Disgusted, Shay scrambled out of bed and hop-danced to the window because the floor was so cold under her bare feet. The snow was deep now and it glowed in the moonlight, so white and glittery that Shay’s throat went tight as she looked at it.
Her stomach rumbled and she remembered that she was hungry. She found her robe and slippers and put them on, then began ransacking the kitchen, making as much noise as she possibly could.
Mitch woke up reluctantly, grumbling and groping for his jeans. “What the—”
Shay shoved a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich into his hands and began wolfing down one of her own. “I challenge you to a duel, my good man,” she said, eating and putting on her clothes at the same time.
“Name your weapon,” Mitch muttered with a disgraceful lack of enthusiasm.
Shay stepped outside the door for a moment, wincing at the cold, and then let him have it. “Snowballs!” she shouted as the first volley struck Mitch’s bare chest.
14
On Sunday morning the snow began to melt away, leaving only ragged patches of white here and there on the ground. In a like manner, Shay’s dreams seemed to waste away, too. She had hoped that Mitch might propose to her again—she felt ready to accept now—but as the time for them to leave the cabin drew closer, his mood went from pensive to distant to downright sullen.
Shay watched him out of the corner of one eye as they drove past the small country store on the highway—the proprietor had been the one to build the fire and turn on the lights in the cabin before they arrived—but she didn’t ask Mitch what was wrong because she thought she knew. He probably dreaded the inevitable return to the realities of the relationship as much as she did.
When Mitch reached out for the radio dial on the dashboard, Shay gently forestalled the motion.
“You’ve almost finished the Roget book,” she threw out, to make conversation. “What’s next?”
Mitch tossed one unreadable look in Shay’s direction and his jawline tightened as he turned his attention back to the road. “I suppose Ivan will sift through the dregs of humanity until he finds some other scum for me to write about.”
Shay stiffened. “Is that what my mother was, Mitch? The dregs of humanity?”
He cursed under his breath. “I was talking about Roget and you damned well know it. Don’t bait me, Shay, because I’m not in the mood to play your games.”
It was an uncomfortable reminder of the last time Mitch had accused her of playing games and Shay felt defensive. Still, she tried hard to keep her voice level. “Do you really think I want to argue with you, especially now? Especially after—”
“After what, Shay? Two days of reckless passion?” His tone was blade-sharp. Lethal. “That’s our only real way of communicating, isn’t it?” He paused, drew a deep, raspy breath. “I’ll say one thing for us, love: we relate real well on a sexual level.”
Shay was wounded and her voice sounded small and shaky when she spoke. “If you feel that way, why did you ask me to marry you?”
The brown eyes swung to her, scoured her with their anger. “I guess I lost my head,” he said bluntly. Brutally. “Rest easy, sugar plum. I won’t risk it again.”
“Risk—”
“If you want to marry me—and I don’t think you have the guts to make that kind of commitment to any man—you’ll have to do the proposing. Rejection hurts, Shay, and I’m not into pain.”
Shay turned her head, and the tall pine trees along the roadside seemed to whiz past the car window in a blurry rush. The terrible hurt, the three-hundred-and-sixty degree turn in Mitch’s attitude, all of it was proof that she’d been wrong to expect consistent, unwavering love from a man. Why hadn’t she learned? She’d watched Rosamond enter into one disastrous relationship after another. She’d nearly been destroyed by a failed marriage herself. Why in God’s name hadn’t she learned?
“Shay?” Mitch’s voice was softer now, even gentle. But it was too late for gentleness.
She let her forehead rest against the cool, moist glass of the window, trying to calm herself. “Leave me alone.”
The sleek car swung suddenly to the side of the road and came to a stomach-wrenching stop. “Shay.”
She shook his hand from her shoulder, keeping her face averted. “Don’t touch me, Mitch. Don’t touch me.”
There was a blunt sound, probably his fist striking the steering wheel or the dashboard, followed by a grating sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I get so frustrated. Everything was so good between us and now it’s all going to hell again and I can’t handle that, Shay.”
“That’s obvious.”
