by Sarah Morgan
“Had a snowball fight?”
“We’ve never done anything like that before.”
“We’ve never had snow like this before.” Nick pulled off his boots. “Blue skies and sparkling snow bring out my inner child.”
She knew it was more than that.
When had they last had fun like that together? When had they last laughed hard at something?
Life had become a series of tasks to be completed, to-do lists to make, places to be.
“Did we embarrass our girls?”
“Probably, but isn’t that what parents are for?” He hung up his coat. “And it was no more embarrassing than you kissing me and talking second honeymoons.”
“That’s different. That was done for a purpose.” She handed him her jacket and pulled off her boots. The snow had seeped through every layer of clothing, and now her sweater and her thermal top stuck uncomfortably to her body. She tugged them away from her skin. “This was spontaneous. We behaved like children.”
“Maybe. Or maybe we behaved like adults without responsibilities. Which makes a nice change. I haven’t heard you laugh like that in a long time. Let me help you with that—” He reached out and pulled off her damp sweater, resisting its attempts to cling to her soaked arms.
And suddenly she was standing in front of him wearing nothing but her borrowed pair of ski pants and her bra.
The change in his expression reminded her that the bra was the one Catherine had chosen, the one she’d initially rejected for its decadent lace embellishments and general unsuitability for this stage of her life. She’d purchased it because it felt luxurious against her skin, and because she wasn’t a match for Catherine’s persuasive powers.
She hadn’t thought anyone but her would see it. Or perhaps, on some level she hadn’t examined her reasons too closely. It had been an act of defiance, a way of proving to herself that although her marriage might be dead, she wasn’t. That she should look at the miles ahead of her, not the mileage behind.
But she hadn’t intended to be standing in front of him wearing nothing but lace.
“I lost my suitcase—” It seemed imperative that she remind him of that fact, in case he was thinking she’d bought it to seduce him. Even as the thought went through her head, she dismissed it as ridiculous. You couldn’t seduce a man you’d been with for more than thirty years.
“Yes.” His voice was husky, his hands still on her arms. She felt the gentle drag of his thumbs as he warmed her chilled skin.
It had been so long since he’d touched her, since they’d stood like this connected by anything other than the shared life that lay behind them.
She stood still, hardly daring to breathe, hoping that he wouldn’t take his hands away and yet at the same time wanting him to because his touch confused her. The soft stroke of his fingers against her skin stirred feelings she’d thought were dead forever. As those feelings grew and spread and deepened, she felt a flutter of panic. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to know those feelings were still there, because where would that leave them?
Their separation had been mutual. They’d agreed that whatever they’d shared had burned itself out in the fires of life.
She’d believed it, and yet here she was remembering what it had been like to kiss him and curl her body into his in the dark of the night. She remembered everything that lay behind them, all the shared experiences and life events. Their marriage was like a library full of stories they’d written themselves. And they were about to tear that down.
She felt a moment of panic. Were they doing the right thing?
She had to believe they were. She couldn’t have doubts now. That would be unfair on him, and also on her. The decision was made. They needed to plow through it, and she needed to make what lay ahead as easy as possible to bear. Feelings would mean pain, and somehow she’d managed to keep herself numb.
Numb was good. Numb was easy.
His fingers had stopped moving but still he held her, his grip firm as if he was afraid to let go of what he was holding.
A strand of hair had fallen over his forehead. He looked rakish, and younger than his years. For a moment she saw the man she’d fallen in love with. The student who had been so wrapped up in his subject he’d barely known whether it was day or night. In those first few years he’d lived in college and she’d occasionally arrived at his rooms to find him unshaven with bloodshot eyes because he’d been reading all night.
She was the one who had forced him into the shower and then dragged him to breakfast in their favorite café, tucked away in one of the narrow cobbled side streets that were a feature of the ancient university city. He’d devoured bacon and eggs while telling her about his plans to join a dig that summer. He’d talked about pyramids and burial chambers, about gods and burial rituals. Right from the first moment they’d set eyes on each other in the Bodleian Library, she’d been captivated. She’d been taking refuge from a hot, sweaty summer. He’d been absorbed in research. She’d loved his passion, and she’d envied it.
She’d chosen to read English literature, because her parents had pushed her in that direction and she’d found no reason to argue. She enjoyed it, but not in a million years would she have described it as a passion.
Once they were married, her life had fallen into a pattern. She’d tended the girls, she’d tended Honeysuckle Cottage, she’d tended her garden. Somewhere along the way she’d forgotten to tend her marriage. She wasn’t a martyr. She didn’t take all the blame. Nick was at least half as responsible, but somehow that didn’t make her feel better. Their marriage hadn’t exploded or died a dramatic death; it had simply withered and died of neglect.
She felt a spasm of regret, but under the ache was an emotion far, far more dangerous.
She fought against the rebellious swirl of feelings that rose up inside her.
