Unexpected

by Karen Tuft

  She blushed, just a tiny bit.

  He was charmed. She was irresistible. He wanted to reach for her, touch her.

  “Or caught one in the middle of a cookie-dough fight,” he added in a low voice.

  She groaned and dropped her face into her hands. He truly couldn’t resist now. He picked up a strand of her hair, playing with the ends. Soft. “Just when life seems back in balance, there she is—upsetting the equilibrium. My equilibrium. Saturday was no exception.” He tucked the strand behind her ear. “Can you forgive me?”

  She sat very still but wouldn’t look up. He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. Time slowed to an impossible crawl. When she finally did speak, it was to herself, not to him. “He was right.”

  “Who was—what?”

  She looked at him now. Her eyes had deepened to that jade color, and the angry spark was nearly gone. “I forgive you.”

  “Does that mean I can tear up your letter of resignation?”

  She looked back at her lap. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “You must not have forgiven me, then. Either that, or you’re willing to be frightened away by a little show of temper.” Her eyes sparked at him again. Good. That little spark showed some of the backbone he knew she had. The backbone it took to raise three kids on her own. He was also sure she didn’t realize she had that backbone. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared back. He fought down the urge to smile. He fought down the urge to run his finger along her jaw.

  Her chin went up fractionally. “I do forgive you. And I’m not frightened by you.” He suspected she may be stretching the truth a little there. “But I’m not certain that continuing to work for you is the best idea.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated. “Maybe I found a better offer.”

  Nice try, honey. “Did you?” he murmured, shifting a little closer.

  She took a deep breath. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe I’ll make you a counter offer.”

  She stood quickly and moved to the window. He could tell she was muttering to herself. “What did you say?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m a fool. I never learn. Wade always said—” She stopped.

  “What did Wade always say?”

  She looked at him now. “That it didn’t matter what he did, I’d always forgive him. Because I was weak. And he was right. I always did forgive him. Just like I forgive you.”

  Ross found he hated, hated being lumped with this ex-husband of hers. The guy must have done a real number on her over the years, and Ross hated that too. He clenched his jaw. A fire was beginning to build inside him, making him feel violent toward this faceless ex of hers and, at the same time, making him want to melt and consume her, make her part of him. He felt something he had no words for, something he’d successfully buried for years. He struggled to choose his words carefully now. He prayed silently for help. “Is it a weakness to forgive others? Or a strength? Don’t the scriptures say to forgive our trespassers seven times seventy?”

  “Oh, but that’s the trap. You forgive, but that forgiveness turns into permission for some people. They take advantage. They hurt you. And you forgive them again and again until the hurt is too big. Eventually, you learn that forgiveness is not enough anymore. You forgive, but you also have to draw the line, if you still have the strength to do it by then.”

  He crossed to her. He realized that he had hurt her, badly, with his careless words. Worse, because it was in the same way she’d been hurt before by her ex-husband. That knowledge was bitter. Humbling. He wanted to comfort her but didn’t think she would accept it, not from him. Not yet. He leaned slightly toward her, almost imperceptibly. She responded by turning her head to look out the window and running a shaky hand through her hair. His hands itched to tangle themselves in that hair.

  “Is that what you’re doing with me? Drawing the line?” he asked.

  “Yes. Partly.” She turned, and he found he was mere inches from her beautiful, sad face. “I have to think of my children. Take care of them and protect myself.”

  Now he allowed himself to trace her jaw with his finger, just the lightest whisper of a touch. He wanted to take this step toward her. He wanted to do more. “Protect yourself? From what?” He watched her eyes flutter. “From whom?” He leaned closer, let his lips glide softly over hers. “From me?”

  He barely heard her whispered answer. “From myself.” Her hands moved tentatively to clutch his arms. He heard her shuddered breath. “Oh no,” she whispered.

  His fingers threaded through her hair—finally, finally—and he brought her to him, brought her mouth back to his. Her lips were full and soft and warm. Heaven. His hands gently stroked her shoulders, and then he lowered them to enfold her in his arms.

