by Loree Lough
While the rest of them slept, she’d scurried around the darkened, silent house, scrubbing, dusting, buffing—hoping and praying, as she straightened books on the shelves and fluffed pillows on the sofas, that she might come close, at least, to measuring up to Francine…
Who’d ironed Noah’s socks and alphabetized the pantry and mowed the lawn…with a toenail clipper, no doubt!
But try as she might, she hadn’t measured up. Hadn’t even come close, to hear Emmaline tell it.
And it wasn’t likely that she ever would.
Slowly, deliberately, Dara scooted her chair back from the table. Standing, she began stacking dishes, salad bowls, bread plates.
“Heavens,” Emmaline said, “I haven’t offended you, have I, dear?”
Dara lifted a column of plates and, forcing a smile, said in cautious, even tones, “The Lord blessed me with the hide of a rhinoceros, Mrs. Brewster. There’s very little that can offend me.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, Dara headed straight for the kitchen, where she deposited the dishes on the counter with a clatter. Then she trudged to the table, slumped into a chair and held her head in her hands. I don’t ask for much, Lord, Dara prayed, just a little peace and quiet in this crazy life. I didn’t complain—did I?—when Mom got sick. You heard no whimpering from me when Dad had his first heart attack…even though You knew how afraid I was of losing him…of being all alone.
And when he died, she didn’t whine. She had accepted his death and continued to do His will. Even when she’d learned of the embezzlement, Dara hadn’t questioned God. Despite the humiliation, the anger, the pain, she had not doubted the Lord.
Her ego had never been put to such a test before, and Emmaline, she feared, was more than she could handle. No, make that Francine.…
She thought she could handle knowing that Noah still cared so deeply for the woman. Thought she could deal with his quiet devotion, his missing her, his tribute to her memory. Because he had agreed, on their wedding night, to give her what she’d wanted more than anything in this world: a child. A child of her own! And that, she believed, would more than make up for the fact that she’d committed her future to a man who was in love with his former wife.
But she’d been wrong. So very wrong. I don’t know if I have what it takes, Sweet Jesus, to live in Francine’s shadow.
What did they all want from her, anyway? Wasn’t it enough that she loved and cared for Angie and Bobby as if they were her own? And which was really better for them: no-nonsense discipline and a flawlessly spotless house, or a mother who loved them simply because they’d been born? Dara would never subject the kids to the disorganization and disruption of the topsy-turvy household she’d grown up in, but she refused to become the drill sergeant Francine had been, either! If that’s what they want, they’re in for a rude awakening, she thought, sniffing, because—
“Dara?”
Did he really think that nothing more than the weight of his hand on her shoulder would restore her, reassure her? She didn’t want his support now; she’d needed it at the table, while Emmaline had been ridiculing her cooking, her housekeeping skills, her laid-back “let them be children” mind-set.
“If I’d known it would be like this,” he said, “I never would have—”
She wiped her eyes on the backs of her hands. “Where is she?” Dara asked without turning.
“Upstairs. With Joseph and the kids.” He paused, rested both hands on her shoulders.
Joseph, Dara scoffed. Why not “Joe”? Who’s Emmaline trying to impress with this uppity nonsense? Noah had told Dara all about Emmaline’s background, about how she’d risen, like the phoenix, from her impoverished childhood, to become one of Baltimore’s rich and famous. But it hadn’t been by dint of hard work that she’d achieved her lofty status; her marriage to Joseph—whose family’s business had been a Maryland institution for nearly two centuries—had been the means by which she’d had access to Boca Raton real estate, a sprawling ranch in horse country, luxury vehicles and partying with the state’s most illustrious political and corporate leaders. God doesn’t love her any more or any less than He loves any of His children, Dara fumed, so where does she get off putting me down just because—
“Dara, look at me.”
She’d put out four place mats and cloth napkins after services on Sunday, then chose her biggest, healthiest African violet as a centerpiece, so that when Francine’s parents arrived, she could invite them into the kitchen for tea and cookies, make them feel warm and welcome and at home.