The only way seemed to be to remove herself, so she stepped back and scooped up her wet clothes. “I’ll take that shower before hypothermia sets in.”
He didn’t answer and when she glanced at him there was a tiny furrow between his brows as if he was trying to figure out what had just happened.
If he’d asked, she wouldn’t have been able to tell him.
Her heart had been as frozen as her skin, but his touch had thawed it and now all she felt was pain and more than a little confusion.
She locked the bathroom door, stripped off the last of her clothes and stepped under the hot water.
By the time she’d dried her hair and dressed, he’d made hot drinks and that brief moment of intimacy had passed.
“We had a delivery while you were in the shower.” His voice sounded so normal it made her wonder if the awkward moment earlier had all been in her imagination.
“What type of delivery? Please tell me it’s not a crate of champagne.”
“An envelope. It’s addressed to you—from Catherine.”
She took the envelope from him and opened it, smoothing the page. Would he notice that her hand wasn’t steady? “It’s an itinerary.”
“For what?”
Maggie sat down hard on the sofa. “This is awkward. Catherine has arranged some special activities for us.”
“Why is that awkward? It’s thoughtful. What sort of activities?”
She fiddled with the envelope. “Couples activities.” She didn’t look at him. “Romantic activities.” And then she was thinking of that moment again, the moment when his touch and breathing had altered.
Nick joined her on the sofa. “Why would she do that?”
“Apparently I told Dan this was a second honeymoon for us, and he passed that information on to her.” She looked at him. “Sorry.”
His eyes gleamed. “That’s what happens when you drink too much champagne.”
“That’s what happens when someone forces me onto a plane.” She flopped her head bac
k against the sofa. “How can one small modification of the truth create such a ripple effect? And I don’t want you to answer that. If you say ‘I told you so’ I’ll push more snow down your pants.”
“I would never say I told you so. That would make me smug. I have many faults, but I’m never smug. I have sympathy with human frailties.”
She lifted her head. “You’re saying I have frailties?”
“No, you’re perfect, apart from the occasional small modification of the truth. If the price we have to pay for that is a few shared activities, I can live with that.”
But could she? Acting a part in public was one thing, but actual togetherness was something different. After what had happened earlier she needed a little distance, not closeness. “What do we do?”
“We can’t offend her when she has been so generous with her hospitality. There’s only one thing we can do. We say thank you and go along with whatever she has arranged.”
“Even if it includes a naked mud bath?”
“Does it?”
“I don’t know. I saw the words second honeymoon and special activities and then my mind blanked with panic.” She glanced down at the paper. “What a tangled mess. I’m starting to realize there is no easy way to tell people you’re breaking up. No right time. You just have to do it. Perhaps we should—”
“No. We shouldn’t. We made a decision and we’re sticking with it. You can’t get cold feet now. We’re in this all the way. For better or worse.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. That wasn’t tactful.” He reached across and tugged the paper out of her hand. “I’d like to read what it takes to keep a marriage alive.”
“What if she’s arranged for us to exchange vows under the stars?”
“You could vow never to be economical with the truth again.” He smoothed the sheets of paper on his lap. “Whatever it is, we have to do it.”
Her mind was a jumble of thoughts and feelings. She needed space to think, not more of his company. “We could tell her we’d rather chill and enjoy each other’s company here.”
He ignored her, his attention on the paper he was reading.
“Well?” She started to feel nervous.
“This afternoon we’re going dogsledding. We’re being picked up from here, given the right clothes to wear and taken into the forest to a mystery place where it seems that being close to nature will rekindle my romantic tendencies.” He adjusted his glasses. “Did I ever have those? I’m not sure there is anything to rekindle.”
“I suppose it depends on how you define romance.”
He gave a faint smile. “That sounds damning. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.” He glanced down at the paper again. “It might be fun.”
“What does it involve? We ride in the back of a sled?”
“No, I think we’re the ones driving.” His gaze flickered to hers. “Clearly they’ve never seen you drive. After that snowmobile, I’m not sure I trust you with dogs.”
“You’re not funny. How do you drive dogs?”
“Presumably we’ll be taught. Can’t be more unmanageable than camels.”
If they were driving, she thought, there wouldn’t be much opportunity for awkward conversation. As long as she wasn’t freezing cold, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. “Is that it?”
“No, that’s only the beginning. Then we come back here, have an hour to shower, warm up and change before being driven to an intimate dinner in a restaurant.”
She swallowed. “What’s intimate about it?”
“It’s the two of us, for a start. Also, it’s halfway up a mountain. No easy access and no easy escape. Once we get there, you’re my captive.”
“Maybe you’re my captive.” She felt a flutter of panic. “I want to spend time with the girls. I’ve barely seen them.”
“Unless you want to change your story, seems like you’re stuck with me.” He lowered the paper to his lap. “Is that so bad?”