  Ross absorbed the scent, the feel, the rightness of her, and found himself enveloped in emotions, sensations he hadn’t anticipated. He felt her hands creep up to his shoulders, her fingers pressing into him. Staggered by her sweetness, he only gradually became aware that she wasn’t pressing to be closer but was pushing back. Away. Easing his hold on her, he brought himself back to earth and tilted his head to read her expression. Her eyes were heavy, her lips slightly downturned and trembling. He simply couldn’t resist and kissed her briefly once more, on the cheek this time, then rested his forehead against hers. He was sinking fast, so hoping to lighten the mood, he asked, “Still ‘oh no’?”

  Her breathing was uneven. “Oh, um . . . yes.”

  He chuckled. “Okay.” Intentionally misunderstanding her, he dropped his head to kiss her lips again, sink into them and savor them. Eventually, remembering her earlier reluctance, he pulled himself away. “Sit with me.” He led her back to the sofa and drew her down next to him. Loath to break the intimacy created by their kiss, he linked his fingers with hers and put his other arm around her shoulders. He sat quietly for a moment with her that way. Now he felt a peace like he’d found in the temple earlier in the week. He wondered if she could feel it too. He hoped so.

  “This is nice,” he said, “with the tree and lights. The snow. With you.”

  She was quiet, too quiet, and he felt her tension starting to return.

  “Ross, I can’t afford to . . . I know how I do things. This can’t happen. I’m not safe for myself or my kids with something like this.”

  “Natalie,” he said as he stroked her shoulder, “are you so dangerous that you need protection from yourself?”

  “I don’t have a sterling track record when it comes to . . . I’ve made poor choices. My kids pay daily for that. I owe it to them to consider their needs first. I won’t put them through any more upheaval than they’ve already experienced. My girls or my son.”

  “Your son. Ryan, right?” He wanted to, had to, distract her from her train of thought.

  “Yes, Ryan. He’s in Scotland on his mission. I’m so proud of him. I was very young when I met Ryan’s father. Too young.”

  “Tell me about his father.”

  She hesitated, and he wasn’t sure she would tell him.

  “Oh, he was a teen girl’s crush,” she finally said. “Football hero, rodeo star. Charm and danger rolled into one. I’d worshipped Buck from afar for a long time—the quiet, studious girl with no hope of being noticed.” She looked wistful. “Then I was noticed.”

  It wasn’t difficult for Ross to imagine why. He’d have noticed her if he’d been at her high school, he was sure.

  “I couldn’t believe it. It was a dream. He was calling me, asking me out. Girls—pretty, popular girls—were giving me looks like I was a force to be reckoned with. Boys I’d never dared speak to were smiling and saying hi.” She looked at Ross. “I liked it, the attention, the new friends. Especially the attention from Buck.

  “Anyway, it didn’t remain a dream. I realized Buck didn’t want to be a father a little too late, and before I knew it, I was a single mom.”

  Ross gave her a minute and thought about what she’d said, what she ha
dn’t said. He suddenly remembered her comment to Jackie at Brett’s football game, how she wasn’t a big football fan. Now he understood why. He stroked his hand gently down her arm, drew her in a little closer. “And then you met Wade Forrester.”

  “Wade.” She said his name sadly, and Ross’s heart broke a little for her. “I think I fell in love with Wade because he fell in love with Ryan. And I really needed somebody to love that little boy.”

  “Ryan’s father doesn’t—”

  “No. When I met Wade, he swept me off my feet. He would take the three of us on dates. Ry was barely two at the time. We’d bundle him into Wade’s car, and off we’d go. The zoo, the park. They’d dig in the dirt together, play with toy trucks. It melted my heart.

  “I felt like I’d let Ryan down, not choosing a father who would be there for him, who would stick. When Wade came into our lives, it seemed like such a blessing. Things were good for a while. Then it seemed like I couldn’t do anything right; no matter how I tried, I couldn’t make Wade happy. Maybe I missed clues; maybe if I hadn’t been so thrilled at the prospect of a daddy for my little boy, I would have seen things with clearer eyes.” She looked at him then. “Ultimately, it isn’t a very good foundation for marriage when the man you love loves your son more than he loves you. Now Wade doesn’t even bother with Ryan.”

