Mo scrambled over the backseat to the cargo area. With cold, shaking fingers she worked the zippers on her suitcases. She pulled thin, sequined sweaters—that would probably give her absolutely no warmth—out of the bag. She shrugged from the parka and pulled on as many of the decorative designer sweaters as she could. Back in her parka, she pulled knee-hi stockings and her last two pairs of socks over her hands. It was better than nothing. As if she had choices. The keys to the Jeep went into her pocket. The strap of her purse was looped around her neck. She was ready. Her sigh was as mighty as the wind howling about her as she climbed out of the Cherokee.
The wind was sharper than a butcher knife. Eight steps in the mid-thigh snow and she was exhausted. The silk scarf she’d tied around her mouth was frozen to her face in the time it took to take those eight steps. Her eyelashes were caked with ice as were her eyebrows. She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep. How in the hell did Eskimos do it? A gurgle of hysterical laughter erupted in her throat.
The laughter died in her throat when she found herself facedown in a deep pile of snow. She crawled forward. It seemed like the wise thing to do. Getting to her feet was the equivalent of climbing Mt. Rushmore. She crab-walked until her arms gave out on her, then she struggled to her feet and tried to walk again. She repeated the process over and over until she was so exhausted she simply couldn’t move. “Help me, someone. Please, God, don’t let me die out here like this. I’ll be a better person, I promise. I’ll go to church more often. I’ll practice my faith more diligently. I’ll try to do more good deeds. I won’t be selfish. I swear to You, I will. I’m not just saying this, either. I mean every word.” She didn’t know if she was saying the words or thinking them.
A violent gust of wind rocked her backward. Her back thumped into a tree, knocking the breath out of her. She cried then, her tears melting the crystals on her lashes.
“Help!” she bellowed. She shouted until she was hoarse.
Time lost all meaning as she crawled along. There were longer pauses now between the time she crawled on all fours and the time she struggled to her feet. She tried shouting again, her cries feeble at best. The only person who could hear her was God, and He seemed to be otherwise occupied.
Mo stumbled and went down. She struggled to get up, but her legs wouldn’t move. In her life she’d never felt the pain that was tearing away at her joints. She lifted her head and for one brief second she thought she saw a feeble light. In the time it took her heart to beat once, the light was gone. She was probably hallucinating. Move! her mind shrieked. Get up! They won’t find you till the daffodils come up. They’ll bury you when the lilacs bloom. That’s how they’ll remember you. They might even print that on your tombstone. “Help me. Please, somebody help me!”
She needed to sleep. More than anything in the world she wanted sleep. She was so groggy. And her heart seemed to be beating as fast as a racehorse’s at the finish line. How was that possible? Her heart should barely be beating. Get the hell up, Morgan. Now! Move, damn you!
She was up. She was so cold. She knew her body heat was leaving her. Her clothes were frozen to her body. She couldn’t see at all. Move, damn you! You can do it. You were never a quitter, Morgan. Well, maybe where Keith was concerned. You always managed, somehow, to see things through to a satisfactory conclusion. She stumbled and fell, picked herself up with all the willpower left in her numb body, fell again. This time she couldn’t get up.
A vision of her parents standing over her closed coffin, the room filled with lilacs, appeared behind her closed lids. Her stomach rumbled fiercely and then she was on her feet, her lungs about to burst with her effort.
The snow and wind lashed at her like a tidal wave. It slammed her backward and beat at her face and body. Move! Don’t stop now! Go, go, go, go.
“Help!” she cried. She was down again, on all fours. She shook her head to clear it.
She sensed movement. “Please,” she whimpered, “help me.” She felt warm breath, something touched her cheek. God. He was getting ready to take her. She cried.
“Woof!”
A dog! Man’s best friend. Her best friend now. “You aren’t better than God, but you’ll damn well do,” Mo gasped. “Do you understand? I need help. Can you fetch help?” Mo’s hands reached out to the dog, but he backed away, woofing softly. Maybe he was barking louder and she couldn’t hear it over the sound of the storm. “I’ll try and follow you, but I don’t think I’ll make it.” The dog barked again and as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.
Mo howled her despair. She knew she had to move. The dog must live close by. Maybe the light she’d seen earlier was a house and this dog lived there. Again, she lost track of time as she crawled forward.
“Woof, woof, woof.”
