by Val Daniels
"You miss her a lot, don't you?"
She nodded. "She spoiled me rotten. Not with things—she couldn't afford to spoil me that way—but she gave me so much love."
Matt leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist.
His interest unnerved her. Jillian noticed the empty coffee mugs and went to get the pot. "Would you like more coffee?" she asked from the kitchen.
He held out his cup as she reappeared.
"It's nice to talk about her without…" She shrugged and set the almost empty pot on the table.
"Maybe it's easier because I don't know you."
"Maybe, but I hope it's because I'm finally adjusting to her death." She stared into the fire. "She made school vacations so special. We'd bake and decorate, put puzzles together, eat popcorn. In the evenings she'd read tear-jerkers aloud. Classics like A Tale of Two Cities. We'd both cry."
Matt laid a hand on top of hers, and she looked over at him and sniffed.
"I'd better not get started. You'll drown." She smiled tremulously. "She could never afford to give me what I really wanted for Christmas. Not anything as lovely as this." Her fingers lightly stroked the chain he'd given her. "But what she gave, she gave with so much love it didn't matter." This time when she looked at him, her eyes did fill with tears.
"I'm sorry." She forced the words from her tight throat.
He stood up, came around the table and held out his arms. They folded around her as she buried her face against the soft fabric covering his shoulder, muffling her quiet sobs. He stroked her hair, murmuring comforting words.
She felt Matt's strength ebbing into her. With a final noisy sniff, she drew back, immediately missing his warmth. He moved away. Swiping at the remaining tears with a knuckle, she gratefully accepted the tissue he extended as he returned.
"Thank you." It bothered Harrison when she cried. The one time she'd let go, shortly after the funeral, he'd acted as though a monster had backed him into a corner. "I'm sorry, but I miss her so much." She needed to say it to someone and Matt seemed willing to listen. "Sometimes I feel so alone."
"You're not alone. I'm here." His voice was soothing.
"You know what I mean." She raised her face toward his.
He pulled her close, cupping her chin in his hand. "I'll help you remember you're not alone." His head descended a fraction. "My body keeps reminding me," he murmured ruefully.
Her breath caught. Her red-rimmed eyes widened, then fluttered closed as his lips edged nearer. Her heartbeat quickened as he sighed against her lips.
His kiss branded her with its gentleness. Her hand drifted to the back of his head—to coax him closer. The tip of his tongue searched her mouth tentatively, seeking more; her lips parted, encouraging him.
He lifted his head, slowly dislodging her hand from its tight hold on his neck.
"This is insanity," he whispered, his eyes never leaving her lips. His arm still molded her to his body. "I'm not sure who's crazier. Me, for not taking what's offered, or you, for offering yourself because you need to be close to someone right now." With a derisive laugh, he stepped away from her.
Her common sense returned with a jolt. She could thank her lucky stars that he'd recognized her confusion and hadn't taken advantage of that desperate blend of emotional need and physical longing. A minute ago, she would have gone along with anything he asked.
"I have one rule that's served me well. Anything that happens between intelligent, consenting adults is fair," he said. "But this situation is too emotional to fall into that category." He rubbed his neck, looking at her for the first time since he'd backed away. "Whether you know it or not, you are a very seductive witch, and I don't know how long I can take all this togetherness. Let's get out of here. How about a walk?"
She eyed the heavily laden table, then gazed out the window. The sun had been inviting her all day, even though she knew it was cold out. And thanks to that kiss, she could definitely use a cooling off. "Okay. We'd better clear the table first."
He reluctantly picked up the relish plate and followed her to the kitchen. When they'd collected all the dishes and she began running hot water, he reached past her to turn off the tap. "It's time," he said. "The table is clean."
"Shouldn't we put away the food?"
He shook his head. "By now, it'll stay as cool sitting out on the counter as it would be in the fridge." He looked thoughtful. "We'll have to do something about that when we get back."
"What will we do if they don't fix the electricity soon?" Jillian asked.
"We'll stay warm enough with the fire going, and we can leave the oven on if we need to. We certainly won't run out of food. But it wouldn't hurt to call the power company when we come back. They can't fix it if they don't know it's out."
Jillian grimaced. "The phone's out, too." She'd forgotten to tell him.
"Well, that explains why the boyfriend hasn't called to wish you Merry Christmas." Matt lifted a shoulder. "I, myself, won't miss it. Let's get out of here."
"Do I need more than a coat?"
"What are the choices?"
"I brought long Johns."
"Good! I'll put mine on, too, and we can stay out longer." He followed her into the bedroom, searching for his pair in the suitcase he'd left open in the corner.
She fidgeted as she watched him churn through his belongings. Pulling out her own underwear with him in the room seemed too intimate an act to contemplate. "I'll wait till you're finished," she muttered, and went to the door.
"I'll change in the bathroom," he offered.
"No, that's okay." She closed the door behind her.
"Meet me outside," he told her as they exchanged places a few minutes later.
Jillian hurried and was soon cramming her pale gold hair under a vivid red cap and letting herself out the back door.