She heard him sigh again, felt a jarring motion as he shifted furiously in the car seat. “Don’t give any ground here, dammit. Whatever you do, don’t meet me halfway!”
Shay could look at Mitch now; in fact, her pain forced her to do that. She sat up very straight in her seat, heedless of her tousled hair and the tears on her cheeks. “I’ve met you more than halfway, Mitch. I came up on this damned mountain with you. I shared your bed. And you turned on me.”
“I didn’t turn on you, Shay. I got angry. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes, dammit, there is!”
“If you truly love somebody, you don’t yell at them!”
Mitch’s nose was within an inch of Shay’s. “You’re wrong, lady, because I love you and I’m yelling at you right now! And I’ll keep yelling until you hear me! I LOVE YOU! Is that coming through?”
“No!” Shay closed her eyes tightly. Memories of her mother filled her mind—Rosamond screaming, Rosamond throwing things, Rosamond driving away everyone who tried to love her. “No!”
Mitch’s hands were clasping her shoulders then. “Open your eyes, Shay; look at me!”
Shay did open her eyes, but only as a reflex.
“I’m still here, aren’t I? You can get mad at me, Shay, and I can get mad at you, and it’s still all right. Don’t you see that? It’s all right.”
She fell against him, burying her face in his shoulder, clinging to him with her hands. She had always been afraid of anger, in other people, in herself. And she trembled in fear of it then, even as she began to realize that Mitch was right. Getting mad was okay, it was human. It didn’t have to mean the end of something good.
Presently, Mitch cupped one hand under her chin and lifted, brushing her lips with his own.
“All weekend,” he said, “you’ve been telling me what your body wants, what it needs. Your mind and your spirit, Shay, what do they want?”
She sniffled. That one was easy. With her whole heart and soul she wanted Mitch Prescott. She wanted to laugh with him and bear his children and yes, fight with him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say those things aloud. Not yet. She was still coming to terms with too many other emotions and her right to feel them.
Mitch overlooked her complete inability to answer and kissed the tip of her nose. “We’ll get this right, Shay. Somehow, I’m going to get past all that pain and fear and make you trust me.”
Shay swallowed hard. “I—I trust you.”
He started the car again. “I’ll believe that, my love, when you ask for my hand in marriage.”
“It’s supposed to be the other way around, isn’t it?” Shay caught her breath as the car sped onto the highway again.
“Not in this case,” Mitch answered, and the subject was closed.
The boxed manuscript landed in the middle of Ivan’s desk with a solid, resounding thump.
Ivan looked at the box and then up at Mitch’s unyielding face. “Good Lord,” the older man muttered. “You’re not serious!”
“I’m serious as hell, Ivan. I’m through writing this kind of book.”
Ivan gestured toward one of several chairs facing his desk. “Sit down, sit down. Let’s at least talk this over. You didn’t fly three thousand miles just to throw a ream of paper in my face, did you?”
Mitch ignored the invitation to sit—he’d
had enough of that flying from Seattle to New York—and paced the length of Ivan’s sumptuous office, pausing at the window to look down on Fifth Avenue. He thought of Shay, back home in Skyler Beach and probably up to her eyes in cheeseballs, and smiled. “I flew three thousand miles, Ivan, to tell you face-to-face that you’re going to have to get yourself another Indiana Jones.”
“You’re older now, more settled. I can see why you wouldn’t want to do the kind of research your earlier books required, but your career has taken a different course anyway, between the Rosamond Dallas biography and the Roget case. What’s the real problem, Mitch?”
“A woman.”
Ivan sighed. “I should have known. Don’t tell me the rest of the story, let me guess. She’s laid down the law. No husband of hers is going to fly all over the country chasing down leads and interviewing murderers. Am I right?”
Mitch was standing at the window, still absorbed in Fifth Avenue’s pre-Christmas splendor. “You couldn’t be further off base, Ivan. If it hadn’t been for Shay, I wouldn’t have had the stomach to write about Alan Roget.”
“So she’s supportive. Three cheers for her. I still don’t understand why a writer would turn his back on his craft, his readers, his publishers, his—”
“I never do anything halfway, Ivan,” Mitch broke in patiently. “And right now holding that relationship together takes everything I’ve got.”