  Ross hated what he saw in her eyes—the pain, the harsh disappointment.

  She continued. “Obviously, he still sees the girls, as you can tell by my grand Thanksgiving plans. I always pray he’s tucked a little quality time into their visits. The girls need it.”

  “You have your doubts?”

  “Sometimes.” She sighed. “Frequently.” She carefully pulled her hand out of his and stood. “Listen, I’d feel much better if I finished the decorating, then I can leave you to enjoy what’s left of your holiday.”

  Despite the tone of the conversation and the fact that his thoughts were in a state of flux, he realized he was enjoying what was left of his holiday, just being with her, learning about her. He needed to proceed cautiously, not push too hard. He stood. “All right. But only on the condition that you let me help.” He led the way down to the basement to retrieve more boxes.

  They spent the next hour hanging swags above doors and loading every conceivable corner of his house with the Christmas knickknacks from his childhood.

  “Last box,” he exclaimed as he lugged it to the top of the stairs. “Then I insist on a hot-chocolate break.” He smiled. “I remember you have this thing for chocolate.”

  “Every female does.” Natalie opened the box and drew out a bubble-wrapped item. “Oh, look! It’s beautiful.” She held up a porcelain angel, delicately hand painted, for Ross to see.

  “My crèche. I’d forgotten all about it. Mom has an entire collection of crèches from all over the world. Some elegant, some more whimsical. She gave me this one when I got home from my mission. I think she was hoping I would be starting a family shortly, continuing a tradition. That has to go on the mantelpiece. Let’s make room.”

  Natalie carefully shifted some evergreen boughs. “Did you ever want to? Start a family, I mean?”

  “I guess that was always the plan.”

  “But . . .”

  “Didn’t happen.” He smiled tightly. “Obviously.” He’d wanted to distract her from her plans to leave, but he wasn’t particularly excited about the direction the conversation was headed now.

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded and gave him a look that spoke volumes and began rearranging the figurines on the mantel.

  “Uh-huh what? Would you care to elaborate?”

  “If someone like you isn’t married, it’s by choice, not chance.”

  “What makes you say that?” He intentionally dropped his voice to a quiet, cool tone. His practiced, objective lawyer tone.

  Natalie just laughed humorlessly, shaking her head.

  “You think I’ve chosen to be single,” he said. “You think I’ve dealt with speculative looks, cold showers, and the daily abuse of my mother and sisters—for decades, mind you—by choice? You don’t think location or opportunity is a component in this? The world at large looks at basic attractions, basic interests, and compatibilities, and voila! You have another eHarmony success story. And that success can stay as uncommitted and transitory as the parties involved prefer. No strings. Now, factor in a religion like ours that bases life in the eternities on your choice of mate, permanent choice of mate, and what do you think it does to the odds?”

  “You forget that I’ve seen how women behave around you,” she countered. “How every woman behaves around you. You are trying to tell me there hasn’t been—”

  “The interest has to be mutual.”

  “Have you ever even been in love?”

  That stopped him. Cold. “Yes. Yes, I have.”

  “Not enough to marry her.”

  “Not true. I wanted to marry her.”

  She turned from the mantel then to look at his face. He didn’t want to be analyzed. He moved to the window to watch the snow blanketing the world with a soft coldness.

  “But you didn’t—”

  “I asked her.”

  She walked over to him and stood there quietly, waiting, not pushing him to speak.

  “Her name was Liz,” he said finally. “We were in law school together. It was a long time ago.”

  “I’m sorry. I understand,” she said. “Buck was just a young girl’s crush, but the pain when he left was horribly real at the time.”

  “I’m sure it was,” he said.

  He stood there next to her, viewing the snowy scene outside his window, thinking. Then he spoke. “Natalie, there is something happening here between the two of us. I have to believe you feel it as much as I do. What if we take things one step at a time? Find out what it is, what it might be. For both of us.”

