Holiday in Your Heart

by Susan Fox

  “Seems to be the weekend for kids in bad moods.”

  “I wonder how Robin’s doing.”

  “I called her. She’s settled down some and seems to be putting things in better perspective.” He turned to Maribeth. “She asked me to go riding with her tomorrow afternoon. Just the two of us. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, of course not. Mo, that’s great. I’m glad you two are growing close.”

  “So am I.” He released her hand, dropped his feet to the floor, and sat forward in the couch, elbows resting on his thighs and both hands curving around his mug. “When I thought over everything that happened last night, I realized that, well, I have a family. That’s not what I expected when I came to Caribou Crossing, but it’s what has happened.”

  She nodded. “How do you feel about that?”

  His face relaxed and he smiled, the kind of smile that turned the lines running between his nose and lips into dimpled clefts. “Good. That’s what I realized last night. I like it. And I think maybe I can do it.” His blue-green eyes twinkled. “What I saw at Evan and Jess’s is that all those people who are great parents and grandparents can get thrown for a loop. They don’t always make the right decisions or know the best thing to do.”

  She smiled back. “Of course not, because they’re human.”

  “Just like me. I think I, well, did okay with Robin last night. I found things to say that maybe actually helped her.” Wonder lit his face. “She hugged me, Maribeth. She kind of launched herself into my arms. Like she needed me. Like she was glad I was there.”

  “Oh, Mo. That’s wonderful.” She was sorry for the girl’s trauma, but so happy that Mo had found the internal resources to help—and that he was able to give himself credit for it.

  “So . . .” He put his mug on the coffee table and swung around to face her, his knee bumping hers. “Maybe I wouldn’t be such an awful parent. If I were, uh, to do it again.”

  Fizzy bubbles rose in her blood and she forced herself to take a calming breath before saying, “You could be an amazing father. If you decided, with all your heart, that it’s what you truly want to do. Not something you’re doing just to make me happy.”

  He nodded, soberly and reflectively. “I hear you, Maribeth. But I need more time.”

  “I know. Take whatever time you need.” Still, she felt encouraged that he was heading in the right direction—not just one that was right for her, but for him as well.

  She finished the last couple of mouthfuls of cocoa and sat up to put her mug on the coffee table. “Unfold this couch, Mo, and take me to bed.”

  * * *

  As Mo ushered Maribeth down the hall of his landladies’ home, he put his arm around her shoulders, wishing he never had to let go. There was one thing he was sure of: he wanted this woman. He loved her and, as much as he was capable of imagining the future, he knew he wanted to spend it with her. But did he deserve her? Was he the right man for her? She said she loved him, but could he give her what she wanted most?

  One moment, he’d think yes, all optimistic that they could have a child, maybe children, and be happy. But the next moment, he’d have second thoughts. He’d remember his past; focus on his guilt and his flaws; worry that he couldn’t possibly deserve happiness and he shouldn’t drag this wonderful woman down with him.

  As always, Daphne and Irene’s kitchen was bright and attractive and smelled wonderful. The two women looked festive. The usually tailored Daphne wore a holiday sweater, black with snowflakes the same silvery white as her short hair. Irene’s sweater was red with a big snowman, a little incongruous on an eightysomething-year-old and yet it went perfectly with her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. Both women’s smiles were warm and welcoming, with no hint in their expressions that they saw him as a deeply flawed man.

  Maribeth gave their hostesses her offerings, and the couple promptly set her and Mo to work. He took graceful flute glasses from a high shelf and Maribeth filled them half-full of orange juice while he uncorked the nonalcoholic sparkling wine. Pouring carefully, she topped up the glasses so the bubbles rose boisterously but didn’t overflow.

  Irene poured coffee—decaf for Maribeth—and put a bowl of sliced fruit, including jewel-red pomegranate seeds, on the kitchen table. Daphne took a casserole from the oven, saying, “It’s a breakfast strata and I’m afraid you’re guinea pigs.”

  Mo didn’t know what a breakfast strata was, but once the white-haired woman had put a sizable serving on his plate, he saw that there were layers of all sorts of good things: onions, potatoes, sausage, eggs, cheese, mushrooms, and who knew what else.