“If it’s that shaky, maybe it isn’t worth the trouble.”
“It’s worth it, Ivan.”
Ivan sat back in his swivel chair, his eyes on the manuscript box in front of him. “I almost dread reading this,” he observed after several moments of reflective silence. “I suppose it’s just as good as your other stuff?”
“Better,” Mitch said with resignation rather than pride.
Ivan was, for all his professional tenacity, a good sport. And a good friend. “This lady of yours must be something. Once the dust settles and you want to write again, you give me a call.”
Mitch grinned, already at the door of Ivan’s office, ready to leave. “I expect her to propose any time now,” he said, enjoying the look of surprise on his agent’s face. “Goodbye, Ivan, and merry Christmas.”
“Bah humbug,” Ivan replied as Mitch closed the door behind him.
“Doesn’t anybody cook their own Christmas turkey anymore?” Shay grumbled as she read over the work schedule Barbara had just brought into her office.
Barbara was wearing a bright red apron trimmed in white lace and there was a sprig of holly in her hair. Everybody seemed to have the Christmas spirit this year. Everybody, that is, except for Shay. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Ms. Kendall, most people would be glad to have so much business.”
Shay sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
“You don’t care much for all this, do you?”
The directness of Barbara’s question set Shay back on her emotional heels. “I’ve dreamed of owning this catering business for years!”
Barbara was undaunted. “Sometimes, we dream of something and we work and sweat and pray to get it and, when we do, we find out that it wasn’t what we really wanted after all. What is it that you really want, Ms. Kendall?”
Shay blushed. Damn the woman and her uncanny perception! “I’m almost embarrassed to admit to it, in this day and age, but I’d like to be married and have babies. I’d like to have the luxury of being weak sometimes, instead of always having to be strong. I’d like to be there when my son comes home from school and I’d like to watch soap operas and vacuum rugs.” Shay caught herself. Barbara would be horrified. Any modern woman would be horrified. “Aren’t you sorry you asked?”
Barbara chuckled. “I was married for a long, long time, Ms. Kendall, and those were some of the things I liked best about it.”
“You’re not shocked?”
“Of course I’m not. You’re a young woman and it’s natural for you to want a man and a home and babies.”
Shay was gazing toward the window. There wasn’t any snow and she wanted snow. She wanted to be alone in the mountains with Mitch again. “I’m not at all like my mother,” she mused in a faraway voice threaded through with a strand of pure joy. “I’m myself and I can make my own choices.”
Barbara must have slipped out. When Shay looked back, she was gone.
Shay propped her chin in her hands, running over her dreams, checking each one for soundness, finding them strong. All she had to do was find the courage to act on them.
Mitch wanted a marriage proposal, did he? Well, she’d give him one he’d never forget. She reached for the telephone book and leafed through the yellow pages until she found the listings she wanted. There was no way she could put her plan into action until after Christmas, what with the business and Ivy’s wedding and the general uproar of the holiday itself, but it wouldn’t hurt to make a few calls.
Kelly cast one questioning look up at her mother. Reba nodded, her eyes suspiciously bright, and the child scampered through the crowd of Christmas travelers and into Mitch’s arms.
He lifted her, held her close. There was no time to tell Reba that he was grateful; he and Kelly had to catch a northbound plane within minutes. He nodded and Reba nodded back. A second later, she had disappeared into the crowd.
“Look, Daddy,” Kelly chimed over the standard airport hubbub, pointing to a pin on her coat. “Mommy bought me this Santa and his nose lights up when you pull the string!”
Mitch chuckled hoarsely. “Your mommy is a pretty special lady. Shall we go catch our plane?”
Kelly nodded. “Mommy already checked my suitcase and I’ve got my ticket right here.”
Minutes later they were settled in their seats on the crowded airplane and Mitch ventured, “I know this is the first Christmas you’ve ever been away from your mother….”