Ironic, she thought dismally, but it worked so well that Emmaline feels it’s well within her rights to belittle me in front of Noah, and Angie, and Bobby.
Sometime during her pity fest, she must have mussed a napkin. Standing, Dara straightened it. “I guess I’d better get the dishes from the dining room. Mashed potatoes set up like concrete if you don’t rinse them before—”
“I said look at me.”
If I do, she told him silently, I’ll lose control.
And that, she believed, was the biggest mistake she could make right now. For better, for worse, she had vowed. Did you mean it? she asked herself.
The answer, of course, was yes.
Then you’d better find the strength to live in Francine’ s shadow, because it’s painfully obvious that that’s where you’re going to spend the rest of your life!
Dara took a shaky breath and squared her shoulders.
He turned her to face him. “You’re my wife. I don’t like the way she’s treating you.” If she had read insincerity in those sea blue eyes, things would have been different. But he’d meant every word, and his simple, straightforward honesty shattered the last of her composure. His brawny arms slid around her, supporting, consoling, uplifting.
She’d always had plenty of pity for others, when tears crumpled their reserve; for herself, though, weeping seemed pointless and self-centered. Far better—and more productive—to spend that energy seeking out ways to solve whatever problem had brought on the self-pity in the first place!
But standing in the protective circle of his arms, clinging like a needy child, felt strangely fitting and proper, because her weakness had enabled her to draw from his strength.
“I’ve made up my mind. She’s out of here. They’re going to be leaving early, because I won’t allow anyone to talk to my wife that way. I’m so sorry for putting you through this.”
The slight hitch in his voice made her ache. How self-centered of her, how narrow-minded, not to have seen it before: the Brewsters were the only family Noah had ever known. For better or for worse, she reminded herself. She had the love of his sweet children, for the “better,” and Francine’s parents for the “worse.” “No,” she said, “I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “For what?”
She sighed. “For behaving like a spoiled little brat. You can’t make them leave, the kids would be so disappointed. They’re the only grandparents Angie and Bobby will ever have. Besides, I can’t blame Emmaline…she misses Francine, and I imagine I pose quite a threat to her, being the woman to take her daughter’s place and all.” She tidied his shirt collar, brushed a speck of lint from his shoulder. “I’ll be more understanding from now on. The rest of their visit will be fun-filled and spectacular. I’ll see to it. I promise!”
She didn’t know how much time passed as he stood there, studying her face, but if it had been in her power, Dara would have stopped every clock in the world indefinitely. Because for those few moments, as he held her close and looked deep into her eyes, it felt an awful lot as if he loved her.
“You’re a piece of work,” he said, smiling.
Raising one eyebrow, she smiled back. “I’m not sure I know how to take that.”
“Take it to mean there’s not another one like you, not anywhere in the universe.”
“Which is probably a good thing, and before you try and argue with that, too,” she said, a hand up to forestall his reply, “may I remin
d you the mashed potatoes are turning to cement as we speak?”
Noah chuckled. “All right. Get your riveter out if it’ll make you feel any better.”
Actually, standing here like this for the rest of her life was what would make her feel better.
But Emmaline was sure to have a barbed commentary about that, and Dara had only just given her word to try to be more understanding of the woman’s feelings. “Thank you,” she said as she started for the dining room.
“For what?”
Hard as it was, Dara tore her gaze from his and shook her head. “For being you.”
She said a little prayer that he wouldn’t follow her, and thankfully, God answered it. It was as she stood at the sink, wrist deep in warm foamy dishwater that Dara’s memories gripped her.…
For a moment there, the other night as they’d clung to each other in the wide, white-sheeted bed, she’d felt a bit sinful for having expressed her wish to have his children, despite the fact that he hadn’t fully committed to her. His eyes had blazed in the dim light when he’d said, “A baby?”
