A Bright Red Ribbon
Fern Michaels
Even in her dream, Morgan Ames knew she was dreaming, knew she was going to wake with tears on her pillow and reality slapping her in the face. She cried
out,
the way she always did, just at the moment Keith was about to slip the ring on her finger. That's how she
knew
it was a dream. She never got beyond this point.
She
woke now, and looked at the bedside clock; it was
She dropped her legs over the side of the bed, slid into a daffodil-colored robe that was snugly warm, and pulled on thick wool socks. She padded out to the mini ature kitchen to make coffee.
Christmas Eve. To her, Christmas Eve was the most wonderful day of the year. Years ago, when she'd turned into a teen-ager, her parents had switched the big dinner and gift opening to Christmas Eve so they could sleep late on Christmas morning. The dinner was huge; friends dropped by before evening services, and then they opened i heir presents, sang carols, and drank spiked eggnog afterward.
Mo knew a watched kettle never boiled so she made herself some toast while the kettle hummed on the stove. She was so excited her hands shook as she spread butter and jam on the toast. The kettle whistled. The water sputtered over the counter as she poured it into the cup with the black rum tea bag.
In about sixteen hours, she was going to see Keith. At last. Two years ago he had led her by the hand over to the twelve-foot Christmas tree and said he wanted to talk to her about something. He'd been so nervous, but she'd been more nervous, certain the something he wanted to talk about was the engagement ring he was going to give her. She'd been expecting it, her parents had been expecting it, all her friends had been expecting it. Instead, Keith had taken both her hands in his and said, "Mo, I need to talk to you about something. I need you to understand. This is my problem. You didn't do anything to make me . . . what I'm trying to say is, I need more time. I'm not ready to commit. I think we both need to experience a little more of life's challenges. We both have good jobs, and I just got a promotion that will take effect the first of the year. I'll be working in the
The hot tea scalded her tongue. She yelped. She'd yelped that night, too. She'd wanted to be sophisticated, blase, to say, okay, sure, no big deal. She hadn't said any of those things. Instead she'd cried, hanging on to his arm, begging to know if what he was proposing meant he was going to date others. His answer had crushed her and she'd sobbed then. He'd said things like, "Ssshhh, Maybe we aren't meant to be with each other for the rest of our lives. We'll find out. Yes, it's going to be hard
on
me,
too. Look, I know this is a surprise ... I didn't M .mi ... I was going to call . . . This is what I propose, two years from tonight, I'll meet you right here, in front
of the
tree. Do we have a date, Mo?" She nodded miserably. Then he'd added, "Look, I have to leave,
It had been the worst Christmas of her life. The worst New Year's, too. The next Christmas and New Year's had been just as bad because her parents had looked at her with pity and then anger. Just last week they had called and said, "Get on with your life, Morgan. You've already wasted two years. In that whole time, Keith hasn't called you once or even dropped you a post card." She'd been stubborn, though, because she loved Keith. Sharp words had ensued, and she'd broken the connection and cried.
Tonight she had a date.
Life was going to be so wonderful. The strain between her and her parents would ease when they saw how happy she was.
Mo looked at the clock. Five-thirty.
Time to shower, dress, pack up the Cherokee for her two-week vacation. Oh, life was good. She had it all planned. They'd go skiing, but first she'd go to Keith's apartment in
Two years was a long time to be celibate—and she'd been celibate. She winced when she thought about Keith in bed with other women. He loved sex more then she did. There was no way he'd been faithful to her. She felt it in her heart. Every chance her mother got, she drove home her point. Her parents didn't like Keith. Her father was fond of saying, "I know his type—he's no good. Get a life, Morgan."
Tonight her new life would begin. Unless . . . unless Keith was a no show. Unless Keith decided the single life was better than a married life and responsibilities. God in heaven, what would she do if that happened? Well, it wasn't going to happen. She'd always been a positive person and she saw no reason to change now.
It wasn't going to happen because when Keith saw her he was going to go out of his mind. She'd changed in the two years. She'd dropped twelve pounds in all the right places. She was fit and toned because she worked out daily at a gym and ran for five miles every evening after work. She'd gotten a new hair style in
Like Keith, she had gotten a promotion with a hefty salary increase. If things worked out, she was going to think about opening her own architectural office by early summer. She'd hire people, oversee them. Clients she worked with told her she should open her own office, go it alone. One in particular had offered to back her after he'd seen the plans she'd drawn up for his beach house in
What she wanted, really wanted, was to get married and have a baby. She could always do consulting work, like on a few private clients to keep her hand in. All she needed was a husband to make it perfect.