“You came back!” She felt her face being licked, nudged. There was something in the dog’s mouth. Maybe something he’d killed. He licked her. He put something down, picked it up and was trying to give it to her. “What?”
The dog barked, louder, backing up, then lunging at her, thrusting whatever he had in his mouth at her. She reached for it. A ribbon. And then she understood. She did her best to loop it around her wrist, crawling on her hands and knees after the huge dog.
Time passed—she didn’t know how much. Once, twice, three times, the dog had to get down on all fours and nudge her, the frozen ribbon tickling her face. At one point when she was down and didn’t think she would ever get up, the dog nipped her nose, barking in her ear. She obeyed and moved.
And then she saw the windows full of bright yellow light. She thought she saw a Christmas tree through the window. The dog was barking, urging her to follow him. She snaked after him on her belly, praying, thanking God, as she went along.
A doggie door. A large doggie door. The dog went through it, barking on the other side. Maybe no one was home to open the door to her. Obviously, the dog intended her to follow. When in Rome . . . She pushed her way through.
The heat from the huge, blazing fire in the kitchen slammed into her. Nothing in the world ever felt this good. Her entire body started to tingle. She rolled over, closer to the fire. It smelled of pine and something else, maybe cinnamon. The dog barked furiously as he circled the rolling girl. He wanted something, but she didn’t know what. She saw it out of the corner of her eye—a large, yellow towel. But she couldn’t reach it. “Push it here,” she said hoarsely. The dog obliged.
“Well, Merry Christmas,” a voice said behind her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to welcome you, but I was showering and dressing at the back end of the house. I just assumed Murphy was barking at some wild animal. Do you always make this kind of entrance? Mind you, I’m not complaining. Actually, I’m delighted that I’ll have someone to share Christmas Eve with. I’m sorry I can’t help you, but I think you should get up. Murphy will show you the way to the bedroom and bath. You’ll find a warm robe. Just rummage for whatever you want. I’ll have some warm food for you when you get back. You are okay, aren’t you? You need to move, get your circulation going again. Frostbite can be serious.”
“I got lost and your dog found me,” Mo whispered.
“I pretty much figured that out,” the voice chuckled.
“You have a nice voice,” Mo said sleepily. “I really need to sleep. Can’t I just sleep here in front of this fire?”
“No, you cannot.” The voice was sharp, authoritative. Mo’s eyes snapped open. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. Now!”
“Yes, sir!” Mo said smartly. “I don’t think much of your hospitality. You could help me, you know. I’m almost half-dead. I might still die. Right here on your kitchen floor. How’s that going to look?” She rolled over, struggling to a sitting position. Murphy got behind her so she wouldn’t topple over.
She saw her host, saw the wheelchair, then the anger and frustration in his face. “I’ve never been known for my tact. I apologize. I appreciate your help and you’re right, I need to get out of these wet clothes. I can make it. I got thi
s far. I would appreciate some food though if it isn’t too much trouble. . . Or, I can make it myself if you . . .”
“I’m very self-sufficient. I think I can rustle up something that doesn’t come in a bag. You know, real food. It’s time for Murphy’s supper, too.”
His voice was cool and impersonal. He was handsome, probably well over six feet if he’d been standing. Muscular. “It can’t be suppertime already. What time is it?”
“A little after three. Murphy eats early. I don’t know why that is, he just does.”
She was standing—a feat in itself. She did her best to marshal her dignity as Murphy started out of the kitchen. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring a present. It was rude of me to show up like this with nothing in hand. My mother taught me better, but circumstances . . .”
“Go!”
Murphy bounded down the hall. Mo lurched against the wall again and again, until she made it to the bathroom. It was a pretty room for a bathroom, all powdery blue and white with matching towels and carpet. And it was toasty warm. The shower was obviously for the handicapped with a special seat and grab bars. She shed her clothes, layer by layer, until she was naked. She turned on the shower and was rewarded with instant steaming water. Nothing in the world had ever looked this good. Or felt this good, she thought as she stepped into the spray. She let the water pelt her and made a mental note to ask her host where he got the shower head that massaged her aching body. The soap was Ivory, clean and sweet-smelling. The shampoo was something in a black bottle, something manly. She didn’t care. She lathered up her dark, wet curls and then rinsed off. She decided she liked the smell and made another mental note to look closely at the bottle for the name.
