by Judith Yates
“Shelly’s extremely sentimental. Even about me.” He reached out to reassure her. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It doesn’t?” She shrank from his touch. “Then why won’t you look at that picture?”
“What is the matter with you?” He still hadn’t even glanced at the photo.
“What’s the older’s boy name?” She didn’t know why it even mattered at this point, but she couldn’t help pressing.
Paul’s eyes narrowed with uncertainty. “Andrew.”
He didn’t want to tell her, she saw that clearly now. Disappointment made her voice shake. “How old is Andrew?”
His face ashen, he finally looked down at the picture in his hand. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. “He’s not mine, Amy.”
“Not your son?”
She didn’t know if she believed him, and this doubt angered her. And Paul knew it. The steely glint in his eyes as he shot off the sofa made that very clear.
“There was a time I would have given my soul to be that boy’s father. His real father.” He threw the photo down on the coffee table. “But that man is the fatherbiological, custodial and any other damn way you want to call it.”
He crossed over to the stone mantel and gazed down into the fire. Amy stared at his back, her stomach knotted with tension, her head aching with confusion. The Paul she knew was unflappable. Strong, commanding, certainly private, stern and even angry at times. But she had never seen him upset. Not like this.
“Paul, please—” Her voice cracked with emotion. “Please, I don’t understand.”
“I was a father to Andrew for the first three and a half years of his life. I was in the labor room when he was born—my name was on his birth certificate. I helped him take his first steps—I even taught him to sing ‘Jingle Bells.” Paul turned around to face her. “Then his real father came back, and it was over.”
Amy went to his side. “This isn’t easy for you to talk about, is it?” she said, drawing him back to the sofa.
“It’s been four long years. Maybe it’s time I did.”
She clasped his hand in hers, encouraging him to take his time, to tell her how little or how much he wanted. He began with how he and Shelly, a general assignment reporter at the TV station, started dating after Bob Wickwire left her for a prestigious overseas assignment. The story poured out of Paul. He seemed compelled to tell her every last bit of it, making Amy realize he had probably never talked about it before.
“We’d been dating steadily for weeks when Shelly found out she was pregnant with Wickwire’s baby,” Paul revealed.”She came to me in tears, insisting we break up. But Wickwire was long gone, her contract at the station was up for renewal and she was determined to have her baby come hell or high water. The station management was too conservative to permit an unwed pregnant woman to go on the air. I knew they’d never renew her contract.”
“You married her to save her job?”
“If it had been as simple as that, we all would have been spared a lot of pain,” he said ruefully.
“You were in love with her, then?”
“I was very attracted to her from the start. We came to care a great deal for each other as time passed, and our marriage was a marriage in the fullest sense.” He picked up his mug of lukewarm tea and sipped some. “When Shelly came along I was searching for some meaning to my life. I was an anchorman on automatic pilot, earning more money than I knew what to do with, going out every night—yet I had no life. I was ready to settle down. Perhaps it was foolish, but I convinced Shelly that getting married and raising the baby as mine was the right thing to do.”
As Paul told her about the wedding, the pregnancy and the baby, her empathy deepened. He had committed himself completely to wife and son, believing he finally had a family of his own for the first time since he was eight years old. It pained her to hear how it had been torn away from him when Bob Wickwire transferred to L.A. over three years later.
“I loved Andrew more than life itself, Amy,” he admitted, his voice tight. “It threw our lives upside down when Bob showed up in San Francisco and put two and two together. He wanted his son and he wanted Shelly. He claimed he’d never stopped loving her.”
“And Shelly?”
“She turned him away at first, even when Bob first sued for visitation rights. But he kept pressing and pressing, until it was painfully obvious that she was still in love with him.” Paul looked at the waning flames of his unfed fire. “Things just got messier after that, especially when the press got wind of it. They hounded us for months.”