Keith.
The phone rang. Mo frowned. No one ever called her this early in the morning. Her heart skipped a beat as she picked up the phone. "Hello," she said warily.
"Morgan?" Her mother. She always made her name sound like a question.
"What's wrong, Mom?"
"When are you leaving, Morgan? I wish you'd left last night like Dad and I asked you to do. You should have listened to us, Morgan."
"Why? What's wrong? I told you why I couldn't leave. I'm about ready to go out the door as we speak."
"Have you looked outside?"
"No. It's still dark, Mom."
"Open your blinds, Morgan, and look at the parking lot lights. It's snowing!"
"Mom, it snows every year. So what? It's only a two-hour drive, maybe three if there's a lot of snow. I have the Cherokee. Four-wheel drive, Mom." She pulled up the blind in the bedroom to stare out at the parking lot. She swallowed hard. So, it would be a challenge. The world was white as far as the eye could see. She raised her eyes to the parking lights. The bright light that usually greeted her early in the morning was dim as the sodium vapor fought with the early light of dawn and the swirling snow. "It's snowing, Mom."
"That's I trying to tell you. It started here around midnight, I guess. It was just flurries when Dad and I went to bed but now we have about four inches. Since this storm seems to be coming from the south where you are, you probably have more. Dad and I have been talking and we won't be upset if you wait till the storm is over. Christmas morning is just as good as Christmas Eve. Just how much snow do you have, Morgan?"
"It looks like a lot, but it's drifting in the parking lot. I can't see the front, Mom. Look, don't worry about me. I have to be home this evening. I've waited two long years for this. Please, Mom, you understand, don't you?"
"What I understand, Morgan, is that you're being foolhardy. I saw Keith's mother the other day and she said he hasn't been home in ten months. He just lives across the river, for heaven's sake. She also said she didn't expect him for Christmas, so what does that tell you? I don't want you risking your life for some foolish promise."
Mo's physical being trembled. The words she dreaded, the words she didn't ever want to hear, had just been uttered: Keith wasn't coming home for Christmas. She perked up almost immediately. Keith loved surprises. It would be just like him to tell his mother he wasn't coming home and then show up and yell, 'Surprise!5 If he had no intention of honoring the promise they made to each other, he would have sent a note or called her. Keith wasn't that callous. Or was he? She didn't know anything anymore.
She thought about the awful feelings that attacked her over the past two years, feelings she pushed away. Had she buried her head in the sand? Was it possible that Keith had used the two-year hiatus to soften the blow of parting, thinking that she'd transfer her feelings to someone else and let him off the hook? Instead she'd trenched in and convinced herself that by being faithful to herfeelings, tonight would be the reward. Was she a fool? According to her mother she was. Tonight would tell the tale.
What she did know for certain was, nothing was going to stop her from going home. Not her mother's dire words, and certainly not a snowstorm. If she was a fool, she deserved to have her snoot rubbed in it.
Just a few short hours ago she'd stacked up her shopping bags by the front door, colorful Christmas bags loaded with presents for everyone. Five oversize bags for Keith. She wondered what happened to the presents she'd bought two years ago. Did her mother take them over to Keith's mother's house or were they in the downstairs closet? She'd never asked.
She'd spent a sinful amount of money on him this year. She'd even knitted a stocking for him and filled it with all kinds of goodies and gadgets. She'd stitched his name on the cuff of the bright red stocking in bright green thread. Was she a fool?
Mo pulled on her fleece-lined parka. Bundled up, she carried as many of the bags downstairs to the lobby as she could handle. She made three trips before she braved the outdoors. She needed to shovel and heat the car up.
She was exhausted when she tossed the fold-up shovel into the back of the Jeep. The heater and defroster worked furiously, but she still had to scrape the ice from the windshield and driver's side window. She checked the flashlight m the glove compartment. She rummaged inside the small opening, certain she had extra batteries, but couldn't find any. She glanced at the gas gauge. Three-quarters full, enough to get her home. She'd meant to top off last night on her way home from work, but she'd been in a hurry to get home to finish wrapping Keith's presents. God, she'd spent hours making intricate, one-of-a-kind bows and decorations for the gold-wrapped packages. A three-quarter tank would get her home for sure. The Cherokee gave her good mileage. If memory served her right, the trip never took more than a quarter of a tank. Well, she couldn't worry about that now. If road conditions permitted, she could stop on 95 or when she got onto the Jersey Turnpike.