When the water cooled, she stepped out and would have laughed if she hadn’t been so tired. Murphy was holding a towel. A large one, the mate to the yellow one in the kitchen. He trotted over to the linen closet, inched it open. She watched him as he made his selection, a smaller towel obviously for her hair. “You’re one smart dog, I can say that for you. I owe you my life, big guy. Let’s see, I’d wager you’re a golden retriever. My hair should be half as silky as yours. I’m going to send you a dozen porterhouse steaks when I get home. Now, let’s see, he said there was a robe in here. Ah, here it is. Now, why did I know it was going to be dark green?” She slipped into it, the smaller towel still wrapped around her head. The robe smelled like the shampoo. Maybe the stuff came in a set.
He had said to rummage for what she wanted. She did, for socks and a pair of long underwear. She pulled on both, the waistband going all the way up to her underarms. As if she cared. All she wanted was the welcome warmth.
She looked around his bedroom. His. Him. God, she didn’t even know his name, but she knew his dog’s name. How strange. She wanted to do something. The thought had come to her in the shower, but now it eluded her. She saw the phone and the fireplace at the same time. She knew there would be no dial tone, and she was right. She sat down by the fire in the nest of cushions, motioning wearily for the dog to come closer. “I wish you were mine, I really do. Thank you for saving me. Now, one last favor—find that Christmas ribbon and save it for me. I want to have something to remember you by. Not now, the next time you go outside. Will you do that for . . . ?” A moment later she was asleep in the mound of pillows.
Murphy sat back on his haunches to stare at the sleeping girl in his master’s room. He walked around her several times, sniffing as he did so. When he was satisfied that all was well, he trotted over to the bed and tugged at the comforter until he had it on the floor. Then he dragged it over to the sleeping girl. He pulled, dragged, and tugged until he had it snugly up around her chin. The moment he was finished, he beelined down the hall, through the living room, past his master, out to the kitchen where he slowed just enough to go through his door. He was back in ten minutes with the red ribbon.
“So that’s where it is. Hand it over, Murphy. It’s supposed to go on the tree.” The golden dog stopped in his tracks, woofed, backed up several steps, but he didn’t drop the ribbon. Instead, he raced down the hall to the bedroom, his master behind him, his chair whirring softly. He watched as the dog placed the ribbon on the coverlet next to Mo’s face. He continued to watch as the huge dog gently tugged the small yellow towel from her wet head. With his snout, he nudged the dark ringlets, then he gently pawed at them.
“I see,” Marcus Bishop said sadly. “She does look a little like Marcey with that dark hair. Now that you have the situation under control, I guess it’s time for your dinner. She wanted the ribbon, is that it? That’s how you got her here? Good boy, Murphy. Let’s let our guest sleep. Maybe she’ll wake up in time to sing some carols with us. You did good, Murph. Real good. Marcey would be so proud of you. Hell, I’m proud of you and if we don’t watch it, I have a feeling this girl is going to try and snatch you away from me.”
Marcus could feel his eyes start to burn when Murphy bent over the sleeping girl to lick her cheek. He swore then that the big dog cried, but he couldn’t be certain because his own eyes were full of tears.
Back in the kitchen, Marcus threw Mo’s clothes in the dryer. He spooned out wet dog food and kibble into Murphy’s bowl. The dog looked at it and walked away. “Yeah, I know. So, it’s a little setback. We’ll recover and get on with it. If we can just get through this first Christmas, we’ll be on the road to recovery, but you gotta help me out here. I can’t do it alone.” The dog buried his head in his paws, but made no sign that he either cared or understood what his master was saying. Marcus felt his shoulders slump.
It was exactly one year ago to the day that the fatal accident had happened. Marsha, his twin sister, had been driving when the head-on collision occurred. He’d been wearing his seat belt; she wasn’t wearing hers. It took the wrecking crew four hours to get him out of the car. He’d had six operations and one more loomed on the horizon. This one, the orthopedic specialists said, was almost guaranteed to make him walk again.
This little cottage had been Marcey’s. She’d moved down here after her husband died of leukemia, just five short years after her marriage. Murphy had been her only companion during those tragic years. Marcus had done all he could for her, but she’d kept him at a distance. She painted, wrote an art column for the Philadelphia Democrat, took long walks, and watched a lot of television. To say she withdrew from life was putting it mildly. After the accident, it was simpler to convert this space to his needs than the main house. A ramp and an oversized bathroom were all he needed. Murphy was happier here, too.