Expecting Matt to be waiting impatiently, Jillian frowned when she didn't see him. She wandered to the side of the cabin and looked toward the lake. A loosely packed snowball caught her unexpectedly as she turned the corner. She whirled as Matt emerged from behind a tree, but decided not to retaliate. It didn't seem worth the effort—not when he was expecting it. Maybe later.
"Very funny," she said with an exaggerated smile.
"I couldn't resist." Matt approached her cautiously, obviously surprised at her casual response to the snowball.
He looked sleek and powerful in his black body-hugging ski suit. He was carrying something long and narrow—skis? she wondered.
"I got my bow out of the Blazer."
"I guess I'm lucky it was just a snowball that hit me." She eyed the arrows attached to the side of the bow.
"Maybe I'll get tomorrow's lunch."
"What are you planning?" she asked, not sure she wanted to know.
"We may scare up a rabbit or two."
"Ugh." She shuddered as he skirted the side of the cabin and led her toward the thickest stand of trees.
He climbed to the top of a four-foot drift, extending a hand down to her. "Be careful. Everything's icy."
She accepted his help and held on to him till they were over the ridge. "I wore my waffle-stompers," she commented, indicating her footprint pattern in the crisp snow.
"Ugh." He imitated her earlier shudder as he looked at her hiking boots. "Remind me to eat out when you fix waffles, Jake."
"Why do you keep calling me that?"
"It's shorter than Jillian Kemp."
Suddenly, she felt invigorated, light as the cotton-ball clouds that floated in the dazzlingly bright sky, looking close enough to touch. She inhaled deeply.
"Tell me about Harry," Matt said conversationally.
Startled at the mention of the man who had hardly entered her mind all day, she didn't answer.
"What's he do?" Matt turned back to look at her, not losing a step.
"He's a lawyer," she answered, then added with emphasis, "his name's Harrison."
"And you're engaged to him?"
He flung the question over his
shoulder indifferently, but she'd noticed him studying her hand during lunch and gladly clarified the situation. "Informally. I'm getting the ring for Christmas."
He was silent and she assumed he found the subject as unappealing as she suddenly did. Discussing Harrison usually seemed exciting. Discussing Harrison with Matt seemed like a betrayal.
"Where'd you meet him?" he asked finally, helping her over a small snowdrift.
"At a barbecue for my boss."
He gave her a look that invited her to expand on her answer.
"I work for a senator."
"Oh? Which one?"
"Mike Atwater."
"He's okay," he responded, surprising her as she prepared for all the standard political gripes she usually received when people learned about her job.
"So where did Harry come in?"
"Harrison," she corrected again. "The barbecue was a fund-raiser during the last campaign."
"That was more than a year ago. Harry's not a very decisive character, is he?"
"We didn't start seeing each other right away."
"Not exactly love at first sight, huh?"
She shot a warning look at his back. "I've always thought the kind of love that lasts is built on friendship and mutual respect."
"I wouldn't know, but it sounds boring as heck."
"As long as we're getting personal, how about you? Are you married, divor—"
"Single."
"Never been married?"
His "no" was emphatic. "I have a perfectly healthy regard for your sex. Why would I want to ruin it?"
They tramped silently for a while. As they moved deeper into the trees, the ground leveled off. The wind hadn't piled all the snow in heaps here. Matt picked up his pace and Jillian practically had to jog to keep up.
"Do you hunt a lot?" she panted, breaking their silence.
He slowed down. "When I get the chance. Dad and I used to go off almost every weekend."
"Really? You haven't mentioned your father before. Where is he?"
"Heaven, I hope. Or some equivalent."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"He died when I was seventeen. I've had lots of time to get used to it." His voice held more affection for his father than it had when he'd spoken of his sister and mother.
"How old are you now?" she asked, wondering how long it took to "get used to" a loved one's death.
"Thirty-one. It's been fourteen years," he replied, sparing her the calculation.
"Maybe that's why your mother's been married so many times."
Matt stopped so suddenly, she ran into him. "I don't see the connection." He turned to face her, scowling.
"Well…you didn't sound like you approved of your mother's fourth marriage. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe she can't get used to being without your father? Maybe she keeps remarrying to find what she had with him."
His laughter filled the stillness and a couple of birds took flight, setting ice-laden branches clattering like wooden wind chimes.
"Hardly. My mother and father couldn't stand each other. I never figured out how they got tangled up in the first place, let alone had two kids. They divorced when I was nine. They should have done it sooner."
"Oh. You were separated from your father several years before he died?"
"No. I stayed with him. Maureen, my sister, went with Mom."
"Oh," she repeated.
"Oh," he mimicked, brushing a low branch and showering her with ice as he set off down a makeshift path between the trees. "What wonderful insight do you think you've gained now?"
"I can see how watching your parents' marriage disintegrate might make you a little leery."
He laughed again. "Watching anyone's marriage might make me leery. Think about it. How many couples do you know who'd do it all over again if they could turn back the clock?"
"Lots of them."
"Name names."
"Well…" It irked her that she couldn't rattle off a list. His arrogance as he strolled leisurely away made her indignant.
"There's one of my neighbors. She's been married almost thirty years," she called breathlessly, rushing to catch up. "Her husband sends her flowers out of the blue, and for their anniversary last spring, he took her to Excelsior Springs. They had a very romantic second honeymoon in the spas."