“I’m not sure.” It didn’t feel bad, and that in itself was strange and unsettling. Couples getting a divorce were supposed to argue and talk through lawyers, not enjoy candlelit dinners together. “This whole thing feels—weird.”
“Why? We used to go on trips and enjoy intimate dinners. Remember?”
“I don’t remember candles, except for the time we lost power in the cottage that winter. I remember picnics in fields, and days spent clambering through the ruins of ancient castles. We didn’t have the money for fancy restaurants.”
He fiddled with the paper. “You chose the wrong guy. You should have married an economics student. He would have gone into banking. Probably would have ended up running the bank. By now you would have had a house in Mayfair and a country pile in Surrey.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“At least five cars.”
“There’s only one of me. What would I do with five cars?”
“You definitely would have had staff.”
“Staff would have been welcome.” Or would they? She’d happily hand over dust removal duties but creating a home was so much more than a compilation of domestic tasks. And she wouldn’t have relished having other people around the house.
“Your parents would have approved of your choice.”
“If my parents would have approved, then I know I would have hated him.”
“I hate him, too, and I never even met the guy.” He reached across and took her hand. “I’m sorry, Mags.”
“For what? For not running a bank, owning two houses and five cars? That’s not the stuff that makes people happy, although perhaps it fills a hole if someone isn’t happy.”
“You’re wise. Have I ever told you you’re wise?”
“You’re the professor.”
“You’re the professor of life.” He glanced back at the paper. “Want to hear the rest?”
“There’s more? Please tell me we’re not white-water rafting. The power shower was enough for me.”
“Tomorrow morning you’re up at dawn, joining Catherine for a spa morning. Hair, nails, massage and pampering.”
“Dawn? I’m not sure I like the sound of that. What are you doing while I’m putting my back into relaxation?”
“I can choose between a massage and a few hours at leisure. I think I’ll choose the leisure. There’s a book on the shelves I’d like to dip into.”
“I hate you.”
“After that we’re going up on a gondola to the top of the mountain for lunch.”
“A gondola? Is this Venice?”
“A gondola is a ski lift.”
“What happens after lunch? Or is that the end of our second honeymoon?” She saw Nick’s expression change. “Nick?”
“The suggestion is quiet time back in the tree house.”
“Quiet—?” Maggie gasped. “You mean sex?”
“I’m guessing that’s what she has in mind.”
“Is there a hidden camera somewhere? Is someone going to watch us? Tick it off the list?” She closed her eyes. “I am never telling a lie again. From now on it’s the truth all the way, no matter who it upsets.”
“We can talk about that later, but in the meantime we have to get ready for sledding. According to the brochure, it’s something we’re never going to forget.”
Maggie didn’t have any trouble believing that.
Spending time getting up close and personal with Nick hadn’t been on her agenda.
It wasn’t real, she reminded herself. All this was still part of the pretense.
Katie
Katie stood self-consciously while the woman fussed over the dress she was trying on.
“It’s a little loose. Your measurements have changed since you sent them to Rosie.”
Katie smoothed the fabric over her hips. “I may have lost weight. Sometimes I forget to eat
when I’m working.”
Rosie shook her head in disbelief. “I hear people say that and I don’t get it. I have never forgotten to eat in my life. How does that even happen?”
“Sometimes I’m too busy, and sometimes the stuff I see puts me off my food.”
“Katie is a trauma doctor,” Catherine explained to the seamstress. “This woman is a heroine.”
“Not a heroine.” Katie wriggled, as uncomfortable about the conversation as she was about the dress. “It’s a job.”
“It’s so much more than that. Your mother told me all about how you wanted to be a doctor from the moment Rosie had her first asthma attack. She’s proud of you. Thank goodness there are people like you in the world.” Catherine leaned forward to pinch some fabric over her hip. “I think we could take it in here.”
Katie had never felt less like a heroine.
I’m a fake, she thought. A total fake.
“Honestly, the dress is fine. It looks great. Better than anything else I own, I promise you that.” It was a struggle to stand still. “There’s no time to adjust it. The wedding is in four days. Unless you feel like postponing?”
Rosie’s eyes widened. “Are you joking?”
“Ha! Of course I’m joking.” She wasn’t joking. “I’m surprised you managed to pull all this together in such a short time, that’s all. That’s put a lot of pressure on Catherine.”
“It was Catherine’s idea,” Rosie said and Katie stopped wriggling.
Was that why her sister was doing this? Why hadn’t that thought occurred to her before? Maybe she’d been pressured by Catherine. Well-meaning pressure, but still—
“I love a winter wedding,” Catherine said, “and I have never seen two people more in love than Rosie and Dan, so it seemed right.”
It didn’t seem right to Katie. Why was she the only one questioning the speed of this?
She wanted to hold up her hand and yell stop, stop!
Was this really what Rosie wanted?
Admittedly Katie hadn’t so far discovered anything about Dan that provided her with an excuse to step in and halt proceedings, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something there.
