by Day Leclaire
“It’s not really my birthday.” She rested her cheek against his chest. “The town fought over that, too. Some people wanted Thanksgiving to be my birthday. But my first parents said no, because it would hold too many sad memories. So they changed it to two weeks before.”
“No one knows the real date?”
“Someone knows,” she whispered. “Or they did once upon a time.”
Rage gripped him again, a rage as deep and overpowering as her pain. He fought to hide it from her. She sure as hell didn’t need that on top of everything else. “Your parents didn’t even put that much information in the note they left?”
“Only my first name. They also said that they couldn’t take care of me anymore and please find a willing couple to raise me.”
It took a moment before he had his temper under sufficient control to speak calmly. “You know what I think?”
“What?”
He swept a tumble of curls from her cheek and cupped her chin, tilting her face up to his. Shadows darkened her eyes, shadows he’d give anything to erase. “I don’t think they could have been your real parents. I suspect you’d been left in their care. Perhaps your parents had died and they were appointed your guardians. They decided the responsibility was too much and—” He waved a hand to indicate the town of Hidden Harbor. “And here you are.”
Her mouth turned down in denial, but a wistful hope blossomed in her gaze. “Do you think so?” she asked skeptically.
“Yes, I do.” His thumbs caressed her cheekbones and he spoke with unmistakable urgency. “Listen to me, Hanna. We’ll never know for sure, will we? So isn’t it better to assume that strangers abandoned you, rather than your parents? If we can’t be certain, why not assume the best, rather than the worst?”
Tears filled her eyes. Beautiful, emotional, heartrending tears. “What if it’s not true?”
“Do you have it within you to abandon a child you had borne?”
“Never!” came her fierce response.
“Then neither could your mother and father. These were strangers, strangers without heart or soul who left you with a town who loved you and raised you to the best of their ability.” He hesitated, something else occurring to him. “Is that why you’ve never left Hidden Harbor? Because you owe them?”
“I owe the townspeople a debt I can never repay. But I haven’t left because Hidden Harbor is my home. I don’t want to live anywhere else.”
He decided to leave it alone. “And Henry Tyler? Is that why you married him? Gratitude?”
“There were a lot of reasons.”
“Such as his illness?”
“Yes.”
“And helping to save his farm?”
“That, too.”
“So now you’re taking over Henry’s Thanksgiving basket tradition, right?”
She shrugged. “It’s a good cause.”
“I know it is, sweetheart. I don’t question that for a minute. But are you doing it out of a sense of obligation, because you’re fulfilling a debt? Or are you doing it because it gives you pleasure to help others?”
She didn’t understand. He could see it in the perplexed line that formed between her eyebrows. “Does it matter?”
“I’m beginning to think it does.”
“I’m helping people who deserve help. What else is there?”
A lot more. And with luck, he’d show her. “What happens when you’ve finished preparing the baskets?”
“I call Pru and she arranges to have them picked up and delivered anonymously.”
“You don’t take care of it yourself?”
She looked at him as though he’d lost his mind. “That would sort of defeat the whole purpose of anonymous, don’t you think?”
“Or perhaps you let Pru take care of it so you can hold people at a distance—the Dragonlady guarding the swan princess.”
“Why would I want to do that?” He didn’t answer, hoping she’d figure that out for herself. Sure enough, she released her breath in a sigh. “Okay, Marco. I get it. If I don’t let people get too close, they can’t hurt me. They can’t abandon me emotionally.”
He smiled tenderly. Score one for the good guys. “Makes it a bit tough to break the sorcerer’s spell, don’t you think?”
“Point taken,” she conceded. “So what now?”
“Want to have some fun this year?”
His question intrigued her. “How?”
“I’ll show you as soon as we’re done with the baskets.” Gently, he set her from him. “Get busy, wife. We have baskets to put together.”
An hour later, a dozen baskets were filled to overflowing and they staggered to the car with them just as the sun sank into a stripped field of cotton.
“Where’s the first stop?” he asked as they locked up the church and returned to the car.
“The Chase family over on Beech. Turn right at the first intersection. Their house is a ways down. I’ll warn you when we get close.”
Instead of driving directly up to the house, he parked the car around the corner where it wouldn’t be seen. “I’ll get the basket. You lead the way. Oh, and if you want this to stay anonymous, you’d better pull your hood up over that hair. It’s a dead giveaway.”
“It always has been,” she grumbled, doing as he suggested.
The house Hanna indicated had definitely seen better days. The porch steps sagged and the peeling clapboard planks were in desperate need of a coat of paint. It looked like a house that could use a Thanksgiving treat. Signaling for his wife to follow, he crept up the steps and gently set the basket in front of the door.
“Ready?” he whispered. She watched him, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, and he grinned at her excitement.
“What now?”
“Ring the doorbell.”
“But they’ll answer,” she protested.
“Don’t argue. Ring it.”
Reaching past him, she stabbed the button. The instant she had, he grasped her hand and raced down the steps. Snatching her around the waist, he hauled her into a nearby clump of bushes. Crouching, he smothered her helpless laughter with his hand. A moment later, the front door opened and a scrawny boy of about ten appeared. Spying the basket, he crowed in excitement.