Mo was numb with cold when she shrugged out of her parka and boots. She debated having a cup of tea to warm her up. Maybe she should wait for rush hour traffic to be over. Maybe a lot of things.
Maybe she should call Keith and ask him point blank if he was going to meet her in front of the Christmas tree. If she did that, she might spoil things. Still, why take her life in her hands and drive through what looked like a terrible storm, for nothing. She'd just as soon avoid her parents' pitying gaze and make the trip tomorrow morning and return in the evening to lick her wounds. If he was really going to be a no show, that would be the way to go. Since there were no guarantees, she didn't see any choice but to brave the storm.
She wished she had a dog or a cat to nuzzle, a warm body that loved unconditionally. She'd wanted to get an animal at least a hundred times these past two years, but she couldn't bring herself to admit that she needed someone. What did it matter if that someone had four legs and a furry body?
Her address book was in her hand, but she knew Keith's
"C'mon, now, you know what to do if I don't answer. I'm either catching some z's or I'm out and about. Leave
me
a message, but be careful not to give away any secrets. Wait for the beep." Z's? It must be fast track
A moment later she was zipping up her parka and pulling on thin leather gloves. She turned down the heat in her cozy apartment, stared at her small Christmas tree on the coffee table, and made a silly wish.
The moment she stepped outside, grainy snow assaulted her as the wind tried to drive her backward. She made it to the Cherokee, climbed inside, and slammed the door. She shifted into four-wheel drive, then turned on the front and back wipers. The Cherokee inched forward, its wheels finding the traction to get her to the access road to 1-95. It took her all of forty minutes to steer the Jeep to the ramp that led onto the Interstate. At that precise moment she knew she was making a mistake, but it was too late and there was no way now to get off and head back to the apartment. As far as she could see, it was bumper-to-bumper traffic. Visibility was almost zero. She knew there was a huge green directional sign overhead, but she couldn't see it.
“ Oh, shit!"
Mo's hands gripped the wheel as the car in front of her slid to the right, going off the road completely. She muttered her favorite expletive again. God, what would she do if the wipers iced up? From the sound they were making on the windshield, she didn't think she'd have to wait long to find out.
The radio crackled with static, making it impossible to hear what was being said. Winter advisory She already knew that. Not only did she know it, she was participating in it. She turned it off. The dashboard clock said she'd been on the road for well over an hour and she was nowhere near the Jersey Turnpike. At least she didn't think so. It was impossible to read the signs with the snow sticking to everything.
A white Christmas. The most wonderful time of the year. That thought alone had sustained her these past two years. Nothing bad ever happened on Christmas. Liar! Keith dumped you on Christmas Eve, right there in front of the tree. Don't lie to yourself!
"Okay, okay," she muttered. "But this Christmas will be different, this Christmas it will work out." Keith will make it up to you, she thought. Believe. Sure, and Santa is going to slip down the chimney one minute after
Mo risked a glance at the gas gauge. Half. She turned the heater down. Heaters added to the fuel consumption, didn't they? She thought about the Ferragamo boots she was wearing. Damn, she'd set her rubber boots by the front door so she wouldn't forget to bring them. They were still sitting by the front door. She wished now for her warm ski suit and wool cap, but she'd left them at her mother's last year when she went skiing for the last time.
She tried the radio again. The static was worse than before. So was the snow and ice caking her windshield. She had to stop and clean the blades or she was going to have an accident. With the faint glow of the taillights in front of her, Mo steered the Cherokee to the right. She pressed her flasher button, then waited to see if a car would pass her on the left and how much room she had to exit the car. The parka hood flew backward, exposing her head and face to the snowy onslaught. She fumbled with the wipers and the scraper. The swath they cleared was almost minuscule, G od. what was she to do? Get off the damn road at the very next exit and see if the could find shelter? There was always a gas station 01 truck stop. The problem was, how would she know when she came to an exit?
Panic rivered through her when she got back into the trip. Her leather gloves were soaking wet. She peeled them off, then tossed them onto the back seat. She longed for her padded ski gloves and a cup of hot tea.
