by Beth K. Vogt
Johanna retreated to her closet, dropping her robe to the floor, changing into black leggings and a long-sleeved purple top. She twisted her hands together, willing them to stop trembling—her entire body to stop shaking. She paced the length of her bedroom, pausing long enough to yank open the floor-length curtains, flooding the room with light. She stared out at the winter sky, not moving even when Beckett’s “I’m back!” sounded through the house. His footsteps announced his approach. She only turned as he entered the room, unzipping his jacket, pulling off his cotton hat, his hair damp from his run.
“You got a phone call.”
Beckett muttered something unintelligible, leaning over, his hands on his knees. “What did the superintendent want?”
“It wasn’t your boss.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No.” Johanna swallowed, tasting acid in the back of her throat. “It was Iris.”
Beckett failed at a poker face. “Iris?”
“Yes. Iris.” She would never have those flowers in her house again. “She looks pretty based on the photo on your phone—if you like your women buxom and overly made-up. Apparently you do.”
“Johanna, I can—”
“Explain? Go right ahead, Beckett. I’m waiting to hear this.”
“Iris is a friend.”
Of course she was.
“A friend with benefits?”
Beckett pressed his hand to his forehead. “I met her in Wyoming.”
Location, location, location. As if where they met made any difference. “I see. And you became . . . friends.”
“Yes.”
Beckett was answering all her questions . . . and telling her nothing. How much did she really want to know?
Everything. But it appeared Beckett was going to make her drag the information out of him.
“You dated her.”
“Yes.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
Beckett glanced down, then back up, meeting her eyes. “Yes.”
“You slept with this woman when we were engaged?”
“Oh, come on, Johanna!” He squared off with her, hands on his hips. “Do you really call this an engagement?”
His sudden attack almost caused her to stumble backward, but she dug her heels into the carpet.
“You proposed to me three years ago at our favorite restaurant. I said yes. I’m wearing a ring that you bought me, after taking me shopping, telling me to pick out whatever I liked. You keep saying, ‘Let’s plan the wedding.’” Johanna sucked in a breath. “Yes, I call this an engagement.”
“But every time I push for us to get married, you come up with a reason to hold off—”
She took a step forward, her heart pounding in her chest, causing a rushing in her ears. “And that gives you a reason to cheat on me?”
“Johanna, I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t. Don’t say it.” Johanna picked up his phone from the bottom of the bed and threw it. Beckett ducked, so it hit the wall next to the door, falling to the floor.
Beckett scrambled to retrieve the phone, cursing when he saw the shattered screen. “What are you doing? What if the superintendent needs to call me?”
“Do you think I care?” She advanced another step. “You’re standing here, telling me you cheated on me while you were stationed in Wyoming. . . . You’re probably still cheating on me.”
“No.” Beckett held his hands up. “No, I’m not.”
“I’m supposed to believe that when Iris just called you?”
“I don’t know why she called—”
“Get out!” Johanna shoved his shoulders. “I mean it, Beckett! Get out!”
It was as if she’d spun out of control, like a top let loose of its string, spinning, spinning, spinning . . . waiting to topple over.
Beckett tried to grab her hands, but Johanna dodged his grasp and ran out of the room. He followed her down the hallway, through the dining room and living area. She pulled the front door open, turning to face him. “Leave.”
“Johanna, we need to talk.”
“No. No talking.” She shook her head. “Get. Out.”
“Come on . . . At least let me get dressed.”
“I’m sorry if this is inconvenient for you.” She grabbed his boots that sat by the door. His car keys from the front table. Shoved them into his arms. “Good-bye, Beckett.”
This was like some scene in an awful movie. If she’d been watching it, she would have laughed at the overly dramatic female lead. Wondered why the woman was crying over this guy, even as she slammed the door on yet another apology.
Johanna pressed her hands against her eyes. She was not going to cry over a man who dated her for eight years . . . proposed to her . . . and had probably cheated on her the entire time.
But it didn’t seem she had a say in the matter, because no matter how hard she tried to stop them, the tears kept coming.
And then she realized she wasn’t crying for Beckett. . . . She was crying for herself.
I TUGGED ON A BRIGHT-RED SWEATER, smoothing the hem along my waist. Too bad I didn’t have a silly pair of holiday socks or even a dangly pair of jingle bell earrings for an extra touch of cheer. Christmas was less than two weeks away and I was still struggling to find my way through this season.
The lights seemed too bright, the music too loud, the joy too forced. I found myself stuck in some sort of in-between place. I had so many reasons to be happier than I was a year ago . . . and yet, I wanted even more.
My body had fended off cancer’s attack . . . and I resisted the consequences of the battle.
My relationships with Johanna and Payton? There’d been some improvement, but we maintained our customary roles and distance, despite monthly get-togethers and the echo of Pepper’s exhortation to be sisters.
I was married to a man who’d refused to abandon me when life stripped me of what little beauty I had—and now he denied me one of my heart’s deepest longings.