Murphy belonged to both of them, but he’d been partial to Marcey because she always kept licorice squares in her pocket for him.
He and Murphy had grieved together, going to Marcey’s gravesite weekly with fresh flowers. At those times, he always made sure he had licorice in his pocket. More often than not, though, Murphy wouldn’t touch the little black squares. It was something to do, a memory Marcus tried to keep intact.
It was going to be nice to have someone to share Christmas with. A time of miracles, the Good Book said. Murphy finding this girl in all that snow had to constitute a miracle of some kind. He didn’t even know her name. He felt cheated. Time enough for that later. Time. That was all he had of late.
Marcus checked the turkey in the oven. Maybe he should just make a sandwich and save the turkey until tomorrow when the girl would be up to a full sit-down dinner.
He stared at the Christmas tree in the center of the room and wondered if anyone else ever put their tree there. It was the only way he could string the lights. He knew he could have asked one of the servants from the main house to come down and do it just the way he could have asked them to cook him a holiday dinner. But he needed to do these things, needed the responsibility of taking care of himself. In case this next operation didn’t work.
He prided himself on being a realist. If he didn’t, he’d be sitting in this chair sucking his thumb and watching the boob tube. Life was just too goddamn precious to waste even one minute. H
e finished decorating the tree, plugged in the lights, and whistled at his marvelous creation. He felt his eyes mist up when he looked at the one-of-a-kind ornaments that had belonged to Marcey and John. He wished for children, a houseful. More puppies. He wished for love, for sound, for music, for sunshine and laughter. Someday.
Damn, he wished he was married with little ones calling him Daddy. Daddy, fix this; Daddy, help me. And some pretty woman standing in the kitchen smiling, the smile just for him. Marcey had said he was a fusspot and that’s why no girl would marry him. She had said he needed to be more outgoing, needed to smile more. Stop taking yourself so seriously, she would say. Who said you have to be a better engineer than Dad? And then she’d said, If you can’t whistle when you work you don’t belong in that job. He’d become a whistling fool after that little talk because he loved what he did, loved managing the family firm, the largest engineering outfit in the state of New Jersey. Hell, he’d been called to Kuwait after the Gulf War. That had to mean something in terms of prestige. As if he cared about that.
His chair whirred to life. Within seconds he was sitting in the doorway, watching the sleeping girl. He felt drawn to her for some reason. He snapped his fingers for Murphy. The dog nuzzled his leg. “Check on her, Murph—make sure she’s breathing. She should be okay, but do it anyway. Good thing that fireplace is gas—she’ll stay warm if she sleeps through the night. Guess I get the couch.” He watched as the retriever circled the sleeping girl, nudging the quilt that had slipped from her shoulders. As before, he sniffed her dark hair, stopping long enough to lick her cheek and check on the red ribbon. Marcus motioned for him. Together, they made their way down the hall to the living room and the festive Christmas tree.
It was only six o’clock. The evening loomed ahead of him. He fixed two large ham sandwiches, one cut into four neat squares, then arranged them on two plates along with pickles and potato chips. A beer for him and grape soda for Murphy. He placed them on the fold-up tray attached to his chair. He whirred into the room, then lifted himself out of the chair and onto the couch. He pressed a button and the wide screen television in the corner came to life. He flipped channels until he came to the Weather Channel. “Pay attention, Murph, this is what you saved our guest from. They’re calling it The Blizzard. Hell, I could have told them that at ten o’clock this morning. You know what I never figured out, Murph? How Santa is supposed to come down the chimney on Christmas Eve with a fire going. Everyone lights their fireplaces on Christmas Eve. Do you think I’m the only one who’s ever asked this question?” He continued to talk to the dog at his feet, feeding him potato chips. For a year now, Murphy was the only one he talked to, with the exception of his doctors and the household help. The business ran itself with capable people standing in for him. He was more than fortunate in that respect. “Did you hear that, Murph? Fourteen inches of snow. We’re marooned. They won’t even be able to get down here from the big house to check on us. We might have our guest for a few days. Company.” He grinned from ear to ear and wasn’t sure why. Eventually he dozed, as did Murphy.
Jingle All the Way Page 25
