“No contest. Tampa’s got football,” a man pointed out.
Molly’s gaze snagged on John and she smiled—not the smile she’d worn while regaling the other guests with tales from the Children’s Garden, but a smile just for him, a smile that told him she trusted him and loved him and believed in him.
He trusted her, too. He was close to admitting he loved her. And yes, he believed in her. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure he believed in himself.
But right now, in the cozy room, redolent with the scent of the tree and the fire blazing in the fireplace, with Molly’s smile and her lovely eyes bewitching him, he could believe in almost everything—even the possibility that loving Molly was the right thing to do.
***
SHE WAS GOING to have a tree for Christmas, after all. John’s tree, John’s and Michael’s.
“Are you sure you want me to spend the night?” she asked as he steered down Jamie’s winding driveway, the tires of his car crunching on the snow-glazed gravel.
John shot her a quizzical glance. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s Christmas eve. Michael’s going to wake up at six a.m. tomorrow.”
“Why would he wake up so early?”
“Christmas,” she said with a laugh, even though the reality of having to pass this precious night alone in her own bed depressed her. “Nobody under the age of fifteen sleeps past six a.m. Christmas morning,” she explained.
John mulled over her statement and shrugged. “So he’ll wake up early. What’s the problem?”
“I’ll be there,” she said quietly. “In your bed.” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d stayed all night at John’s house. But she and John had always risen before Michael. By the time he’d climbed out of bed, they’d been dressed and in the kitchen, fixing breakfast. Michael was too young to realize what they might have been doing before they’d reached the kitchen. All he cared about was the fact that Molly was having breakfast with him, which seemed to please him immensely.
She hadn’t yet dealt with the possibility that Michael might blab about her presence in his home to his classmates at the Children’s Garden. The school was closed for the holidays. Once it opened again, after New Year’s Day, she and John would have to reassess their situation.
But that was more than a week away, and Molly didn’t want to think about it now. If she thought about it, she would start hoping that by the end of that week a bond would exist between her and John, something as strong as her love for him—and if that bond formed, the rest would be easy.
If the bond didn’t form, if it was too soon, too fast for John to acknowledge it...well, then, she might have to be more discreet about spending time with John. Which would be awful.
She wouldn’t dwell on it tonight. Not when the black winter sky was strewn with stars and the scent of snow danced in the air. Tonight was Christmas Eve, and tomorrow would be Christmas. There would be time to worry about the future when the future arrived.
The high-school girl John had hired to baby-sit sat in a stupor in the den, her eyes unfocused and the TV tuned to a low-budget science-fiction flick. Stirring herself to life when John and Molly entered, she reported that Michael had thrown a fit when she wouldn’t let him have a second ice-cream sundae but calmed down when she warned him that Santa only visited good little children. John pressed a very large bill into her hand and helped her on with her coat. Once he had departed to take her home, Molly collected the pile of wrapped gifts she and John had hidden in his cellar and arranged them under the tree. She slipped into the pile the two presents she’d gotten him, smuggled into his house inside her overnight bag. She’d purchased a Shetland wool sweater in burgundy, because he looked so handsome in sweaters, and a book about fathers, filled with soul-baring poems, amusing anecdotes and beautiful photographs of fathers and their children. She camouflaged her two presents among the wrapped gifts for Michael, and then headed down the hall to John’s bedroom.
She liked the room. She liked his house. She felt almost too comfortable in his kitchen, his living room, his bed. If Santa could bring her only one gift this year, she wished it would be that John felt for her what she felt for him—and that he trusted his feelings.
She slipped out of her dress and went into the bathroom to wash. When she emerged, wearing only her slip and nylons, John was in the bedroom, his tie undone and dangling from his collar, his shirt unbuttoned, and his eyes seductive as he scrutinized her. The heat in his gaze ignited tiny fires inside her, fires that grew hotter and brighter as he crossed the room to her. And then his hands were on her, his touch burning through the silk of her lingerie, his mouth claiming hers, and she knew that even if Santa couldn’t give her her heart’s desire for Christmas, she would at least have John’s love tonight.
***
“HE CAME! Santa came!” Michael screamed through the door. “Daddy, get up! Santa came!
Molly opened one eye and groaned softly. “What time is it?” she whispered.
John twisted to peer at the clock on the night table behind him. He cursed softly. “Six-oh-two.”
“I warned you,” she murmured, cuddling closer to him. He reflexively closed his arms around her and slid one leg between hers. While John had been an outstanding lover with only one working hand, he was even more incredible when he wasn’t healing from stab wounds. Last night he had loved her with his agile hands, his graceful fingers, his mouth, his body. And this morning, she didn’t want to break from him.
But Michael was whooping and hollering on the other side of the closed bedroom door. John must have locked it; given how hyper Michael was, he would have stormed into the room if he could.
“Go wait in the living room,” John yelled, releasing Molly and sitting. “Give me a minute, and then we’ll have a look at what Santa brought you.”
“He came, he came!” Michael shrieked, his voice fading as he ran down the hall to the living room.