"That's one," he acknowledged, stomping along with his head down.
"One of my friends from high school got married right after we graduated. She's so happy with her husband and their new baby that it's contagious. I feel happy just being with her."
He stopped. "But is her husband?" His cynical tone earned him a scathing look.
"How about Jim and Karen? We both know them. Don't you think they're happy?"
"Yes, but they each make their own happiness! Karen doesn't rely on Jim to fulfill her or vice versa. Now think of the ones you know who aren't happy," he challenged silkily.
"No!"
He raised an eyebrow derisively. She sank onto a large, ice-frosted rock, then found herself starting to slide. Grabbing her, he held her in place until she re-gained her balance, then released her and continued speaking. "Can't count 'em, can you?"
"I refuse to be a…a…"
"Happy pessimist?" he finished for her. "Like me?" He sat down in the snow, his back against a tree.
"What about kids? Would you rather your parents didn't have you?"
He chuckled. "The imminent birth of my sister is what got them into the mess in the first place. But you're right. If I wanted a family, I'd want to be married. Guess I've never had the itch for kids or a wife."
"Seriously, I don't know that many people who are unhappy with their marriages," Jillian told him.
"No," he agreed, surprising her, "but most people aren't happy, either. They're indifferent." He leaned forward. "You don't have to convince me. Some people just aren't cut out for it."
"You, for instance?"
He nodded. "And my dad. He was one terrific father when he was around, but a lousy husband. After they split up, Mom and Dad both turned into nice people. Mom's the type who should be married—she proves it by switching husbands frequently, just so no one gets left out—and Dad needed to stop by the pool hall after work with no one yelling about supper getting cold when he came home. I didn't blame my mother for leaving him. She needed to feel her life was going someplace. He was content with having nothing and living on past glories."
Jillian sighed. It all sounded so sad.
"And you believe in happily-ever-after?" There was a trace of condescension in his voice.
She nodded, trying to ignore a sudden feeling of unease.
"For your sake, I hope it exists."
"I know it does," she said fervently. She tried to think the pleasant thoughts about her future with Harrison that usually made her feel so satisfied.
"Don't you have any dreams or ambitions? Most of the women I know have big career plans. Eventually, they want a kid or two, but they make it sound like a hobby on the side."
Jillian's laugh gurgled up. Most of her friends were the same way. Even Lisa, her friend from high school, attended classes at Emporia State and planned to have a nursing degree by the time her children were in school.
"I'm a throwback, I guess. Karen calls me a dinosaur. She's going to law school as well as working. I'll miss her when she graduates next year. She tries to talk me into going back to school, but I can't think of anything I really want to do."
"Maybe you need more time. You shouldn't rush into marriage just to have something to do."
"That's not it at all. The only thing I've ever wanted to be—other than a wife and mother—was a concert pianist. It didn't take me too long to figure out that it would involve loads of work and a lot of travel. I'd have to give up having any kind of family life. I couldn't face that idea." She grimaced. "I do plan to give piano lessons after Harrison and I start a family of our own."
"You could teach music at school."
She wrinkled her nose. "That so
unds appalling. See what I mean?"
"What about money? A lot of women have to work these days."
"We'll be in good shape. Harrison joined his father's old law firm as soon as he passed the bar exam, so he's not exactly struggling to establish a practice." His warm eyes felt cold on her now, and his eyebrow was raised. "If you think I'm marrying Harrison because he has money, you're wrong. But I am very practical. I'm delighted that I fell in love with someone who could afford my dreams. I want time to raise my kids. I don't want them trudging off to school in thrift shop clothing. I want to give them things I never had." She added defensively, "And I don't see the difference between wanting to marry well and being ambitious. If a man isn't ambitious, he's considered a failure."
"Like my father," Matt commented absently. "What would have happened if you fell in love with a poor man?"
"Luckily, I—"
Matt raised a gloved hand, motioning her not to speak. Her eyes followed his to the edge of the clearing. A rabbit sat there, partially camouflaged beneath a shrub.
Matt pulled off his glove with his teeth and slowly dropped into a crouch, threading an arrow onto the string of his bow.
She unconsciously put a hand on his arm.
His quizzical cat's eyes met hers across the arc of the bow as he drew it back to his cheek.
"Don't," she whispered, realizing she could have shouted and frightened the paralyzed animal away. "Please?"
He hesitated.
"We've got enough food to last us, don't we?"
He nodded and loosened his hold a bit.
"I couldn't eat him," she mouthed.
He debated, then lowered the weapon.
The rabbit scurried off at the sudden movement, quickly blending with the snow and undergrowth.
"Thank you."
Matt's eyes glimmered, fine lines crinkling around them good-naturedly. "Dad made me figure out how many descendants one pair of rabbits could have in three years when I acted that way the first time he took me hunting."
"And?" She expected him to tell her to figure it out herself.
"Thirteen million," he cheerfully replied. "Believe me, the farmers would have appreciated my getting rid of that one."
"But they won't know. I will."
Matt lifted a brow, as if challenging her assumption that he should care what she thought.