  Once the four of them had all taken chairs, Maribeth, seated to Mo’s right, lifted her flute glass and said, “To a happy and memorable holiday season.”

  They all drank the toast and then Mo dug into the strata. “Mmm, that’s good. This guinea pig says don’t change a thing.”

  “I agree,” Maribeth said. “When you get a chance, I’d love the recipe.” She helped herself to fruit and passed the bowl to Mo, who did the same before sending it on.

  “Good,” Daphne said. “This is one of the dishes we want to serve for Christmas breakfast. Everyone’s coming over here.”

  “Andrew and Terry want to host the turkey dinner,” Irene said. “The first one in their new house.”

  Mo had met Andrew, Irene’s son, and his husband Terry. “Did your daughter and her family get here as well?” he asked the woman.

  “Yes, they drove up from Vancouver on Friday,” she said. “My daughter and her husband along with my granddaughter, her partner, and the new baby. They’re all staying with Andrew and Terry.”

  “They’ll love Christmas in Caribou Crossing,” Maribeth said. “It’s the best, and way more fun than being in a big city.”

  Mo had been in all sorts of places during the holidays and had never paid attention to the differences because it had never mattered. Now, as he’d seen this small town deck itself out with lights, ornaments, trees, menorahs, and holiday cheer, he had a pretty good idea what Maribeth meant. And it wasn’t just the decorations—ranging from spiritual to humorously tacky—it was the cheerful, generous spirit of the residents.

  Daphne rose and made fresh mimosas for them. When she sat down again, across from Mo, she said, “I truly regret not having had children. I had my students, of course. A new class each year. I wanted the best for them and did my best, but it wasn’t like having my own children. I didn’t let myself care deeply. Or, rather, I couldn’t. My heart locked itself up when I said good-bye to Irene after teachers college.”

  “You were an excellent teacher,” Maribeth said.

  “Thank you. I was certainly never the most popular one. I wasn’t a warm person.”

  “Your students respected you,” Maribeth said. “We learned a lot from you. You got us at an impressionable age in fourth grade. Those who were paying attention learned good work habits, goal-setting, discipline, morality.”

  The older woman smiled at her. “It’s kind of you to say that. Looking back, I see that there’s more I could have given, but sadly I didn’t have it in me.”

  “Oh, now, love,” Irene said.

  Daphne took her hand. “No pity, please. I had a fulfilling, busy life and I had colleagues and friends who offered companionship and stimulating conversation. If I lacked for more, it was my own damned fault. I didn’t have the guts to be the woman I was meant to be.” She tilted her head to study Maribeth. “Do you know when my heart opened up again?”

  She gave the same answer Mo would have. “When you got back with Irene?”

  “Before that. When your friend Cassidy came to stay here. She has a way about her.”

  Maribeth laughed. “Yes, she does.” She turned to him. “Mo, you don’t know her well yet, but Cassidy’s special. She’s frank, generous, smart, free-spirited.”

  “Somehow,” Daphne said, “that young woman managed to see through all my guff and realize there was a rather tender heart lurking within me. I ca
me to care for her, and she was the catalyst who urged me to follow my heart and go looking for Irene.” She glanced at Mo. “When another person sees the good in you, or at least sees the special person you could be, somehow it makes you want to be that person, doesn’t it? And helps you find the courage to do it.”

  Thoughtfully, he said, “Somehow it does.”

  Now the question was: was he capable of it?

  Chapter Twenty

  This was how Christmas morning should start. Lying on her side in bed, Maribeth gazed at a still-sleeping Mo. It was past nine, late for both of them to sleep in, but they’d gone to midnight Mass with old friends of hers last night—another of her holiday traditions—and by the time they’d curled up after making love, it had been almost two.

  Earlier on Christmas Eve, they’d eaten nachos at the crowded, boisterous Wild Rose bar, danced to a few country tunes, and then joined a group of carol singers who meandered around town. Who’d have expected that Mo, with his rough-edged voice, would be a good singer? But he was, though he relied on a carol sheet for the words.