Kelly smiled and patted his hand as though Mitch were the child and she the adult. “Don’t worry, Daddy. I won’t cry or anything like that. It’ll be fun to be with you and be in Aunt Ivy’s wedding and, besides, I get a whole other Christmas when I get back here.”
The plane was taxiing down the runway and Mitch checked Kelly’s seatbelt.
“I’m kind of scared,” she confessed.
He took her hand.
Shay dampened her fingers on her tongue and smoothed Hank’s cowlick. “I want you to be nice to Kelly,” she said as the arrival of Flight 703 was announced over the airport PA system.
Hank scooted away, his dignity ruffled. “Mom, don’t spit on me anymore,” he complained. “I look good enough already.”
Shay laughed. “I’m soooooo sorry!”
The plane landed and, after several minutes, the passengers began to stream in through the gate, most carrying brightly wrapped packages and wearing home-for-the-holiday smiles. Mitch and Kelly appeared just when Shay was beginning to worry that they’d been left behind.
Kelly pulled at a little string and the Santa Claus face pinned to her coat glowed with light. “Look, Hank!”
Hank tried his best to be blasé, but he was obviously fascinated by the plastic Santa and its flashing red nose.
“I brought you one just like it,” Kelly assured him.
Shay could feel Mitch’s eyes on her face, but it was a moment before she’d shored up her knees enough to risk looking into them. She wondered what he’d say when he found out that he wasn’t involved with a modern woman at all, but one who wanted a time-out, who would willingly trade her career for babies and Cub Scout meetings and love in the afternoon.
Maybe he wouldn’t even want a woman like that. Maybe—“Shay.”
She realized that she’d been staring at Kelly’s pin and made herself meet Mitch’s gaze. Her throat was constricted and though her lips moved, she couldn’t make a sound.
“I know my nose doesn’t light up,” he said with a teasing note in his voice, “but surely I’m more interesting than a plastic Santa Claus.”
Shay found her voice. It was deeper than usual and full
of strange little catches. “You’re definitely more interesting than a plastic Santa Claus,” she agreed. “But we won’t make any rash statements about the nose until after Marvin and Jeannie’s Christmas party.”
He laughed and kissed her hungrily, but then they both remembered the children and the airport full of people and they drew apart.
“Yuk,” said Hank, but his protest lacked true conviction.
Ivy’s face glowed as she turned, displaying her dress for Shay. It was a beautiful white gown with tiny crystal beads stitched to the full, flowing skirt and the fitted bodice. Because this was a Christmas wedding, the hem, neckline and cuffs boasted a snowy trimming of fur.
Shay’s gown, like Kelly’s, was of floor-length red velvet, also trimmed with fur. In lieu of flowers, the attendants would carry matching muffs with sprigs of holly attached.
“We look beautiful!” Kelly piped out, admiring herself in the mirror of the little dressing room at the back of the church.
Ivy laughed and her joy brought a pretty apricot flush to her cheeks. “We do, don’t we?”
There were still a few tinsel halos and shepherds’ robes lying about from the Christmas program that had been held earlier and Shay gathered them up just for something to do to pass the time. It wasn’t her wedding, but she was almost as excited and nervous as if it had been.
Ivy’s mother, an attractive if somewhat icy woman, came in, followed closely by Mitch. It was obvious that Elizabeth was trying to ignore her stepson, but Shay couldn’t. He looked so handsome in his dark tuxedo that she almost gasped.
He gave Shay a wink over Elizabeth’s rigidly coiffed champagne-blond head and then turned his attention to Ivy. Elizabeth winced at his wolf-whistle, but Ivy glowed.
“We look beautiful, don’t we, Daddy?”
Mitch crouched to look into Kelly’s face. “Yes, indeed, you do.”
“You shouldn’t have just walked in here that way,” Elizabeth fretted, speaking to Mitch but not looking at him. “They might have been dressing.”
Mitch wagged a finger in her face. “Peace on earth, Elizabeth. Good will toward men.”
To the surprise of everyone, Elizabeth permitted herself a faltering smile. “You are just like your father,” she said. Shay hoped that Mitch had noticed the love in Elizabeth’s face when she mentioned his father.
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