Mo drove for another forty minutes, stopping again to * i ape her wipers and windshield. She was fighting a losing battle and she knew it. The wind was razor sharp, the snow coming down harder. This wasn't just a winter storm, it was a blizzard. People died in blizzards. Some fool had even made a movie about people eating other people when a plane crashed during a blizzard. She let the panic engulf her again. What was going to happen to her? Would she run out of gas and freeze to death? Who would find her? When would they find her? On Cristmas Day? She imagined her parents' tears, their recriminations.
All of a sudden she realized there were no lights in front of her. She'd been so careful to stay a car length
and
a half behind the car in front. She pressed the accelerator, hoping desperately to keep up. God in heaven,
was
she off the road? Had she crossed the
Before she climbed from the car, she unzipped her duffel bag sitting on the passenger side. She groped for a tee shirt and wrapped it around her head. Maybe the parka hood would stay on with something besides her silky hair to cling to. Her hands touched a pair of rolled up sleep sox. She pulled them on. Almost as good as mittens. Did she have two pairs? She found a second pair and pulled them on. She flexed her fingers. No thumb holes. Damn. She remembered the manicure scissors she kept in her purse. A minute later she had thumb holes and was able to hold the steering wheel tightly. Get out, see what you can see. Clean the wipers, use that flashlight. Try your high beams.
Mo did all of the above. Uncharted snow. No one had gone before her. The snow was almost up to her knees. If she walked around, the snow would go down between her boots and stirrup pants. Knee highs. Oh, God! Her feet would freeze in minutes. They might not find her until the spring thaw. Where was she? A field? The only thing she knew for certain was, she wasn't on any kind of a road.
"I hate you, Keith Mitchell. I mean, I really hate you. This is all your fault! No, it isn't," she sobbed. "It's my fault for being so damn stupid. If you loved me, you'd wait for me. Tonight was just a time. My mother would tell you I was delayed because of the storm. You could stay at my mother's or go to your mother's. If you loved me. I'm sitting here now, my life in danger, because . . . I wanted to believe you loved me. The way I love you. Christmas miracles, my ass!"
Mo shifted gears, inching the Cherokee forward.
How was it possible, Mo wondered, to be so cold and yet be sweating? She swiped at the perspiration on her forehead with the sleeve of her parka. In her whole life she'd never been this scared. If only she knew where she was. For all she knew, she could be driving into a pond or a lake. She shivered. Maybe she should get out and walk. Take her chances in the snow. She was in a no-win situation and she knew it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Maybe the snow wasn't as deep as she thought it was. Maybe it was just drifting in places. She was saved from further speculation when the Cherokee bucked, sputtered, slugged forward, and then came to a coughing stop. Mo cut the engine, fear choking off her breathing. She waited a second before she turned the ignition key. She still had a gas reserve. The engine refused to catch and turn over. She turned off the heater and the wipers, then tried again with the same results. The decision to get out of the car and walk was made for her.
Mo scrambled over the back seat to the cargo area. With cold, shaking fingers she worked the zippers on her suitcase s. She pulled thin, sequined sweaters—that would probably give her absolutely no warmth—out of the bag. She shrugged from the parka and pulled on as many of the decorative designer sweaters as she could. Back in her parka, she pulled knee-hi stockings and her last two pairs of socks over her hands. It was better than nothing. As if she had choices. The keys to the jeep went into her pocket. The strap of her purse was looped around her neck. She was ready. Her sigh was as mighty as the wind howling about her as she climbed out of the Cherokee.
The wind was sharper than a butcher knife. Eight steps in the mid-thigh snow and she was exhausted. The silk scarf she'd tied around her mouth was frozen to her face in the time it took to take those eight steps. Her eyelashes were caked with ice as were her eyebrows. She wanted to close her eyes, to sleep. How in the hell did Eskimos do it? A gurgle of hysterical laughter erupted in her throat.
The laughter died in her throat when she found herself Facedown in a deep pile of snow. She crawled forward.
It
seemed like the wise thing to do. Getting to her feet was the equivalent of climbing
A violent gust of wind rocked her backward. Her back thumped into a tree, knocking the breath out of her. She cried then, her tears melting the crystals on her lashes.
"Help!" she bellowed. She shouted until she was hoarse.
Time lost all meaning as she crawled along. There were longer pauses now between the time she crawled on all fours and the time she struggled to her feet. She tried shouting again, her cries feeble at best. The only person who could hear her was God, and He seemed to be otherwise occupied.
