by Ami Weaver
Those weren’t questions she could answer. That she wanted to answer.
“So I guess I’ll leave you to dinner,” she said, and edged for the door.
He looked at her, his eyes still smoky with desire and want and need. “Running away?”
She stopped, affronted, but couldn’t make herself meet his gaze. “What? No, of course not.”
“Are you sure?” He stepped closer. “You were willing to stay until I kissed you.”
Caught, she just looked at him, afraid of what he might see, of what she wasn’t ready for him to see. Of what she wasn’t ready to admit to herself. She tucked her hair behind her ear.
“I’ll behave,” he said, and the wicked tilt to his mouth made her raise an eyebrow. “Scout’s honor.”
Now she lifted both eyebrows. “Were you ever a Scout?”
“No,” he admitted. “But Chase was.”
“All right,” she relented, and moved back toward the island. She didn’t really want to leave. “Anything I can do?”
He directed her to the glasses and she got out new silverware, placing the pieces that had been on the floor in the sink. It didn’t take long to get the simple meal on the table—and Darcy would bet that her aunt had planned this. Book club, dinner, send her out to run the errand—it had Marla’s fingerprints all over it.
Darcy couldn’t be mad.
They sat at the table, and she refrained from asking him how often he used it. There was a cozy bay window overlooking the backyard, and while it was too dark to really see anything out there, she could tell it had begun to snow. “That’s a real tree?” she asked, nodding toward the one on the table.
“It is,” he agreed, and took a bite of his dinner.
“Why not have a full-size tree?”
He looked at her as if she’d grown an extra head. “Why would I do that?”
“You work at a Christmas-tree farm,” she pointed out. “Surely you could get one there.”
He gave her a wry, almost sad, smile. “No need. It’s just me. I don’t get trees anymore.”
Anymore. The implication of that hit her hard. Of course he didn’t. When was the last time she’d gotten one? Her last tree, other than a little halfhearted, fake formal tree she did just because she felt she had to, had been here. With Mack.
Oh, no.
“We need to fix that.” She couldn’t do much to fix the past or her mistakes, but she could give him this. It was a little thing, a small thing, but a start.
“We do? Why?” He sounded truly puzzled.
“Because it’s not right. You should have a tree. This house should have a tree.”
“Darcy—”
“I happen to know the owner of a tree farm.” She offered him a crooked smile. “I think I can get you in.”
Damn if he could resist her. “Darce. I don’t have any ornaments.” That wasn’t completely true. He had the boxes of the ones they’d picked out together, all those years ago. His mother had packed them up for him, when he was unable to face anything, much less packing up a Christmas tree. He’d never touched them since. They were in her attic. That wouldn’t work.
“That’s okay. We can get some. I’m sure there are extras in Marla and Joe’s attic.”
He carried his plate to the sink and she followed. “When did you want to do this?”
“Now?”
He looked over her head at the microwave clock. “It’s eight thirty. The farm’s closed.”
She shrugged. “That’s what flashlights are for.”
What the hell? “All right. Let me get my stuff on.”
He followed her to the farm. The snow was coming down lightly, a sifting that glittered in the headlights. They both parked by the barn, not the house. She already had on her boots and parka and hat and gloves. She gave him a smile in the light of the big wreath on the front of the barn. “Ready?”
For a guy who hadn’t bothered with Christmas since his wife left him—a wife who was standing in front of him now—he was remarkably ready. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed a saw and she got the flashlight and a cart to haul the tree up to his truck. They walked down the lane, the silence broken by the creak of the wagon wheels, the crunch of their boots on the packed snow and, if they stopped moving, the sound of the snow collecting on the branches around them.
“Spruce?” she asked as they stopped at a fork in the lane. Her breath puffed out in front of her in the cold.
“What else?”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment and turned to the left. She stopped a few feet down and dropped the handle of the wagon. Trying to drag it through the snow would be too much work. “How big?”
He followed her, amused, and still able to pick out the sway of her hips even in the dark. The metallic finish of her blue coat caught the beam of the flashlight. “Six feet or so. Pretty full.”
She aimed the light at him, momentarily blinding him. “Oh, sorry! Are you okay? And have a little faith, okay?”
He’d lost what little faith he had left when she left him. But now wasn’t the time to tell her that. Not when things were going well with them. Whatever things were.
It took some time, and he enjoyed stomping around in the dark with her. She finally settled on a tree that was tall enough and fairly full. “This one okay?”
He took the light from her and flashed it over it. He couldn’t resist teasing her a little bit. “Looks good to me. But of course, it’s dark out, Darce.”
She snatched the light back. “It’s fine.”
He caught her chin in his hand and pressed a kiss to her cold lips. He couldn’t help it. Being out here in the dark and cold, with the sharp scent of pine and the softly sifting snow, made him miss her more. Want her more. When he pulled back, looking in her eyes, even in the dark he could see the desire there. When she breathed his name on puff of peppermint-scented air, he was lost.
