“Forty-eight inches wide, seventy-two inches long,” he said. In the background, she heard the snap of a metal measure reeling into its case.
“The cornices will fit,” she said. “Are you interested?”
“Sure. Could you deliver them now?”
“Now?” she repeated.
“Why not? The weather’s getting too bad to go out, but I could cook a couple of steaks for dinner. How about it?”
Beth glanced outside. The wind had picked up and was slapping an occasional raindrop against the window. “I guess I could,” she said, suddenly glad for the invitation. She’d back her minivan up to the garage and load the cornices in without even getting them wet.
“Do you need help moving those things?”
“No, I do it all the time. Piece of cake.”
“That reminds me, I’ve still got half of the pound cake Leanne brought over the night of the housewarming. We’ll finish it off.”
“Sounds great,” she said.
“See you soon,” he replied.
Beth hurried to find something decent to wear. She hadn’t paid much attention to her clothes in the past couple of years and tended to buy all-purpose pantsuits when she required something new. Today they’d be putting up cornices, so she didn’t want to get too fancy, but she dug a pair of wool-and-cashmere taupe pants out of the back of her closet and tried them on. They still fit, and she located the matching sweater without much trouble.
When she was dressed, she stared at herself in the mirror. The pants were snugger than she remembered, clearly outlining the shape of her derriere, and the sweater revealed the curves of her breasts more than she recalled. She found a bottle of cologne in a drawer in her bathroom and spritzed some on her throat and wrists. When she saw her reflection, she almost didn’t recognize her own polished image. She didn’t look like Mitchell’s mommy at all.
It had been a long time since she’d dressed with a man in mind, and it felt good.
ZELMA’S CORNICES fit Tom’s windows perfectly, and, as Beth had expected, the print brought out the rich shading of color in the Oriental rug.
“We can use plain blue draperies with these, and I have some of that medallion print left. I’ll sew matching throw pillows for your couch.” She stood with her hands on her hips, studying the effect of the cornices, and it was all Tom could do not to slide his arm around her shoulders.
“You’ll make them yourself?” he asked.
“It’s not a big deal. Money was in short supply when I was a girl, so I taught myself to sew on my grandmother’s old machine.”
“She must be proud of you.”
She turned toward him, forehead furrowed in a frown. “She passed away a few months before I got married.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“We didn’t get along,” Beth said, folding the wrapping paper from the cornices.
“I’ll put that in the trash can in the garage,” he said. He took it from her and disappeared for a few moments.
When he returned to the kitchen, Beth was peering into the toaster oven at the potatoes baking there. “I’m sorry if I talk too much,” Tom said as he slid the seasoned steaks under the broiler. “I only asked about your grandmother to be polite.”
She smiled ruefully. “I’m not sensitive about the situation. Actually, I’m a better mother to Mitchell because she was mean to me.”
Maybe he hadn’t heard her right. “You’d better explain that one.”
Beth busied herself with taking the sour cream from the refrigerator and spooning it into a bowl. “Because of what I went through with Gran, I’m determined to do the best job I can with Mitchell. No child should have to grow up feeling unloved and unwanted, nor should any child be mistreated as I was.”
“Mistreated?”
“Oh, she didn’t hit me or anything, and I understand why she wasn’t thrilled when my mother and father opted out of parenthood in favor of moving to a commune in California. It’s just that there was no warmth in our household, no encouragement, no love. My grandmother couldn’t love me. She wasn’t capable of it.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t have a happy childhood. That should be everyone’s right,” he said. He and Bruce and Leanne had loving, conscientious parents who’d provided them with opportunities that a lot of kids didn’t have.
“Unfortunately, some children have a harder time than others. Later, I grew close to Richie’s parents, and they provide all the nurturing I need.”
“Sometimes in-laws don’t stay in touch after a divorce.”
“Mine didn’t approve of what Richie did. Corinne, his mom, spent a weekend with Mitchell and me right after we separated, said she loved us both and wanted to remain my friend. His dad, Allen, stops in once or twice a month, gives me advice on keeping up the yard, mows the grass in the summer when he can. They’re the only family I have, really.”
“Good for you,” he said. “So why aren’t you with them for the holidays?”
She carried the sour cream to the kitchen table. “They’re visiting Richie and Starla so they can be with Mitchell and their new granddaughter on Christmas morning. We’re invited to stay overnight at their house in January.” She paused. “Anything else I can do to help with this meal?”
“You don’t have to do a thing,” he said quietly. He was impressed that she was able to relate the story of her unhappy childhood without rancor and that she maintained close ties with her ex-in-laws. Under the circumstances, most such relationships would have broken down.
He silently offered Beth a glass of wine. She accepted it, and he popped the tab off a beer. He leaned back against the counter, appreciating how pretty she was. He’d been lonely since he returned to Farish, despite Divver and Patty’s open invitation to visit with them and their teenage daughter anytime. Even hanging out with Leanne and Eddie had palled after a while, though he loved them and their kids. He was always odd man out at such gatherings, didn’t have the skill to fit into their family circles when he’d never created one of his own. It was frustrating at such times to feel so out of it, but he knew of no way to reconcile his bachelor status with Divver and Patty’s obvious delight in their couplehood or Leanne and Eddie’s absorption in their kids.