Mo stumbled and went down. She struggled to get up, but her legs wouldn't move. In her life she'd never felt the pain that was tearing away at her joints. She lifted her head and for one brief second she thought she saw a feeble light. In the time it took her heart to beat once, the light was gone. She was probably hallucinating. Move! her mind shrieked. Get up! They won't find you till the daffodils come up. They'll bury you when the lilacs bloom. That's how they'll remember you. They might even print that on your tombstone. "Help me. Please, somebody help me!"
She needed to sleep. More than anything in the world she wanted sleep. She was so groggy. And her heart seemed to be beating as fast as a racehorse's at the finish line. How was that possible? Her heart should barely be beating. Get the hell up, Morgan. Now! Move, damn you!
She was up. She was so cold. She knew her body heat was leaving her. Her clothes were frozen to her body. She couldn't see at all. Move, damn you! You can do it. You were never a quitter, Morgan. Well, maybe where Keith was concerned. You always managed, somehow, to see things through to a satisfactory conclusion. She tumbled and fell, picked herself up with all the willpower 1« it in her numb body, fell again. This time she couldn't get up.
A vision of her parents standing over her closed coffin, the room filled with lilacs, appeared behind her closed lids. Her stomach rumbled fiercely and then she was on her feet, her lungs about to burst with her effort.
The snow and wind lashed at her like a tidal wave. It slammed her backward and beat at her face and body. Move! Don't stop now! Go, go, go, go.
Help!" she cried. She was down again, on all fours. She shook her head to clear it. She sensed movement. "Please," she whimpered, help me." She felt warm breath, something touched her c heek. God. He was getting ready to take her. She cried. "Woof!"
A dog! Man's best friend. Her best friend now. "You aren't better than God, but you'll damn well do," Mo ga sped. "Do you understand? I need help. Can you fetch help?" Mo's hands reached out to the dog, but he backed away, woofing softly. Maybe he was barking louder and she couldn't hear it over the sound of the storm. I'll try and follow you, but I don't think I'll make it." The dog bar ked again and as suddenly as he appeared, he was gone.
Mo howled her despair. She knew she had to move. I he dog must live close by. Maybe the light she'd seen earlier was a house and this dog lived there. Again, she lost track of time as she crawled forward.
"Woof, woof, woof."
"You came back!" She felt her face being licked, nudged. There was something in the dog's mouth. Maybe something he killed. He'd licked her. He put something down, picked it up and was trying to give it to her. "What?"
The dog barked, louder, backing up, then lunging at her, thrusting whatever he had in his mouth at her. She reached for it. A ribbon. And then she understood. She did her best to loop it around her wrist, crawling on her hands and knees after the huge dog.
Time passed—she didn't know how much. Once, twice, three times, the dog had to get down on all fours and nudge her, the frozen ribbon tickling her face. At one point when she was down and didn't think she would ever get up, the dog nipped her nose, barking in her ear. She obeyed and moved.
And then she saw the windows full of bright yellow light. She thought she saw a Christmas tree through the window. The dog was barking, urging her to follow him. She snaked after him on her belly, praying, thanking God, as she went along.
A doggie door.
A large doggie door. The dog went through it, barking on the other side. Maybe no one was home to open the door to her. Obviously, the dog intended her to follow. When in
The heat from the huge, blazing fire in the kitchen slammed into her. Nothing in the world ever felt this good. Her entire body started to tingle. She rolled over, closer to the fire. It smelled of pine and something else, maybe cinnamon. The dog barked furiously as he circled the rolling girl. He wanted something, but she didn't know what. She saw it out of the corner of her eye—a large, yellow towel. But she couldn't reach it. "Push it here," she said hoarsely. The dog obliged.
"Well, Merry Christmas," a voice said behind her. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you, but I was showering and dressing at the back end of the house. I just assumed Murphy was barking at some wild animal. Do you always make this kind of entrance? Mind you, I'm not complaining. Actually, I'm delighted that I'll hive someone to share Christmas Eve with. I'm sorry I can’t help you, but I think you should get up. Murphy will show you the way to the bedroom and bath. You'll find a warm robe. Just rummage for whatever you want. I’ll have some warm food for you when you get back. You are okay, aren't you? You need to move, get your circulation going again. Frostbite can be serious."
“I got lost and your dog found me," Mo whispered.
“I pretty much figured that out," the voice chuckled.
You have a nice voice," Mo said sleepily. "I really need to sleep. Can't I just sleep here in front of this fire?”