It sounded like hell. Amy couldn’t fathom how Paul had survived. And she couldn’t understand how Shelly could tear her son from the only father he’d known, a father who truly loved him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
“But, Paul, surely you had legal rights. How did they get them away from you?”
Paul sat silent for a moment. Then, with a weary sigh, he turned to her, his expression somber. “I didn’t lose my rights, Amy. I gave them up.”
His words buzzed in her head, but she couldn’t believe he’d said them. “You gave up your son?”
“Andrew isn’t my son.”
“I can tell you didn’t feel that way.”
“Well, Bob Wickwire did. Besides, Shelly and Andrew were moving to Los Angeles with him. Even if Wickwire had been receptive to liberal visitation—which he definitely wasn’t—my involvement with Andrew would have been part-time at best.”
“A part-time father is better than one who disappears completely. Believe me.”
“What happened with you and Greg was different.”
She knew her own experience and memories were getting all tangled up in this. It was difficult to separate them in her mind when the differences weren’t as clear-cut to her as they seemed to be to Paul. Exasperated by the tugof-war within herself, she went over to the huge picture window. The misty gray-blue of dusk was falling fast over the snowy hills. The tracks their cookie-sheet sleds had left behind on the snow were barely visible now.
Paul came up behind her. “Try to understand.”
She couldn’t look at him. “You should have fought for him.”
“I started to. Had the lawyers filing court papers left and right. But in the end, I couldn’t go through with it. Andrew’s life had already been shaken up enough.”
“That’s why you let him go?”
“His mother and father loved each other and wanted to be together. Bob wanted to be a true father to him. Had I stuck around, I would have only confused Andrew.” Paul touched her shoulders, his kneading fingers imploring her to understand. “How could I not let him go? How could I, of all people, deny him a whole family?”
Amy closed her eyes as all the pieces fell into place. Now she understood. Paul had given up everything—the family he’d always wanted, the life he’d made for them, the future he’d planned—to ensure Andrew a proper family. That took a strength few men could muster, a depth of heart few possessed. And yet, what about the poor child who lost his “daddy"? She couldn’t help thinking about how awful it must have been for him.
She turned to him, sliding her arms beneath his, pressing against him. He whispered her name as he clung to her, and she held him as close as she could. Life had given this man a lot of heartache, yet he hadn’t turned bitter or cold. Revealing the details of his marriage and divorce must have been excruciating. No wonder he had refused to discuss them with Bridget and Maura. But Amy was glad he had told her, despite how difficult some of it had been to accept.
His every word confirmed what her heart had known last night in his bed—she loved him. She loved his passion, his strength, his voice, his laugh. She even loved the pain of his past, because it, too, made Paul Hanley so very special to her.
His arms tightened around her, as if he sensed the deep emotion coming to life within her. “I need you, Amy,” he murmured. “I need you so much.”
Curving her arms behind his neck, she stretched up on h
er toes to reach his lips. She kissed him with all the new love in her soul, to prove she was there for him. More than anything, Amy wished she could take away years of hurtful memories. Yesterdays were not in her realm, however. Only the here and now. But she could give him all the longing in her heart and all the warmth of her body.
Amy leaned back in his arms, her eyes locking on Paul’s darkened gaze. She took his hand from her waist and silently led to the dusky shadows of his room. Standing by his bed, Amy unfastened his belt buckle and ’ helped him slip out of his sweater and jeans. A familiar flush of yearning made her legs quiver as Paul undid the long row of buttons on her flannel shirt. He let it fall to the floor at her feet.
Without a word, she drew him down on the bed. She covered his hard, strong body with her own. Her desire sizzled as her taut nipples pressed into his chest, but she wouldn’t allow it to distract her from the giving. Her tongue tasted and kissed. Her hand taunted and caressed. She whispered and moaned. All for him, all from deep inside of her. And the more she gave, the hotter her own.passion burned.