Thinking about this, he set the beer bottle on the counter and opened the door of the oven a bit farther.
“Now how about you?” Beth asked. “Background information, I mean.”
As he flipped the steaks, he grinned. “You already know everything worth knowing.”
“Don’t be so sure. I haven’t figured out how a guy like you manages to stay single until age thirty-four, which is how old Leanne said you are.”
“Thirty-five, and maybe I never found the right woman,” he said, fielding that one easily. It wasn’t as if the question hadn’t been asked before, and he’d developed a stock answer.
When the steaks were done, he arranged them on a platter. Beth asked if she could say grace, and he told her to go ahead. The blessing was a simple one, but it reminded him of how important church was in Farish; perhaps he’d start attending himself.
The steaks were tender, the potatoes fluffy. Even the salad, on which they’d collaborated, was perfect. Beth appeared relaxed and at ease, laughing at his jokes, contributing some of her own. She had brought a few decorating magazines, and after dinner, they sat close together on the couch, thumbing through them as Tom told her what appealed to him in some of the rooms and what didn’t.
When the rain began to harden into ice, coating the tree branches outside the windows, Tom built a fire in the fireplace, and soon it was crackling away, little sparks flitting up the chimney like so many fireflies.
This inspired him to relate how, on long summer evenings while the adults in the family cooled off with tall glasses of lemonade on the back porch, he and Leanne and Bruce used to catch fireflies. They collected them in mason jars and turned out all the lights in the house, then used the jars as flashlights as they brushed their teeth and got r
eady for bed. The captive insects were still glowing on their dresser tops as they drifted off to sleep. Later, their father would sneak into their rooms, gather up the jars and release the fireflies into the night so they wouldn’t die. There was more, too, that he recounted: fishing off the bridge outside town, upsetting his parents by trying to fly off the barn roof at his grandparents’ ranch, lighting forbidden firecrackers with Bruce and Leanne in the far pasture.
“Sounds like an ideal childhood. Except for the firecrackers, of course. Too dangerous,” Beth observed, leaning back so that her hair spilled against the cushions.
“We were careful,” he said. He longed to slide his hand under that long gleaming mass and pull her close. He didn’t, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it had something to do with wanting to look at her, to marvel at her beauty. Or perhaps it was because he liked listening to her voice, which had a soothing tone that put him in mind of river water slipping over stones.
“I can’t imagine growing up any other way,” he said honestly. His childhood had centered around his parents’ home and their grandparents’ ranch, where he and his siblings had learned to ride and rope and run the barrels. They’d each had a horse, and his earliest memories were of being perched on the pommel of his dad’s saddle while his mom followed on her own mount. After the grandparents died, their ranch had been sold, its upkeep too expensive.
“I wish Mitchell could have that kind of life,” Beth was saying wistfully. “Instead, he goes to day care five days a week. He doesn’t have any siblings except for Ava, and she’s far away.”
“You didn’t have brothers or sisters and you turned out okay,” he pointed out.
“I was lonely.”
“That’s because your grandmother was a cold, unloving person.”
“True, and it’s why I bend over backward to be kind and affectionate toward my son.”
She spoke earnestly, and he admired her for the way she cared about Mitchell. Yet he remembered her leniency with the boy on the day of Breakfast with Santa. Not only had she defended him when he was being bratty, but she’d allowed him to disturb other people in the hospital waiting room. Didn’t she understand that being a responsible parent meant that sometimes you had to lay down the law? That you couldn’t be unfailingly nice to a kid when he was acting up? That you had to exert control for the child’s own good?
Apparently not, because she was talking about the importance of understanding small children.
“I keep in mind that Mitchell’s still very young. He should feel only love in his life. I mean, the world can be a nasty place. That’s why I’m protective of him.”
Tom stood up abruptly. He didn’t want to say anything to upset Beth, but Mitchell would soon find out that people didn’t like kids who didn’t behave. It wasn’t fair to a child to let him think that the whole world would put up with bad behavior.
“Another glass of wine?” he said, changing the subject. He’d hoped his time with Beth would be about them, not about her son.
Beth handed over her glass. “I shouldn’t drink so much of this,” she murmured. “It makes me sleepy.”
He went to the kitchen to pour refills, relieved he’d avoided a major discussion that would only have created a barrier between them. When he returned he saw that Beth had tossed pillows from the couch in front of the fireplace. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “This seems so cozy and warm.”
It did indeed, and he was glad to stretch out beside her. The rain beat against the windowpane, the fire began to die and the wine sang in his veins of things that the two of them might do together. He curved his arm around Beth’s shoulders and pulled her to him so that her head rested on his chest.
“I should leave,” she said, though she made no move to do so.
“Please don’t. Driving could be dangerous until the ice melts. Besides, it’s good to relax and just talk. On the other hand, we could…do something else.”
“Like what?” she asked playfully.
“Like this,” he said, gently kissing her temple. “And this.” He bent his head and captured her lips. They tasted of wine, and they were so very soft. He drifted with the kiss, taking his time.