“Hey, Mom, come quick! Look what someone left.”
A heavily pregnant woman appeared, along with what seemed like an endless stream of children, every last one of them younger than the ten-year-old. They all gathered around the basket, oohing and ahhing over the contents. Hanna’s laughter died and Marc removed his hand, glancing down at her. She watched the family, an odd expression on her face, almost as though she’d never realized how much her baskets meant to the families who received them.
Then it struck him. How could she? All the years she’d been doing this, she’d kept a safe distance, never touched by those she’d touched. But this time she witnessed the impact of her actions—saw and felt and understood the power of kindness extended and received. He remained quietly in the bushes until the Chase family had gathered up their gift and returned inside. And he continued to wait while his wife fully absorbed what had transpired.
Finally, she turned to him, her face glowing with a light that transcended explanation or expression—a light that eclipsed decades of pain. “I never realized,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure, cara,” he whispered back.
She tugged on his jacket. “Come on. Let’s go. I can’t wait to deliver the next one.”
And so they went into the night, stopping at house after house, ringing the bell or pounding on the door, before scurrying into the bushes to watch as their gifts were welcomed with exclamations of joy and delight. At long last, they came to their final stop.
“This is Mother Jonathan’s house. She was my first Mom,” Hanna explained. “She couldn’t have children, so she always called me her gift.”
“It must have been hard giving you up.”
“It was hard on both of us. But my second parents scheduled
in regular visits, so I saw her every week.” She brightened. “You’ll get to meet her soon. I have Thanksgiving dinner with all my parents, which can get pretty filling. Fortunately Mother Jonathan cooks light. She always used to underestimate how much she should fix.”
“You’d think she’d have figured it out after a while.”
“You’d think, but she never did. Ever since Pop Jonathan died, Henry and I have delivered the baskets. I don’t think Pops left her well off,” Hanna confided. “Wait until you meet her. She’s a real sweetie. Always happy and upbeat.”
The Jonathan house was tiny and could also use a paint job. “Perhaps we could hold a painting party,” he suggested quietly as they approached the front door.
“I’ll have Pru schedule it.”
“No need. I’ll remember.” He set down the basket and gestured toward the door. “Do your stuff, princess.”
Grinning up at him, Hanna rapped sharply. Grabbing his hand, she raced down the steps with him and flew around an overgrown oleander. Peeking through the long green leaves, she slanted him a quick, eager glance. After a moment, the door opened, light streaming from the interior. A tiny figure shambled onto the porch.
“She looks old,” Hanna murmured in concern. “I never noticed before.”
Slowly, Mother Jonathan sank onto the top step of her porch beside the basket and gathered it in her arms.
Hanna stirred. “What’s she doing? Why isn’t she taking it inside? Is something wrong?”
“No, sweet. Something’s very right.”
Clutching the basket, Mother Jonathan rocked slowly back and forth, cradling the contents to her chest. Words whispered through the crisp night, but they were too far away to hear them clearly. But the broken tone suggested they were words of desperate thanks. At long last, she climbed to her feet and turned toward the door. Beside him, Hanna froze and he knew she’d seen what the light reflected, just as he had.
Tears.
“She’s crying.” She started around the bush, fighting him when he stopped her. “Marco, we have to do something.”
“We did do something, Hanna,” he explained gently. “We provided her with a Thanksgiving dinner she couldn’t have otherwise afforded. And we allowed her to keep her dignity intact.”
She rounded on him, helplessness vying with a fury directed squarely at herself. “She didn’t have enough food. I didn’t realize. I swear, I didn’t. I’d have done something. I’d have helped her.”
“She has enough now. You gave that to her.”
“But I didn’t do enough!” she practically shouted. “I’d have known if I hadn’t been so preoccupied with that damned business. If I hadn’t been so determined to—”
She broke off, but the unspoken words scorched the air between them. Determined to hold myself at a safe distance, to hold people at a safe distance.
The tears came at last, harsh, painful tears. Tears she’d kept locked inside for twenty-four long years. He caught her close, holding her with silent promise. “You did good, love,” he soothed. “You did fine.”
“No! No, I’m supposed to—” Her breath hiccuped in her throat. “To take care of her like she took care of me.” She stared up at Marc, begging for an answer. “Why didn’t I? Why?”
Sorrow etched deep lines in his face. “It’s your life, Hanna. It’s your choice. Lists. Schedules. Charts. All the things that help keep you safe and distant from others. Or people. Nosy, messy, inconvenient, occasionally heartbreaking, but filled with love. It’s your decision.”
She shook her head, panic dimming the color of her eyes. “Marco—”
“I understand this is difficult for you. I understand why you’re afraid to allow love to touch you.” Hanna turned from him, but he could see the flicker of her lashes that revealed she was still listening. “But if you close the door on people, you truly will be alone and deserted, destined to swim in that lake of tears by yourself for the rest of your life. You’ll condemn yourself to forever being the swan, instead of transformed into the woman you were meant to become.”