  Now he lay on his side facing her, his features relaxed so that she could see the man he’d been in his twenties and thirties. Such a multifaceted guy he was turning out to be. He’d been a good sport, the self-professed loner spending an entire evening immersed in crowds. She’d loved being at his side, their bodies almost always touching, whether it was in their close embrace as they’d shuffle stepped to Martina McBride’s moving “O Holy Night” or the simplicity of interlocked gloved hands as they stood among other carol singers while delicate snowflakes brushed their shoulders.

  This morning, however, was just for the two of them. That was the way they both wanted it. Later, she’d Skype her grandparents and introduce them to Mo, and then she and Mo would go to a soup kitchen to help out. After that, they’d dress up for a big Cousins-Kincaid-Bly-Brannon turkey dinner. The family took turns hosting, and this year’s dinner was at Miriam and Wade Bly’s house.

  While Maribeth loved being included and starting to feel part of such a large and wonderful family, she couldn’t help the occasional worry. What if she and Mo couldn’t work things out in a manner that let them both be true to themselves? The more she invested emotionally, the more she had to lose if it all fell apart. She knew Mo would never be deliberately cruel to her, but if he honestly couldn’t find it in his heart to tackle fatherhood again, she’d be faced with a “love versus baby” decision, and either choice would break her heart.

  But those were no thoughts for an optimist on Christmas morning when her amazing lover slept beside her, naked and warm.

  She reached out to wrap a wavy strand of his silver-threaded hair around her finger and tugged gently.

  His hand came up like he was swatting at a mosquito.

  She pulled harder.

  His lips curved and he said sleepily, “Trying to tell me something?”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  His thick lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes. “Oh, yeah. I forgot.” The smile bloomed wider and his eyes gleamed, as excited as a child’s on Christmas morning. “Merry Christmas, Maribeth.” He gave her a quick, hard kiss and then, all energy now, rolled out of bed.

  “Are you coming back?”

  “Breakfast.” He was pulling on the jeans he’d tossed on a chair last night. “Let’s feed Caruso, have breakfast, and open presents.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “No morning sex?” They didn’t make love every morning, but this was Christmas, and what better way to start the day?

  “Later,” he said over his shoulder as he strode toward the bathroom. He muttered something else that she didn’t quite catch, though it might have been “I hope.”

  Well, that was weird. She shook her head, then ran her fingers through her tangled hair. Maybe he was making up for all the years he’d never had a proper Christmas with presents under a tree.

  By the time she’d risen, Mo was out of the bathroom and hurrying downstairs.

  And by the time she made it down to the kitchen herself, in her robe and glasses, the scent of frying bacon greeted her along with Caruso’s happy warble. “And Merry Christmas to you, too,” she said, squatting down and exchanging cheek rubs with him.

  Mo was at the stove, bacon sizzling in one pan and pancakes in another. She’d assembled two bowls of pancake ingredients yesterday, one wet and one dry, all ready to mix this morning. She had also set the table, so now she poured two glasses of orange juice and sat down to watch her man cook. It wasn’t sex, but it wasn’t a bad start to the day.

  He had the meal plated quickly, and while she was inclined to linger and enjoy the combined flavors of oatmeal pancakes, bacon, and maple syrup, Mo seemed in a rush to eat and get on to the next stage of the day. He almost flung the dishes into the dishwasher and barely let her pour a second mug of decaf coffee before urging her into the living room.

  There, she found that he’d turned on the tree lights and was hunkered down getting a fire started. She clicked on the radio to hear Bing Crosby dreaming of a white Christmas—and sure enough, outside the window sun shone brightly on a fresh layer of snow. A handful of neighborhood kids were happily engaged in a snowball fight.

  If Mo was eager to get to the gift-giving, Maribeth wouldn’t stand in his way. The collection of wrapped presents under the tree was huge, but most would be going along with them to the turkey dinner. The two largest, however, were the ones she really hoped would work out.

  “Caruso,” she called, and a moment later the dog trotted into the room. Maribeth plunked down on the rug by the fire and urged Caruso to sit next to her. “Mo, I think we should start with his present.”

  Mo gave the fire a final poke. “Sure.” He hauled out the big box wrapped in reindeer-printed paper and dropped to the rug, too. “If he hates the gift, at least he’ll have some paper to play with. You open it for him, Maribeth.”