He’d wanted a baby, too. She had sensed it so strongly it was as though God had sent an angel to sigh it into her ear. And the knowledge warmed her like August sunshine.
Gently, oh so gently, he’d combed his fingers through her hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he’d whispered. And then his mouth had covered hers with an insistent, yet achingly tender kiss that touched Dara’s very soul. She loved him, wholly and completely, and wanted to prove it with everything that she had, with everything that she was.
And he had been pleased. She could see the happiness and surprise in his eyes, but there had been something else. Tenderness? Affection? Dare she hope for love? Say it, she’d willed him, tell me that you love me!
Sadly, he hadn’t said anything. The only sound had been the quiet hiss of the quilt sliding to the floor. That, and the ever-present click of the alarm clock, counting off the minutes.
In the quiet moments afterward, she’d snuggled contentedly against him, thrilled at the love she felt for him. She’d fought the feeling long enough; giving in to it at last had been a blessed, comforting relief. It’ll be good for the kids, she’d thought drowsily, good for Noah, good for the babies we’ll have.…
Head high, she scrubbed the last stubborn stain from the roasting pan. To her surprise and relief, they’d left her alone with her womanly chores…and her womanly thoughts.
He was a good and decent man. Proud and determined, Dara believed he would keep his promise to take good care of her always. And she’d keep her oath to him to do the same. It might never be a rockets-andheartthrobs kind of marriage, she told herself, but it’ll be rock solid and long-lasting. She knew that the way she knew her name was now Dara Lucas, legally, spiritually, physically.…
So much had been said—without words—that night. But her heart ached with a bittersweet yearning for what hadn’t been said. Let him love me, was her sad, silent prayer. Please, God, let him love me!
Chapter Eleven
Emmaline had insisted on “helping” with the decorations…and the baking and the shopping and the gift wrapping.…
And since Dara was determined to make this Christmas as perfect as it could possibly be, for the children and for Noah, she hadn’t fought Francine’s mother for control.
It turned out to be a blessing, actually, because while Emmaline ran around town, trying desperately to pull things together for the commercial side of the holiday, Dara enjoyed the season for its spiritual aspects.
She’d taken long walks with the kids down the snow-covered neighborhood sidewalks, sat between them on the family room sofa, reading fairy tales—Bobby’s favorite story, the “Three Pigs”; Angie’s, “Little Red Riding Hood.” She’d read the yarns so often, Dara believed she could recite them word for word from the Big Book of Fables.
And while she played Scrabble and checkers and chess with the children—getting to know them even better, falling completely in love with them—Francine’s mother plunged into Christmas like a child into a favorite swimming hole, and by December 20, the house smelled like a cookie factory and was alight with color. On the kitchen snack bar she’d stood a threefoot white pine and decked it out in spatulas and spoons trimmed with red gingham ribbons and bows. She’d done up the big Douglas fir in the corner of the living room in a regal angel theme of golds and whites. In the family room, the pointed tip of a fifteen-foot blue spruce scraped the vaulted ceiling. She’d garnished that one with teddy bears and tiny wooden wagons and candy canes; she called it the “children’s tree,” though Dara failed to understand why, since the kids hadn’t been allowed to hang so much as a strand of tinsel and weren’t permitted to get within five feet of it now that it was trimmed.
Christmas Eve, as it turned out, was the one-week anniversary of the wedding. Dara thought it would be nice if, after a hearty meal, the family would attend the evening service. Afterward, she’d brew up a kettle of warm and spicy apple cider and serve it with cheese and crackers. She’d packed up her old music books; if she could find them amid the boxes piled in the rented storage cube down on Route 40, maybe they’d gather around the spinet in Noah’s living room, sing hymns and carols, the way her parents and grandparents had when she’d been a girl.
The day after the Brewsters arrived, Dara had managed to slip away for an all-in-one shopping trip. It hadn’t been necessary to buck Beltway traffic or the crowds in the malls, because everything she needed could be found at the fabric store.