Today . . . today I would settle for wearing a red sweater while decorating our first Christmas tree together. We might not find the elusive peace that was supposedly a part of the season, but we’d be together, navigating our way around the areas in our relationship now marked “No trespassing.” Ignoring how we’d hurt each other and choosing to be a happily married couple.
“Are you coming, Jill?” Geoff’s question, called from the bottom of the stairs, pulled me from my thoughts.
“Yes. I’ll be right down.”
Time to face the day. No, time to have a good day with my husband.
“I’m still adjusting to the house with the kitchen all finished.” Geoff straightened the fresh fir tree in its stand where we’d positioned it by our front window after bringing it home last night, the outdoorsy scent filling the room.
“Christmas music playing, we’re decorating our first Christmas tree, and the floor’s done before the holidays, just like Zach promised. Something happened according to the original plan.”
Geoff offered me a grin. “Merry Christmas to us, Mrs. Hennessey. We survived the kitchen renovation.”
“Yes. Merry Christmas to us.” I knelt on the living room floor next to our single box of ornaments. “How do you think Winston will do with the tree?”
“Winston? Why would you even worry about him?” Geoff tossed his answer back over his shoulder.
“You’re not worried?”
“To be honest, I had nightmares about it last night—but in the dream he was a Saint Bernard—a supersize Winston. Remember the Beethoven movie that came out when we were kids?”
I held up my hands as if fending off an attack of an oversize dog. “Now that would be awful.”
He set down the white lights he’d been stringing to go drag a couple of boxes from behind the couch. “Not going to happen, because I got up early this morning and purchased a few childproof gates to keep Winston from messing with the tree.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I decided not to wake you
up to join me.”
“I’m not really sure I want plastic gates all around our Christmas tree. I mean, think of how it’ll look—”
“Well, think of how it’ll look in here if Winston knocks over the tree.” Geoff motioned around the room, frowning as if the disaster had already occurred.
“But the living room isn’t that big.”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Right. What do I know? I’m just Jillian.” I muttered the words under my breath.
Geoff paused with a string of lights in his hands. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. Let’s just hope Winston doesn’t jump over the barrier.”
“We’ll keep a close watch on him the first couple of days. He’s a smart boy.” Returning to the lights, Geoff plugged in the strand he’d woven through the branches and stepped away. “There. That’s all done.”
I started sorting through the box, placing ornaments on the coffee table. “We don’t have that many decorations to put on the tree.”
“That will change the longer we’re married. Which reminds me—” he retrieved a small package from the mantel—“here’s one to add to the collection.”
“What’s this?”
“A gift. Something I picked up for you earlier this week.”
I sat on the couch, Geoff kneeling in front of me, a smile on his lips. Inside the plain brown paper bag was a circular white clay Christmas ornament. The words Our First Christmas Married were encircled in hand-painted twinkly Christmas lights.
“This is perfect.” I leaned forward and kissed him.
“Tradition, you know.” He stole another kiss, the taste of coffee on his lips. “I figured we needed one.”
“We do.” I traced the words. “I’ll put it up high so that if Winston does manage to get over the gates, he won’t get to this.”
I turned the ornament over in my hands. Here I was, worrying about our dog and using childproof gates. Protecting an ornament celebrating our first Christmas as a married couple.
Would we ever put up a Baby’s First Christmas ornament?
The question slipped into my heart like a thorn. Quick. Sharp. For now, and possibly forever, the answer was Geoff’s adamant no.
Better to savor his kiss. Our closeness. Today was the best time Geoff and I had spent together in weeks. The only way I could protect this was by not thinking too far ahead into the future.
By not wanting more.
Just adding the lights among the branches already made our tree look festive and would cause our small assortment of decorations to sparkle. Time to finish unpacking the ornaments—ones I’d purchased through the years while I’d been on vacation or had received as gifts. Others Mom and Dad had chosen from the family’s collection and given to us after Geoff and I had eloped.
A tiny slice of cake decorated with a red rose from when I’d taken cake-decorating classes one summer.
A small frame with my high school graduation photo in it.
A blue Colorado columbine.
“Do you think your parents might let you have a few family ornaments to add to these?”
Geoff stood, hanging the ornament he’d just been given on one of the high, center branches. “My mom isn’t really into sentimentality. She prefers doing themed Christmas trees every few years. Once she’s done with a particular design, she gets rid of all the decorations.”
“Oh.”
“She mentioned she did something new this year—angels, maybe? We’ll see it when we’re over there on Christmas Eve.”
“That’ll be fun.” But now I’d need to find a substitute gift for the Santa Claus ornament I’d bought them.
Between the two of us, the tree was decorated in less than fifteen minutes.
“Shall we let poor Winston out of his kennel?” Geoff stood back and surveyed our efforts. “See what he thinks?”
“Yes. He caught on pretty quickly about staying away from the kitchen.”
“He does like having you home.”
“That’s true. More walks for him.” And Winston never minded that I napped during the day—not once he learned that I’d let him up in the bed with me.
“Well, now he has a new distraction.”
For the next few minutes, we sat with Winston on the floor in the living room, our backs against the couch, our shoulders and legs touching, Geoff correcting the dog when he got too close to the plastic barriers.