This kiss was sweet, bittersweet. He knew they were going down a path that was going to end up in heartbreak for both of them—well, him for sure. Then she dropped the heavy metal flashlight on the top of his foot.
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I forgot I had it.”
He kissed her forehead. “Good thing my boots are thick. Next time you want me to stop kissing you, just tell me instead of trying to hurt me, okay?”
He was teasing, but only sort of. She fished the light out of the snow and he went over to saw the tree down.
By the time they got it back to his truck, he was cold and wet, but it was worth every minute of her company. “Do you want to come in?” She jerked her head toward the house. “Get something to warm you up?”
Tempting as it was— “No. I’m going to go home and change out of these wet clothes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Disappointment flashed over her face. “All right. Tomorrow we’ll get the lights on it.”
“Sounds good.”
He drove away, seeing her in the red glow of his taillights as he went back up the lane to the main road, the tree bouncing in the bed of the truck.
Chapter Ten
Darcy wasn’t sure what had come over her the night before. Mack’s kisses were seared in her brain, and about all she could come up with was she had somehow fallen back into the past. A time warp of sorts, triggered somehow by being in his presence. For a few minutes it’d almost been as if nothing had happened.
In the early days of their marriage, there’d been no hot kisses like that. Oh, they’d been the ones that had gotten them in trouble. Her pregnancy had meant they’d had to get married. He’d insisted on doing the right thing, and since she couldn’t see herself with anyone else—even if she wasn’t totally sure she wanted to get married yet—she’d gone along. He’d been happy.
But she hadn’t been.
How bad was that? He’d been so sure. She’d allowed him to sweep her off her feet. But then her worst fears had been realized. He only wanted her as long as the baby was in the picture. She, by herself, hadn’t been enough. So how had she gotten all caught up in it again?
Her phone rang and Darcy tucked the phone on her shoulder as she answered. “Hi, Corrie.”
“Darcy! I miss you, girl. How is it way up there?”
Darcy curled up in the chair and smiled at her best friend’s exuberant greeting. “Same as it always is. Cold.” Her hands and lips were a little chapped.
“Mmm. How’s the ex-husband?”
Just like Corrie to cut right to the heart of the matter. Darcy stared into the flames, which crackled cheerily around the logs she’d added just before the phone rang. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Corrie repeated. “That tells me nothing.”
“That’s because there’s nothing to tell,” Darcy said, trying to keep her voice light. She knew she’d failed when she heard Corrie’s sigh.
“Darcy. Come on. Is he hot? Or did he get sloppy?”
“Hot,” she answered before she could stop herself.
A long pause. Darcy shut her eyes. She’d stepped in it now.
“Really?” Corrie drew out the word. “That’s pretty definitive, Darce. You still have feelings for him.”
It wasn’t a question, but Darcy chose to treat it as one. “No. No more than nostalgia. We were married, Corrie. That carries some weight, even after all these years.” Or so she’d been trying to convince herself. That it was all just based on where they’d been.
“Would it be so bad? If there were feelings between you two? You’ve shut yourself down pretty tight, Darce. Seems like getting the opportunity to move on would be good for you. Even if it’s moving on with him.”
She laughed, because if she didn’t, she’d cry. “It’d be awful. I can’t stay here. You know that. There’s nothing for me here. And Mack—well, he was pretty clear all those years ago it was over. I’m not willing to give it a shot. Plus, there’s no time.” And thank God for it. She wasn’t risking her heart, not with the guy who’d broken it in the first place.
“If you say so,” Corrie said softly. “But, Darcy. Promise me you’ll keep your options open. Just in case.”
Darcy shook her head and pressed her fingers to her lips, even though her friend couldn’t see her. “I can’t. You of all people know that.” Mack hadn’t understood then. Why would he now? She wasn’t going to risk her heart on that. She’d do what she could to make things right, but she wouldn’t give him a chance to steal her heart. It was too risky. She wasn’t sure she could take another blow like that.
“You deserve love,” Corrie said firmly. “If it’s not Mack, well, that’s okay. You’d know better than I would. I don’t know him. But at some point you need to let someone in. You don’t want to miss out on the perfect guy for you.”
Darcy did know the perfect guy for her. But thanks to their past and her choices, they were stuck apart. Mack had kissed her, but how did she know that wasn’t based on the old Darcy? The one he’d married? The one he’d made—and lost—a baby with. The one he’d let go.
He didn’t know her now. That mattered. And in the three weeks she had left on the farm, there was no real way to get to know him again.
* * *
Mack had tried to figure out a way to frame the request. In seven years, he’d never asked about the Christmas ornaments he and Darcy had had on their first—and only—tree together. He wasn’t going to go in his mother’s house without her knowledge, and he for damn sure wasn’t going to ask Chase.
So it looked as though he had to suck it up and face his demons and his mother’s questions.
He stopped in on his lunch, which was what he framed the time between leaving his vet practice and getting out to the farm. Mom was there, of course, and she brightened right up when she saw him.