Paul cared about her, Greg Riordan’s daughter, not her wealth or connections. That’s what made this giving the most intimate act of her life. She had never felt so free with a man, and never so close.
“I want you,” Paul rasped, his fingers raking through her hair, “want you now.” He rolled her onto her back, pinning her beneath his broad shoulders. For the longest moment he looked into her eyes with a tenderness she wanted to lock away in her heart forever. Clutching his back, she enclosed him in her fire, moving with him until their bodies shuddered and trembled together, and Amy’s cry of joyous pleasure echoed his.
Afterward, Paul lifted his head and captured her gaze with a soul-deep intensity that took her breath away. “You’re mine now, Amy. No matter where our paths take us, even if we’re apart, you’ll always be mine.”
She knew what Paul was saying. What they had shared today—and tonight—would stay with them for a long, long time.
He held her close long after his breathing had settled, his chin nuzzling her hair. A glowing satisfaction thrummed in her veins. The room grew darker as dusk gave way to night. The aroma of her simmering spaghetti sauce swirled around them and they talked of rescuing it before it cooked away. But neither one of them was eager to leave his bed.
Amy drifted off, snug and secure in Paul’s arms, until a humming roar jolted her awake.
“It’s all right. You’re all right,” he soothed, tightening his arms around her. Yet she detected disappointment in his voice.
The roar seemed to be rolling closer, growing louder. “What is that?” she asked.
“The state highway crew. They’re clearing and sanding the main road.” He planted a kiss on the top of her head.
Her heart sank. The outside world was crashing in too soon.
“Technically, we’re no longer snowbound,” he told her, sounding as low as she felt. “The local plow will be just a few hours behind these guys. We’ll be plowed out by morning.”
Chapter Twelve
Amy felt a warm hand on her bare shoulder. Fingers of steam and a toasty aroma roused her awake from a deep, delicious sleep. She lifted her lids to find Paul, fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a mug of hot coffee. He greeted her with a kiss as, groggy-eyed, she slowly sat back against the pillows, tucking the sheet over her breasts.
He put the steaming mug in her hands. “Dirk called. He’s on his way up to drive us back to town.”
“Already?” She saw he had placed the dry elf unitard at the bottom of the bed.
“The roads are all clear. Tremont is back to normal, and my office needs me,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “Your car has already been towed back to the inn— none the worse for having been stuck, apparently.”
“Sounds like everything’s under control,” she said lamely, feeling as though everything were out of their control.
Amy had no idea what would happen between them once they left here. She didn’t know how they would bridge the gap from the intimate isolation of the past two nights to the busy, crowded worlds awaiting them.
Paul left her to shower and dress. By the time she was ready, Dirk Campbell had arrived with Paul’s truck and dog. The golden retriever barked with happiness at seeing his master again, and spent some time checking out Amy with sniffs of curiosity.
Leaving Mr. Snead at the house, Paul drove them back to town. He dropped Dirk off at the Valley News Group first, then headed for the inn. They rode in silence until they reached the steep drive leading to the Blue Sky where Paul pulled the truck over to the side of the road.
Amy’s heart fluttered as he turned to her, his thick hair golden beneath the morning sun’s brilliance. Yet his angular face, so handsome in her eyes, was shadowed with concern, his gaze serious. Uncertainty tempered her heart.
“I want to see you again tonight.”
“Yes, of course.” They didn’t have many nights left.
“There’s something else I want.”
“Anything.”
Smiling, he reached across the seat for her hand. “Don’t be so quick to say that. I probably don’t have the right to ask this.”
She squeezed his hand in encouragement.
“You still have a decision to make about the inn—and it’s one-hundred percent your call. Not Bernadette’s. Not Bridget’s or Maura’s. I know that now.”
He looked down at their clasped hands. His thumb gently caressed her fingers. “But a lot has happened to you and me because of the Blue Sky—it’s been the link between us. I want you to keep a connection with the inn—with Bernadette and the girls. With me.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “Somehow—in a way that makes sense to you, in a way that you can live with.”