John leaned over and dropped a kiss on Molly’s lips. Then he swung out of bed. She tried to shake off her languor—and she tried to resist the urge to ogle him as he strode naked to the bathroom and shut himself inside. She considered staying in bed while John went to the living room to watch Michael dive into his gifts. Rolling over and burrowing under the covers might be easier than emerging from John’s bedroom and facing his son at this ungodly hour.
But then she would miss the thrill of watching as Michael giggled and jumped up and down and tore the wrapping paper to shreds. The joy of Christmas wasn’t getting gifts. It was witnessing the pleasure of others getting gifts.
When John stepped out of the bathroom, she dove in. A quick swipe of her mouth with a toothbrush, a fast splash of water, and she returned to the bedroom and scrambled into the jeans and rugby shirt she’d packed in her overnight bag. John made a half-hearted attempt to straighten his disheveled hair with his hands, then gave up and opened the door.
Patience wasn’t Michael’s forte. By the time they’d reached the living room, Michael had ripped apart the package containing the toy plane puzzle and snapped the pieces haphazardly together. He was standing on the sofa cushions in his pj’s, waving the plane back and forth and making growling engine noises.
“Hey, Mike—off the couch,” John chided.
Michael leaped down and raced across the room to his father. “Look what he bringed me, Daddy! Look what Santa bringed!” His gaze took in Molly, lurking nervously behind John, and he smiled. “Look, Molly! Look what Santa bringed! It’s a airplane!” With that, he turned and zoomed the plane back toward the tree.
Well, that was simple enough. If only everything could be as simple. If only John could be as accepting of what was blossoming between him and Molly as his son was.
The next several minutes were a blur of tattered paper, jubilant cries—”A boat, Daddy! I go sail the boat in the sink!”—the forest fragrance of the tree and John’s gratified smile. He handed Michael package after package—”Look, Daddy! A sweater! I can wear it!”—and slowly
eroded the mound of gifts under the tree. As the pile shrank, she caught glimpses of the presents she’d hidden behind Michael’s last night. She wondered when John would notice them, whether he would like them, whether she’d presumed too much by placing them under his tree.
He did notice them. He glanced at them, then at her, and quirked an eyebrow. She smiled shyly, and he smiled, too, a lot less shyly. He watched Michael twirl around the room, moving his plane in death-defying loops and figure-eights before navigating the vehicle into the den.
Alone for the moment, John turned back to Molly. “What’s that?” he asked, gesturing toward the packages.
“There’s one way to find out,” she murmured, doing her best to ignore the anxiety that nibbled at her. Those were the last two presents under the tree. He hadn’t gotten her anything. She shouldn’t have given him anything, either. Now he was going to be embarrassed, and he’d resent her for making him feel guilty, and—
“It’s great,” he said, folding back the tissue paper that lined the box containing the sweater. He lifted it and shook out the folds, then ran his hands over the soft wool. “Or should I say, ‘Look, I can wear it!’“ he mimicked Michael, only at a lower decibel.
His eyes sparkled. Maybe he wasn’t suffering from embarrassment or guilt.
And maybe he should be, if he’d neglected to get a gift for her.
She kept her misgivings at bay as he unwrapped the book. “Wow,” he murmured, lifting the book into his lap and leafing through the pages. “This is nice. Very nice.” He inched over to where she was seated on the floor, leaning back against the couch, and arched his arm around her. “Thank you, Molly. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” she muttered, half furious with him for not giving her a present, and half suspicious that he was up to something.
He relaxed beside her, his legs extended, the book and sweater in his lap and his arm draping her shoulders. “I guess Mike liked his loot.”
“I guess so.” She choked on the words.
And then her suspicions were confirmed. He frowned, squinted, and pulled away from her. “Uh-oh. It looks like there’s something on the other side of the tree.”
She saw nothing behind the low boughs, but John crawled over the carpet to the tree, lifted some branches out of his way, and retrieved a cube-shaped box. “Look at that,” he drawled, handing it to her. “It’s for you.”
Her anger fled, replaced by laughter. “You’re a terrible actor, John.”
“Yeah? I had you going for a minute.” He settled on the carpet next to her and leaned back against the cushions. “Go ahead, open it.”
She did, much more carefully than either of the Russos. She eased off the tape, lifted the corners of the paper, and removed it from the box without tearing it. Then she pulled off the lid of the box. And scowled in bewilderment. Inside were tiny tufts of foam-rubber.
“It’s a foam pit,” he said. “I made it.”
“It’s...very nice,” she managed, fingering the top layer of foam and wondering how to hide her disappointment.
“I like the foam pit at your school.”
“Yes...” The foam pit was where they’d kissed the first time. It was where she’d realized how attracted to John she was, how much she could care for him if she let herself. But to fill a plain cardboard box with bits of foam?
“Maybe you ought to let go and jump around in it,” he suggested.
She glanced at him in bewilderment. He was smiling slyly, and she began to suspect that he was teasing her again. Shaking her head in feigned annoyance, she tilted the box and plunged her fingers into the foam. She felt something.
Gingerly, she lifted it out. A bracelet, simple gold links with two charms dangling from them. The charms resembled small gold stick-figures, one a girl and one a boy, the way a young child might draw them. They hung close enough together on the chain that their stick arms touched, as if they were holding hands.
