clanged the metal door shut and walked sturdily across to The McAllister’s desk. He was sitting behind it on his swivel chair, his hands planted aggressively on his thighs, a scowl darkening his face. His eyes burned with a strange fire.
Marjorie slapped the files down in front of him. It’s not going to be the same around here, without Miss Redford. Of course, you’ll be glad to see her gone. You never did like those signs blinking from her window. Very annoying you found them, didn’t you—blinking all the time, the way they did—especially that Christmas message! Ah, well, she’ll soon be out of here and you’ll be happy. She’ll be happier, too, once she gets back to Rockfield. Joyce tells me Miss Redford’s just itchin’ to get married and have kids and—’ she crossed her fingers behind her back ‘—there’s an old flame up there with pots of money, just waiting to snap her up the minute she gets home. According to Joyce—’
The McAllister shoved back his chair and lurched to his feet. ‘That’s enough, Mrs. Sutton! I don’t know what’s gotten into you today but you forget yourself. This is a place of business, not some...some... marriage broker’s office!’ His face had become a violent shade of crimson she’d never seen before except in a Hawaiian sunset.
‘No, Mr. McAllister,’ she said soothingly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. McAllister. It’s certainly not that. Good heavens, don’t we all know that you’re not a suitable candidate for marriage, what with your dislike of Christmas, and all?’
Head in the air, she sailed out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once in her office, she dropped her lofty demeanor and scurried to the phone. Pressing the speed-dial button that connected her to the Warmest Fuzzies, she perched on the edge of her desk, and moments later, with a cautious eye on the connecting door, whispered excitedly into the mouthpiece, ‘Joyce, can you talk? Good. Now, remember what we discussed last night? She is? Oh, dear, you’ll just have to think of some way to keep her there a little longer. No, I don’t think it’ll be very much longer.’ She grinned, as she remembered the apoplectic color of The McAllister’s face. ‘He’s taken the bait, I’m sure of it.’ And mixing her metaphors blithely, she added, “The ball’s in your court now. Don’t drop it!’