“I really really should go,” she said when he let her come up for air.
“I really really wish you wouldn’t.”
“Tom, I’m not ready to make love,” she said quietly. “I’m still not comfortable with—with—” Her voice faltered.
“Being with a man?”
“I haven’t dated since the divorce. I’m out of practice.”
“I’ll be glad to help you out,” he said. “We could practice all night long.”
To his relief, she laughed, but she didn’t reply, only continued gazing at the fire.
“I want to make love to you, Beth. It doesn’t have to be tonight.”
“I’m feeling so—so sleepy. When we make love, I’d like to be more wide-awake. Would like to anticipate and plan for it.”
If this were anyone else, he’d think she was making excuses. He almost chided her for putting off the inevitable. But, he realized in a moment of clarity, Beth meant what she said. He also intuited the unsaid—that making love, for her, was a major event, not just a quick tumble. This was new in his experience, in a world where people slid in and out of bed with various partners as if the act were no more important than any other bodily function—say, a sneeze. He found Beth quaint. And sexy. And altogether remarkable.
“Tell you what,” he said, his voice close to her ear. “You decide when and where it’s going to happen. Surprise me.”
“Mmm,” she said. “I like that idea.” She snuggled nearer and slid her fingers trustingly under his hand where it rested on his chest.
He felt his heart beating through the bones and flesh of her hand, thrumming a soothing rhythm that, along with the music of the falling rain, lulled them both to sleep.
Chapter Nine
When Beth woke up in Tom’s living room the next morning, she had no idea where she was. Instead of opening her eyes to the familiar sight of her own flowered chintz curtains, she saw a fireplace with its logs reduced to ashes and a Christmas tree in the corner. Her head was pillowed on a couch cushion on top of a beautiful Oriental rug, and she was wearing the same clothes she’d worn last night. A collage of images surfaced from memory—putting up the cornices with Tom, eating dinner, staying until the storm abated—and she sat up abruptly.
“Tom?” She smelled coffee and frying bacon. A watery sun filtered through the glittering tree branches outside the living room windows, melting the ice so that it dripped steadily onto the ground. A blanket that hadn’t been there last night was spread across her legs.
He appeared in the doorway, smiling. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“What time is it?” she asked as she scrambled to her feet.
“Almost eight o’clock. I’ve already showered and shaved.”
“I’d like to wash my face,” she said. “I’m embarrassed. I should never have drunk so much wine.”
“You can use the bathroom at the head of the stairs. Clean washcloths and towels in the linen closet, and you’ll find a package of toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. Help yourself. There’s only one tube of toothpaste, but I don’t mind sharing.”
She pushed her hair out of her face and smiled. “I’ll be right out,” she said.
She’d never seen the upstairs of Tom’s house, and she peeked into each of the four bedrooms. One was obviously Tom’s room. It was enormous and contained a large bed and an oak dresser. The others were large but unfurnished. Wide windows admitted a lot of light, and here, as downstairs, flooring was the original pine planking.
After she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she felt better. She thought about taking a shower, but she hadn’t been invited to do that, and undressing in his house seemed too intimate, too forward. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, realizing that she looked almost as different as she felt, and she wasn’t exact
ly sure why. Maybe it was that she didn’t have any motherly responsibilities at present. On one level, that didn’t feel comfortable. On another, the one where she was when she was with Tom, it felt wonderful and special and—well, fun. Sometimes these days she tended to forget that recreation for a twenty-nine-year-old woman wasn’t necessarily whooping down water slides or indulging Mitchell in an intense game of Candyland.
Eggs, bacon and grits were on the table when she appeared in the kitchen. “You look scrumptious,” he said when she walked in.
He did, too, attired as he was in a plain navy-blue sweatshirt and well-worn jeans, along with the usual boots. “Thanks,” she said easily, sliding into the chair she’d occupied last night for dinner. “So does the food.”
“Dig in,” he directed, and she helped herself. The eggs had been cooked with cheese, the grits was creamy and the bacon crisp.
“This is really good,” she said.
“Breakfast is my specialty. Whatever you want—omelettes, waffles, huevos rancheros—I can do. I decided on scrambled eggs this morning, instead of waking you to ask what you wanted.”
“That’s fine with me.” She paused. “The weather’s cleared,” she said, glancing outside. The ice storm had graced the backyard with exquisite artistry; icicles trailed from the shed roof, and every shrub sparkled in the sunshine.
“The front that came through last night has broken up, but you were wise not to be on the roads before the ice began to melt.”
“Be that as it may, I’d better go home. I have last-minute shopping to do.”
“I promised to help Eddie put together a couple of bikes for my nephews this morning. Otherwise we could go together.”
“Doubtful,” she said.
“Oh?”
“I’ll need to drive to Austin to find what I want,” she told him. It was an hour’s drive, and she went a couple of times a month.
“Well,” he said, “the roads should be safe by now.”
He would be amazed if he knew what she planned to buy. But that was a secret she wasn’t ready to divulge just yet.
Breakfast With Santa Page 9