“Oh, my God,” she breathed.
His smile waned slightly. “You don’t like it?”
“I love it!” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed him hard, then soft. She wound up half on his lap, leaning back against his chest while she fidgeted with the clasp. Her hands shook—with excitement, with love, with the giddy panic that came from accepting all the implications of a gift of jewelry—but somehow she managed to get the bracelet on. “Look at it, John! It’s perfect!”
“I saw it and thought of you.”
She jiggled her wrist and watched the stick-figure girl and boy dance. When they finally grew still, they seemed to be holding hands again. They reminded her of the drawings her students created at the Children’s Garden...but they also reminded her of John and herself. Side by side, touching.
“So,” he said as he closed his arms around her and drew her back against his chest. “You like it.”
“Almost as much as the box of foam,” she said solemnly.
He laughed. She smiled. She’d never felt more content, more serene...more in love. Santa Claus seemed to have brought her exactly what she wanted.
***
IN THE EVENING, after a dinner of ham and potatoes, an eggy bread, a spinach salad and peppermint-stick ice-cream, he drove her home. She’d packed only one night’s worth of necessities into her bag, and, she wanted to give Gail a call at the ski lodge to wish her and her friends a merry Christmas. Michael asked if he could come for the ride, but, as John had complained to Molly, he hadn’t had a moment alone with her since six a.m. The high school girl he’d paid so generously last night was more than happy to come back to John’s house and watch Michael for a couple of hours.
A couple of hours. In a couple of hours, she could invite John into her condominium, into her bedroom. Or maybe not the bedroom. Without Michael to interrupt them, they could make love anywhere. On the living room floor. On the kitchen table. Well, no, it wouldn’t bear their weight, but the counter would.
She was astonished by how deeply, how crazily, how single-mindedly she wanted him. But then it occurred to her that the reason she was so drawn to him physically was because she was so drawn to him in every other way. Roasting a Christmas ham with him had seemed so natural. Playing with Michael in the den, where they all watched a video of “Frosty the Snowman,” had felt so right. Waking up with John that morning had been as glorious as going to bed with him the night before. Adorning her wrist with the bracelet he’d given her made her feel magical.
He was wearing the sweater she’d given him. She doubted it made him feel magical—sweaters didn’t have the same powers that bracelets had—but she was touched that he’d put it on, and it looked splendid on him. In fact, she couldn’t wait for him to take it off.
“That’s my street,” she said, pointing to the plank sign bearing the name of her condominium development. It stood on the corner, nestled into a cluster of rhododendrons half-buried beneath the most recent snowfall.
John nodded and turned onto her street. It meandered in a picturesque route past staggered rows of shingled townhouses with sloping roofs and vest-pocket front yards.
“My unit is just around the curve in the road. See where all those cars are?” She noticed at least a dozen cars parked along the curve in front of her home. “Someone must be having a party.”
John was forced to park half a block a way because of all the cars. As soon as she shoved open her door, she heard rock music pounding through the open front window of the unit directly across the street from hers. She knew the family who lived there, a usually quiet middle-aged couple, with a son away at college.
He was obviously home from college now. “That must be Andy and his friends,” she said. She’d seen a fair amount of Andy last summer, when he’d lived with his parents and taken a job at a sporting-goods shop in town. He was a jock, according to his parents, attending college on a lacrosse scholarship.
“What a racket,” John muttered.
“I’m sure they’re just having fun,” Molly defended him. �
��Andy’s a good kid.”
“Why does he have the window open? It’s twenty degrees out.”
“It’s probably ninety degrees inside. Look how crowded it is in there.” They could see a mass of silhouettes against the drape covering the window, and hear dozens of voices shouting to be heard above the loud music.
Molly doubted she and John would be bothered by the noise once they got inside. She was going to keep her windows firmly shut, and if the temperature rose to ninety degrees in her home, passion would be to blame. “Forget it,” she cajoled John, who seemed distracted by the rowdy bash across the street.
He followed her up the steps to her front porch, glanced over his shoulder one final time at the party, then turned his back on it and eased her key from her hand. He slid it into the lock, twisted the door knob—and flinched at the sound of crashing glass.
They both spun around. Someone had thrown something through the window and onto the street. A beer bottle, it appeared.
She sensed energy coiling inside John. His hand fisted around the doorknob as he stared at the shards of green glass scattered across the asphalt, glinting in the light of a street lamp. “Those kids are drinking.”
“Well, they probably—”
“Someone’s going to get hurt. Are the parents home?”
“I have no idea, John. Come inside. If you’re really concerned, we can call the police.”
He turned back to her, his expression stern and stone-hard. “I am the police.”
“Yes, but—but you’re off-duty. Come inside, please. We’ll call and let someone else handle it.”
“Molly.” He pushed open her door and nudged her inside. “You stay here. I’m going to go over and break up the party before someone gets hurt.”
“Do you have to?” She sounded plaintive, practically begging. She didn’t want him to break up Andy’s party. Neighbor relations were a delicate thing. She’d never had a problem with Andy or his parents before, and she wanted to keep it that way. “Maybe someone else has already called the police. You don’t have to go over there.”
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