Her first stop had been the design aisle, where she carefully picked through patterns, searching for just the right things: one little girl’s dress, a little boy’s blazer, a man’s sport coat, five bathrobes in varying styles and sizes, an assortment of vests. Next, she browsed through the colorful bolts of velvet, fleece, flannel and chenille. Then zippers and buttons, thread and lace, topped off the mountain of materials in her shopping cart.
And every night, as the rest of the family snoozed contentedly, Dara tiptoed downstairs to the laundry room, where she’d created an L-shaped sewing center by balancing two unhung doors on sawhorses. The portable machine she’d bought years ago hadn’t come equipped with bells and whistles, but it would get the job done.
It had taken all week—two hours here, four hours there—to complete the outfits, and she’d finished every gift with two days to spare! She felt cross-eyed from the eyestrain of burning the midnight oil, working in poor lighting. But she now had the satisfaction of knowing the only thing left to do was wrap the things she’d stitched up, label the packages and arrange them under the family room tree.
After dinner on the twenty-fourth, Dara handed everyone a slice of her deep-dish Dutch apple pie. She didn’t wait for compliments…or complaints; instead, she sat on the edge of her chair and made a quiet announcement.
“It was a tradition in my family to make something special for the people you loved.” She caught Noah smiling at her, and blushed. “I, ah, I thought it might be nice to blend traditions this year, since I’m so new to the family.”
“Sounds like a great idea,” Noah said softly. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well, I know this is a little out of the ordinary,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “but you’re all going to have to open one gift tonight.”
“Co-o-o-ol,” Bobby said, grinning.
“Neat!” his sister agreed.
“Open gifts before Christmas morning?” Emmaline clucked. “Out of the question!”
“But—”
Bobby’s interruption was silenced by his grandmother’s raised finger and haughty stare.
Dara had been afraid this might happen, so she’d prepared a speech just in case. “Not everything, Emmaline. Just one of the gifts I’ve made for each of you.”
“Made us?” Emmaline put down her dessert fork and sat ramrod straight in her chair. “One of your gifts to us is…is a handicraft?”
From the look on her face, Dara thought grimly,
you’d think I was wrapping yesterday’s potato peels as gifts. “Actually,” she began, her smile firmly in place, “everything I’m giving was handmade.”
“By you?”
Dara nodded.
Francine’s mother rolled her eyes. “Regardless,” she huffed, “we never open our gifts before Christmas morning.” She looked to Noah for support. “Do we, darling?”
He tucked in one corner of his mouth and regarded her for a moment before saying, “Ordinarily, that’s true.” He met Dara’s eyes then and, smiling warmly, added, “You say your family opened one gift apiece on Christmas Eve?”
Another nod…a hopeful one that was mimicked by Angie and Bobby.
“You are a part of this family, after all, and I see no reason your traditions can’t become part of our traditions.” He winked. “When would you like to get started?”
“Now!” Bobby suggested, leaping up from his chair.
“I’m finished with my pie,” Angie volunteered, standing beside him.
Emmaline’s lips formed a tight, straight line. “This is highly irregular.”
Standing beside her, Noah bent down, slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Ease up, Emmie,” he said, grinning as he kissed her cheek. “It’s Christmas, for goodness’ sake.”
“Not until tomorrow morning it isn’t!” She tossed her napkin on top of her uneaten pie. “I let you get away with that nickname when my daughter was alive because she asked me to overlook it. But she’s gone now, and I’ll thank you to address me by my given name.”
Noah straightened, his smile vanishing. His narrowed eyes glittered like blue diamonds as his brows dipped low in the center of his forehead. From all outward appearances, he seemed to be gearing up to raise the roof, and Dara couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in that handsome head of his.
Then he pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “I assure you, Emmaline,” he said with deliberate slowness, “I meant no disrespect. I’m genuinely sorry if I offended you.” He held out one hand and smiled affectionately. “Now, will you join us in the family room?”