He didn’t dare say more. Either she would take his words to heart and open herself to others. Or he’d lose her. Permanently.
And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Hanna spent the next two days giving serious consideration to Marco’s comments. He was right and she knew it. She grimaced. Of course, that didn’t make it any easier to do as he’d suggested. She’d spent her entire life protecting herself from hurt, her fear of abandonment governing her every decision. But with Marco...
She closed her eyes and faced the undeniable truth. From the moment she’d seen him, she’d been unable to hold herself at a distance. He’d dropped into her life with all the flair and grace and passion of the character he’d imitated at the Cinderella Ball, breaching her defenses with a simple look
But clearly, his patience would soon run out. Either she trusted him or she didn’t. Either she lo—
A tapping at the office door interrupted her thoughts. “Hanna, girl? We need to talk,” Pru announced.
Hanna released a silent sigh and continued to stare broodingly from one of the windows fronting her office building. “Not now.”
“Yes, right now. The boys and I have something to tell you.”
“The boys?” Hanna turned, surprised to find herself hemmed in by her secretary and three overgrown sons. “What’s this about?” she asked suspiciously.
Jeb took the lead. “It’s about Salvatore. And Hanna...” He hesitated, his expression unusually solemn. “It’s not good.”
CHAPTER TEN
HANNA CLOSED HER EYES. Not now. Oh, please, not now! “Look, boys, you’re going to have to learn to get along with him. He’s my husband and I—” She stilled. “And I—”
It hit then. Hit with a force that provoked tears of shocked wonder. And I love him! Why hadn’t she realized before? All the signs were there. Her reaction whenever he came near. Her ability to reveal her deepest secrets, secrets she’d kept hidden from every other person. It also explained her desperation to change a lifetime of habits. More than anything, she wanted to open herself to Marco, to share the future he offered.
“Mother T?” Janus asked.
She stared at them in wonder. “It’s Mother S now.”
Josie exchanged worried looks with his brothers. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, dear heaven,” she whispered. “I love him. I do love him.”
When had that happened? When they’d delivered Thanksgiving baskets? No, before then. When he’d danced with her, making love beneath a snow-filled sky? No. Not then, either. She hadn’t been ready to admit to the feelings, though they’d been there nonetheless. Perhaps when she’d gotten drunk on chocolate and he’d so tenderly put her to bed? She closed her eyes, facing the truth.
She’d fallen in love with her husband when she’d met his gaze over the head of a personable three-year old. Her future had been decided when he’d lowered a scrap of silk on the end of a sword and vaulted onto the bench beside her. And it had been sealed when he’d kissed her, finding a heart she’d thought too cold to respond to the warmth of love and releasing a soul trapped in sorrows of the past.
“This is not good,” Josie informed his brothers. “We’re too late.”
“Damned gigolo.”
“A lying thief, that’s what he is,” Pru pronounced, folding her arms across her chest. “First he tricks Hanna into marriage and now he’s going to ruin her business.”
Hanna held up her hands to still the rapid-fire discussion. “You’re giving me a headache. Could you please slow down and tell me—in an orderly fashion—what the hell you’re talking about?”
“For starters, we’re talking about this.” Pru tossed a well-known financial magazine onto the desk beside Hanna. “Remember it?”
“Sure. It’s the issue containing the article they did about me.”
“Right. The one that describes you as the ‘financial genius of Hidden Har
bor.’ The silly columnist blabbed about how there’s not a resident in the county who hasn’t benefitted in some way from your money know-how. That article made you so popular, we had to beat the suitors off with a stick.”
“Not that she wanted them beat off,” Josie allowed. “What with her five-year goal, and everything.”
Hanna gaped at him. “You...you knew about my goal?”
“Hell, Mother T.” He gestured toward where her chart had once hung. “We can read. We even know how to turn pages and read stuff we weren’t supposed to. Why did you think we kept dragging by all those men? It wasn’t for our benefit, that’s for damn sure. We thought it was what you wanted.”
So much for her stupid charts. “Is there a point to this?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“The magazine was in Zorro’s briefcase,” Pru hastened to explain. Her mouth thinned. “Bet you didn’t even realize he had a briefcase, did you? He hid that well—in the downstairs closet, to be exact. What sort of salesman carries around a briefcase, I ask you?”
“Lots of salesmen carry around briefcases!” Hanna snapped.
“With an article about you hidden inside?”
“Do you get it?” Jeb asked, as though to someone without the mental faculties to add two and two. “He knew who you were.”
Janus nodded. “Before you married.”
“That’s ridiculous. It was a masked ball. He didn’t see me until after we’d—” No, that was wrong. She’d just been thinking about their original meeting. He’d seen her face when she’d first arrived. In fact, he’d scrutinized her quite closely, making her so uncomfortable she’d hidden behind her mask again. She shook her head. “No. You’re mistaken.”
“Did he see you unmasked before coming on to you?” Josie asked.
“Yes, but—” She glared at the four. “He is not a gigolo.”
“Really? Well, he’s not a salesman either,” Pru retorted.
“How do you know?”