No, you cannot." The voice was sharp, authoritative, Mo's eyes snapped open. "You need to get out of those clothes. Now!"
“Yes, sir!" Mo said smartly. "I don't think much of your hospitality. You could help me, you know. I'm almost half-dead. I might still die. Right here on your kitchen floor. How's that going to look?" She rolled over, struggling to a sitting position. Murphy got behind her so she wouldn't topple over.
She saw her host, saw the wheelchair, then the anger and frustration in his face. "I've never been known for my tact. I apologize. I appreciate your help and you're right, I need to get out of these wet clothes. I can make it. I got this far. I would appreciate some food though if it isn't too much trouble . . . Or, I can make it myself if you…”
“I’m very self-sufficient. I think I can rustle up something that doesn't come in a bag. You know, real food. It’s time for Murphy's supper, too."
His voice was cool and impersonal. He was handsome, probably well over six feet if he'd been standing. Muscular. "It can't be suppertime already. What time is it?"
"A little after three. Murphy eats early. I don't know why that is, he just does."
She was standing—a feat in itself. She did her best to marshal her dignity as Murphy started out of the kitchen. "I'm sorry I didn't bring a present. It was rude of me to show up like this with nothing in hand. My mother taught me better, but circumstances . . ."
"Go!"
Murphy bounded down the hall. Mo lurched against the wall again and again, until she made it to the bathroom. It was a pretty room for a bathroom, all powdery blue and white with matching towels and carpet. And it was toasty warm. The shower was obviously for the handicapped with a special seat and grab bars. She shed her clothes, layer by layer, until she was naked. She turned on the shower and was rewarded with instant steaming water. Nothing in the world had ever looked this good. Or felt this good, she thought as she stepped into the spray. She let the water pelt her and made a mental note to ask her host where he got the shower head that massaged her aching body. The soap was Ivory, clean and sweet-smelling. The shampoo was something in a black bottle, something manly. She didn't care. She lathered up her dark, wet curls and then rinsed off. She decided she liked the smell and made another mental note to look closely at the bottle for the name.
When the water cooled, she stepped out and would have laughed if she hadn't been so tired. Murphy was holding a towel. A large one, the mate to the yellow one in the kitchen. He trotted over to the linen closet, inched it open. She watched him as he made his selection, a smaller towel obviously for her hair. "You're one smart dog, I can say that for you. I owe you my life, big guy. Let's see, I'd wager you're a golden retriever. My hair should be half as silky as yours. I'm going to send you a dozen porterhouse steaks when I get home. Now, let's see, he said there was a robe in here. Ah, here it is. Now, why did I know it was going to be dark green?" She slipped into it, the smaller towel still wrapped around her head. The robe smelled like the shampoo. Maybe the stuff came in a set.
He said to rummage for what she wanted. She did, for socks and a pair of long underwear. She pulled on both, the waistband going all the way up to her underarms. As if she cared. All she wanted was the welcome warmth.
She looked around his bedroom. His. Him. God, she didn't even know his name, but she knew his dog's name. How strange. She wanted to do something. The thought had come to her in the shower, but now it eluded her. She law the phone and the fireplace at the same time. She knew there would be no dial tone, and she was right. She sat down by the fire in the nest of cushions, motioning wearily for the dog to come closer. "I wish you were mine, I really do. Thank you for saving me. Now, one last favor - find that Christmas ribbon and save it for me. I want to have something to remember you by. Not now, the next nine you go outside. Will you do that for... ?" A moment later she was asleep in the mound of pillows.
Murphy sat back on his haunches to stare at the sleeping girl in his master's room. He walked around in several times, sniffing as he did so. When he was in lied that all was well, he trotted over to the bed and tugged at the comforter until he had it on the floor. Then he dragged it over to the sleeping girl. He pulled, dragged, and tugged until he had it snugly up around her chin. The moment he was finished, he beelined dawn the hall, through the living room, past his master, out to the kitchen where he slowed just enough to go through his door. He was back in ten minutes with the red ribbon.
"So that's where it is. Hand it over, Murphy. It's supposed to go on the tree." The golden dog stopped in his tracks, woofed, backed up several steps, but he didn't drop the ribbon. Instead, he raced down the hall to the bedroom, his master behind him, his chair whirring softly. He watched as the dog placed the ribbon on the coverlet next to Mo's face. He continued to watch as the huge dog gently tugged the small yellow towel from her wet head. With his snout, he nudged the dark ringlets, then he gently pawed at them.