“Mack.” She stepped out of the doorway and gestured him in. Little flurries of snow accompanied him and she shut the door quickly. “What’s going on? We don’t usually see you in the middle of the day.”
He dropped a kiss on his mother’s head. “Hi, Mom.” He raised his voice so his father could hear him over the TV in the den. “Hey, Dad.”
His father’s reply carried over the noise of the television. Mom rolled her eyes. “This one’s about how Sumatrans made their pottery.” Mack had to grin despite the nerves in his belly. Dad loved history programs. In the winter, the off-season, he had them on almost nonstop and was enthralled by all of it. Mack had asked once why they just didn’t go visit the places he was so interested in, and Dad had just looked at him and said, “I’m an armchair traveler.”
Fair enough.
Mom led him into the kitchen, where she had something in the oven that smelled fantastic. “Lasagna,” she said with a faint smile as she caught him sniffing the air the way a hound might scent a bird. “There will be extra for you.”
“Do you take extras to Chase?” He knew the answer but was trying to stall on his actual request.
“Sometimes. But that boy can cook. He even likes it.” She gave him an amused look, then got out a mug. “Coffee?”
“Sure,” he murmured, taking in the scene as she poured the mug from the pot that always seemed to be at the ready. He’d always pictured himself in the same kind of marriage his parents had. In terms of the affection, the love, the way they still enjoyed each other’s company. He’d thought he’d found that in Darcy. But he’d been wrong.
He accepted the mug she held out. She’d let him sit and stew as long as he needed to spit out what he needed to say. It was a time-honed technique that had worked way too well when he was a kid.
Still worked now as an adult.
They made small talk for a few minutes when he finally blurted out, “I need the Christmas stuff Darcy and I had.”
She set her mug on the table and leveled a serious gaze on him. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Put it on a tree,” he said, and she nodded, pushed back from the table and started toward the back bedroom. He rose and followed her.
“Do you know what you’re doing, Mack?” she asked as she flicked on the light and gestured to the two cardboard boxes sitting on the floor by the bed. Not in the attic? Mack and Darcy, Christmas was written in his mother’s neat hand in black marker on the lids of both.
I don’t have a clue, he wanted to say. No. Freaking. Clue. But instead he asked, staring at the boxes, “How did you know?”
She gave him a tiny smile. “Helen’s daughter saw you driving home last night with a big old tree in the bed of your truck. Helen called me as soon as she heard.”
Mack opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. There wasn’t much to say to that. He should have known his mother would hear about it from one of her friends. Her social network was impressive. He shook his head. “I see. Well. Thanks.”
She shrugged. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Mack. Not only for your sake, but for hers. Darcy is so fragile.”
He almost laughed as he lifted one of the boxes. Darcy was anything but fragile. She was tough, far tougher than she probably knew. “I’ll be careful.”
She picked up the other box and followed him down the hall lined with family pictures. He was careful not to knock any off with the big box. He put the first one in the truck and came back for the second.
“See that you are,” she said quietly, and he didn’t even pretend to misunderstand what she meant.
* * *
Mack wasn’t sure what to do with the boxes, so he put them in his own spare bedroom—not the one he used as a weight room, but the back one he almost never went in. The one that would have been the baby’s room. The one that, in the back of the closet, still had a crib in its box. It
also had a box of stuff Darcy had left when she split. He wasn’t sure why he kept any of it. After several months of no contact, he’d realized she wasn’t coming back.
He didn’t open the closet.
Apparently, he could have saved himself the trouble of quasi hiding the tree on the back deck and just left it on the front porch. He should have known someone would see and report it to his mother.
He propped his hands on his hips and surveyed the tree. It wasn’t bad, considering they’d chopped it down in the dark. There was a fairly sizable hole on one side, but if he angled the tree a little to the left, it was facing the wall.
Better.
He peeled off his gloves and dropped them on the coffee table. Trees like that tore you to pieces if you weren’t careful. He poured water in the stand and left the house for the tree farm.
* * *
Darcy had spent the better part of the day throwing herself into her work, making wreaths with the team and filling orders. It kept thoughts of Mack at bay. Thoughts of how she had to finish what she’d started with her impulsive Christmas-tree idea.
She mentally kicked herself for the zillionth time. It had been a stupid idea, an uncharacteristically impulsive thing that she never did anymore. Impulsiveness led to mistakes. Mistakes couldn’t be undone. She was very careful not to make them, much less ones like this.
She wired the spruce boughs into the large wreath she was making for the wall of the Methodist church. This one would be three feet across, but fairly simple. It would have a huge red bow that’d she make next. It was a good way to stay occupied.
Until her thoughts slipped back to Mack’s mouth on hers.
She stabbed herself with the wire and it went through her glove. She pulled the glove off with a muttered curse and Wendy, one of the longtime employees, sent her an amused look.
“Mack on the brain?”
Darcy shut her eyes and then opened them to examine her finger. “No more than usual,” she muttered, which could have meant anything.
“He’s quite a catch,” Wendy said, all seriousness now.