  She did so, to reveal the cushy new wicker bed and green-and-red plaid blanket she and Mo had bought. “Caruso,” she said as the dog sniffed tentatively at the gifts, “we figure you deserve something new and fancy, not the makeshift beds we’ve been giving you.” She spread the blanket out, fluffing it to make a nest.

  Caruso stepped into the bed, circled, pawed the blanket into a more satisfying shape, and then curled up with his head on his paws, watching them.

  “The stamp of approval,” Mo said.

  “Yours next,” she said, and extracted the gift she’d stashed behind the tree. The parcel, wrapped in gold paper with silver snowflakes, was about two feet by a foot and a half, and quite narrow. “This is from Caruso and me.”

  “Interesting,” Mo said, hefting it. “It looks and feels like something framed. Artwork? A photograph?” He undid the tape, unfolded the paper, and pulled out the painting. The expression that slipped across his face looked like wonder, and Maribeth relaxed.

  “It’s us,” he said. “Us, painted by Mary Cantrell.”

  A few weeks ago, they’d walked by a gallery and Mo had admired a cluster of paintings in the window. Maribeth had told him that the painter was a friend of hers, and she’d introduced the two of them at her Sunday open house earlier in the month.

  This watercolor was a scenic, set in early winter. Tree branches bore a light kiss of snow and the sun gleamed palely through clouds. The painting was impressionist more than true-to-life, and it had the artist’s distinctive Native Canadian flair, but there was no mistaking the threesome. The man on the palomino had black hair under his Stetson and a red scarf around his neck. The woman rode a bay horse and her red hair spilled from beneath a red knitted cap. Ranging along beside them was a cinnamon-colored dog.

  “I asked Mary to do it,” Maribeth said, “and I gave her the photos I took with my cell the last time we went riding.” Her request had been a last-minute one and she’d been ecstatic when Mary fit her in.

  “Wow. I’m stunned. It’s a memory and a work of art. I’ve never owned anything so amazing. Maribeth, thank you.
It’s such a thoughtful gift.”

  It was also too big to fit in his backpack, but the man who’d previously toted all his possessions on his back didn’t comment on that.

  “Okay,” he said, sounding nervous. “It’s my turn. And it’s not so much a gift as kind of a story.”

  “A story? That sounds intriguing.”

  “First, go look out the window.”

  She rose and obeyed, seeing a similar scene to the last time she’d looked, except now a couple of girls were making snow angels in a neighboring yard. Behind her, she heard a jangle, and Mo came up beside her.

  “See that silver minivan?” he asked.

  “The one parked in front of my house?” She’d noticed it last night and assumed it belonged to someone who was staying with one of her neighbors. “It’s hard to miss.” She turned to him. “Mo?”

  He pressed a key ring into her hand. “No, I’m not giving you a minivan, just a spare set of keys to the one I bought yesterday.”

  “I didn’t know you were planning on buying a car.”

  “It’s time I stopped borrowing Hank’s truck from the garage. I need my own wheels. One of Hank’s clients brought in the minivan to get it all tuned up because he planned to sell it, and he gave me a good deal.”

  “That’s great. Though I’d have taken you for more of a Jeep man—or of course a motorcycle in summer.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He caught her hand and pulled her back to their seats in front of the fire. “Like I said, it’s a story. Here’s the second chapter.” He reached under the tree and handed her an envelope.

  She was expecting a greeting card, but instead found an appointment slip. For the women’s clinic. In Mo’s name, for right after New Year’s. “Mo, I don’t understand.”

  He licked his lips as if they were dry. “If you want to go the sperm donor route, that’s okay. But I thought we could look into options, so I did some research. My vasectomy was so long ago, they may not be able to reverse it.”

  What? Was he actually thinking that—

  Heart fluttering, she listened as he went on. “There’s this other process where they can extract a guy’s sperm”—he winced slightly, but went on—“even after he’s had a vasectomy and fertilize the woman’s egg. They fertilize it outside the body and then implant it in the uterus, and there’s a pretty good chance of it working.”