“Paul, I-”
“Don’t say anything now. Just think about it before you decide—that’s all I want.” He started the truck’s engine and drove the rest of the way up the hill.
Amy gazed out the window at the inn’s snow-covered grounds, quietly moved by his request, his consideration. In truth, she’d already been contemplating her options regarding the Blue Sky. She’d thought about little else since the scary, yet wonderful realization that she was falling in love with Paul Hanley.
After Paul had dropped her off at the front steps, she stood gazing at the inn for a long time. Trimmed and aglow for the holidays, the Blue Sky looked picture perfect in the fresh white snow. Amy remembered her bittersweet feelings when she had first laid eyes on the place, how she felt like an outsider in her father’s world. Today she was filled with a sense of coming home.
As soon as she entered the main hall, Bernadette rushed from the office to greet her with open arms. Her solicitous warmth touched Amy. It was the kind of uncritical welcome she’d be unlikely to receive from her own mother—especially after being snowbound with a man for two days.
“Come have some breakfast,” Bernadette urged, taking her by the hand into the dining room. “I hope Paul took decent care of you up there.”
Amy felt herself redden at the unabashed twinkle in the older woman’s eye. But there was sincere affection behind the knowing look, as well, convincing Amy there was no reason for her not to twinkle right back. “He did just fine.”
Bernadette lips broke into a not-so-cryptic grin as she found Amy a table and fetched the coffeepot. “I’ve got good news. George is much better, so he and Bridget and the kids, and hopefully Maura, are coming to the cottage tonight to decorate the family tree. I want you to join us, Amy. And of course, I’m sure Paul will come.”
“It sounds like fun.”
“It will be, won’t it?” Bernadette poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down with Amy. “This is our first Christmas without Greg, and I haven’t had much holiday spirit. I thought I didn’t want a tree at the cottage this year,” she admitted. “But Willy and Jenny are just up to their eyeballs with excitement. And your being here is a special blessing. So I just know your father would want
me to keep up the family tradition.”
Blinking back a tear, Amy touched Bernadette’s hand. “Thank you for including me in it.”
“Don’t you know?” she said, her own eyes wet. “To me, Amy Riordan, you are family.”
After a light breakfast, Amy went up to her room, thankful to be taking off the elf costume for the last time. She was exhausted, her muscles and limbs deliciously sore from all the hiking and sledding in the snow. And from making love. But before crawling into bed, she made quick calls to Julie at the office, to her mother and to a favorite sporting goods store in D.C. Then, with Paul and her memories crooning in her head like a lullaby, she drifted off to sleep.
Amy came downstairs late in the afternoon just as the common rooms began buzzing with predinner activity. Finding Bernadette on a stepladder rehanging a fallen rope of evergreen over the dining room entrance, she offered assistance.
“I’m practically done here. But I’ve finally got a small tree up in the Pub Room. Could you start decorating it?” the older woman asked. “The balls and tinsel are in the boxes on. the bar. I’ll send in the others to help when they arrive.”
As the bar hadn’t opened yet, the Pub Room was deserted. Amy collected the red and gold glass balls and started hooking them on the fir’s prickly branches. When she had just about covered the top half of the tree, Bud arrived for work whistling a chipper rendition of “Let It Snow.”
“Well, well, I see my favorite helper is back,” Bud greeted, hanging his coat and scarf on a wall hook behind the bar. “Glad you’ve finally been dug out.”
She looked at him, startled. “You know about that?”
“Honey, the whole town knows about it. Loose-lipped Harry towed your car in, didn’t he?”
With an exasperated groan, Amy returned to her decorating. As Bud prepped the bar, he described with great detail the great blizzard of ‘79 when the entire town had been snowed under for a week. “When you’re young that kind of thing is lots of fun,” Bud concluded. “But for an elderly person, being snowed in can be terrifying.”