If Geoff was this good with Winston, surely he’d be good with children. Our children.
I shifted against the couch, unable to stop a soft sigh from escaping.
“Is something wrong, Jill?”
“You know the kind of year we’ve had.” I remained facing forward, my eyes on the tree.
“You’ve done beautifully.”
“Some days . . . but there were so many days I didn’t feel brave. Or when I wondered why I had to get cancer.”
“But we got through it.”
“I know . . . but at what cost?”
“I don’t understand.”
I pulled the list out again. The one I never forgot. “There are some consequences you can’t fix, Geoff. Effects of medication, infertility . . . finding out you don’t want children.” I’d said it all. “There’s no changing any of it.”
Next to me, Geoff stiffened. “You’re acting like surviving cancer doesn’t matter.”
“No . . . no, that’s not what I’m saying. Of course I’m thankful every day that I beat breast cancer. But being grateful for that doesn’t mean these other things don’t hurt. Surviving cancer isn’t some massive dose of Novocain that numbs any other kind of pain in my life.” I gathered a breath. “You can’t have children? Take a dose of your post-cancer medication. Your best friend moved? Don’t be sad because, you know, you got through a mastectomy and chemo and radiation. Cancer’s gone.”
“Are you ever going to be happy, Jillian?”
His words jarred me. “What?”
“Are you ever going to be happy?” Geoff twisted away from me, leaning forward on his knees. “Because I’ve tried, really tried, to make you happy . . . and even if I said okay to adopting—which I’m not going to do—I still don’t think you’d be happy.”
Geoff’s question stunned me. “Is that what you think this is all about—my being happy or not being happy?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” He spread his hands wide, shaking his head. “You’re always wanting more . . . more than I can give you.”
His words were an echo of what I’d shared with Payton.
“I didn’t realize until the last few days that I was expecting you to make me happy, Geoff. I didn’t realize until right now that you feel like you have to make me happy.” I wanted to touch him, to reconnect with him, but I also wanted to give him space if that’s what he needed. “I’m sorry.”
Winston had edged in between us, resting his chin on my knee. He always sensed when I was upset, sometimes sooner than Geoff did. “I’ve talked to Zach and Payton some about how I’ve been feeling . . .”
“You’ve talked to Zach Gaines?”
“And Payton, yes. I told Zach that I was struggling—”
“In our marriage?”
“Some . . . yes. And how I was struggling with the aftereffects of the chemo and losing my job. I told him I felt a little like this old house—like I was undergoing some kind of life renovation.” I laughed, but Geoff didn’t join in. “Zach suggested I talk to Payton—and she suggested I talk to Zach. So I’m back to square one, trying to figure this out on my own.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
I hesitated. “We haven’t been communicating very well lately.”
“I know you’re unhappy, Jill, but you can still talk to me.”
“No, Geoff, I can’t.” My voice cracked. “Don’t you understand how you made me feel when you said I wouldn’t be a good mother?”
“I’m sorry. I never should have said that. And I should have apologized sooner—”
/>
“You might as well have been my grandfather when you said that.” My body started shaking as I flung the words at him.
“What?” Geoff’s eyes clouded. “That doesn’t even make sense—”
“I’ve been . . . second-best my whole life, Geoff.” I fought to speak, trying not to cry, my throat getting tighter. “The lost-in-the-middle Thatcher sister . . .”
“Why are you saying something like that?”
“Because it’s true. . . . It’s been true forever.” Tears blurred my vision. “Just Jillian—that’s me.”
With those words, I buried my face in my hands and sobbed.
As Geoff tried to pull me into his arms, I resisted—a feeble attempt that lasted only a moment. Even when everything was so wrong between us, he was still my safe place. My sobs were muffled against his chest, and my tears stained his shirt, but he held me until there were no more tears left.
Geoff shifted me so that I rested against him. “Can you explain what that was about? I really want to know.”
I swiped at my face with the back of my hand. Sniffled. “It won’t make any sense. . . . It was so long ago.”
“Just tell me. Please.”
“One summer when I was twelve, I took cake-decorating classes. I had so much fun learning how to make frosting. How to make roses.” I closed my eyes, gathering my breath. “Then I asked my mom if I could make my grandfather a birthday cake.”
“That’s a nice thing to do.” Geoff kept his voice pitched low, the words rumbling in his chest.
“I worked on it Saturday afternoon. Made the icing twice. Wrote Happy Birthday in bright-red icing on top. It wasn’t perfect—a little lopsided two-layer cake, but . . .”
“I’m sure you did a great job.”
“Pops didn’t think so. Mom drove me over early on Sunday so I could show him. I remember he asked where Johanna and the twins were. Nonie told him it was just me. I was always just Jillian, especially to Pops.”
“She didn’t mean it like that—”
“It’s the truth.” A reality I could never escape. “I don’t know why it mattered so much that Pops like me . . . notice me. When I was younger, I would draw him pictures and he would always say, ‘What is this?’ I would make him cookies and he’d say something like ‘Why are these cookies so flat, girl?’ I thought the birthday cake would finally do it.”