  She reached out and rested both hands on the windowsill. Ross waited.

  Finally, she turned to face him. He was surprised to realize he was holding his breath.

  “All right. One step at a time. But—”

  He’d already started to exhale, but now his breath was cut short again. “But, what?”

  “I’ve made the poor choices in the past, Ross, and have had to take responsibility for my children growing up in the aftermath of those choices. I have to feel like I’m not dependent on you, that I’m not your subordinate and reliant on you for my welfare and my children’s well-being. I have to be free so my feelings are my feelings alone, not determined by a sense of obligation.”

  “I can live with that,” he said. He knew how badly she needed money, but now was obviously not the time to tell her about some of the steps he’d taken to help her financially, about the plans for her sculptures. He was absolutely not telling her about the large check he’d written out to her bishop. He didn’t intend to ever tell her about that. It was a gift to a missionary, and he intended for it to stay anonymous.

  “So the resignation stands.” She bent once again to pick up her purse.

  “All right,” he agreed, relieved. It didn’t mean he wasn’t above trying a little old-fashioned guilt on her though. “I accept your resignation, with no hard feelings, understanding where you’re coming from. I won’t think about how difficult it will be to find a replacement during the busy month of December. Esther isn’t quite ready to return to the job.” He smiled when she looked at him, her eyebrows drawn together. He’d hit the mark. She was such a marshmallow.

  “Well—”

  “I do have a favor to ask. Nothing to do with cleaning,” he added and tried to maintain a poker face. He spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Jackie just loves that little fairy you made for Lexie and the Santa you gave me. She commented on how she would like one herself.” He watched Natalie carefully. She was curious. Good. “So I want to purchase some Santas from you for Christmas presents. What do you think?”

  He watched her jaw drop open and couldn’t help grinning.

  “Some?
How many?” she asked incredulously.

  “Oh, I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty, to start.” When she began to splutter, he added, “I have no time to shop for gifts. I might even need to buy some more when it gets closer to Christmas. And since you have refused to work for me any longer . . .”

  “I could probably fill in until the first of the year if you really need me to.”

  “That’s great; maybe I’ll take you up on that occasionally. And you can use the extra time you would have been mopping my floor to make masterful creations.” He understood now how Buck and Wade had taken such easy advantage of her generous nature. One nicely crafted phrase, and she was willing to set aside her personal needs to accommodate him. That was a quality to cherish, not abuse.

  Sensing by the look on her face that she was still speechless, he moved ahead. “How much would you charge me per Santa, do you think?”

  She looked at him in utter confusion. “You want twenty Santas?

  “To start.”

  “I haven’t got a clue. They’re just paper and glue and paint.”

  They were much more than paper and glue and paint. “They’re collectibles, cleverly and artistically rendered.” Ross recommended a number that was a nicely padded version of the price Jackie’s friend had suggested. He watched Natalie do the mental math. Her look of utter amazement amused him, to say the least. He felt part of the wall he’d carefully crafted around himself over the years fall away.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said.

  “I won’t agree to less.” He pressed his advantage with a little bit of logical persuasion. “I usually spend double that on gifts, so I’m still coming out ahead, especially since I’m asking for a rush job.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She smiled and shrugged. “Why not?”

  “How many can I pick up tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? But Christmas isn’t for a month. Do you really need—”

  “The sooner I have them, the sooner I’ll know how things stand. Giftwise,” he added. He knew he was steamrolling her, but he wouldn’t lie to her. He intended to give one as a gift to Jackie, one to his mother, and, worse-case scenario, proudly give any that didn’t sell at the boutique as gifts to colleagues and friends. Between what he was paying for them and what the boutique would charge, she’d make a nice chunk of change. But before he told her about the arrangement with the boutique, he wanted to see how things went. He was confident they would sell, and sell quickly, but he didn’t want to build any premature expectations in her yet, for either success or failure. Considering her self-deprecating view, he wasn’t sure which way she would respond.