"I see," Marcus Bishop said sadly. "She does look a little like Marcey with that dark hair. Now that you have the situation under control, I guess it's time for your dinner. She wanted the ribbon, is that it? That's how you got her here? Good boy, Murphy. Let's let our guest sleep. Maybe she’ll wake up in time to sing some carols with us. You did good, Murph. Real good. Marcey would be so proud of you. Hell, I'm proud of you and if we don't watch it, I have a feeling this girl is going to try and snatch you away from me."
Marcus could feel his eyes start to burn when Murphy bent over the sleeping girl to lick her cheek. He swore then that the big dog cried, but he couldn't be certain because his own eyes were full of tears.
Back in the kitchen, Marcus threw Mo's clothes in the dryer. He spooned out wet dog food and kibble into Murphy's bowl. The dog looked at it and walked away. "Yeah, I know. So, it's a little setback. We'll recover and get on with it. If we can just get through this first Christmas, we'll be on the road to recovery, but you gotta help me out here. I can't do it alone." The dog buried his head in his paws, but made no sign that he either cared or understood what his master was saying. Marcus felt his shoulders slump.
It was exactly one year ago to the day that the fatal accident had happened. Marsha, his twin sister, had been driving when the head-on collision occurred. He'd been wearing his seat belt; she wasn't wearing hers. It took the wrecking crew four hours to get him out of the car. He'd had six operations and one more loomed on the horizon. This one, the orthopedic specialists said, was almost guaranteed to make him walk again.
This little cottage had been Marcey's. She'd moved down here after her husband died of leukemia, just five short years after her marriage. Murphy had been her only companion during those tragic years. He'd done all he could for her, but she'd kept him at a distance. She painted, wrote an art column for the Philadelphia Democrat, took long walks, and watched a lot of television. To say she withdrew from life was putting it mildly. After the accident, it was simpler to convert this space to his needs than l he main house. A ramp and an oversized bathroom were all he needed. Murphy was happier here, too.
Murphy belonged to both of them, but he'd been partial to Marcey because she always kept licorice squares in her pocket for him.
He and Murphy had grieved together, going to Marcey's gravesite weekly with fresh flowers. At those times, he always made sure he had licorice in his pocket. More often than not, though, Murphy wouldn't touch the little black squares. It was something to do, a memory he tried to keep intact.
It was going to be nice to have someone to share Christmas with. A time of miracles, the Good Book said. Murphy finding this girl in all that snow had to constitute a miracle of some kind. He didn't even know her name. He felt cheated. Time enough for that later. Time. That was all he had of late.
Marcus checked the turkey in the oven. Maybe he should just make a sandwich and save the turkey until tomorrow when the girl would be up to a full sit-down dinner.
He stared at the Christmas tree in the center of the room and wondered if anyone else ever put their tree there. It was the only way he could string the lights. He knew he could have asked one of the servants from the main house to come down and do it just the way he could have asked them to cook him a holiday dinner. He needed to do these things, needed the responsibility of taking care of himself. In case this next operation didn't work.
He prided himself on being a realist. If he didn't, he'd be sitting in this chair sucking his thumb and watching the boob tube. Life was just too goddamn precious to waste even one minute. He finished decorating the tree, plugged in the lights, and whistled at his marvelous creation. He felt his eyes mist up when he looked at the one-of-a-kind ornaments that had belonged to Marcey and John. He wished for children, a houseful. More puppies. He wished for love, for sound, for music, for sunshine and laughter. Someday.
Damn, he wished he was married with little ones calling him Daddy. Daddy, fix this; Daddy, help me. And some pretty woman standing in the kitchen smiling, the smile just for him.
Marcey said he was a fusspot and that's why no girl would marry him. She said he needed to be more outgoing, needed to smile more. Stop taking yourself so seriously, she would say. Who said you have to be a better engineer than Dad? And then she'd said, If
you can't whistle when you work you don't belong in that job. He'd become a whistling fool after that little talk because he loved what he did, loved managing the family firm, the largest engineering outfit in the state of New Jersey. Hell, he'd been called to
His chair whirred to life. Within seconds he was sitting in the doorway, watching the sleeping girl. He felt drawn to her for some reason. He snapped his fingers for Murphy. The dog nuzzled his leg. "Check on her, Murph— make sure she's breathing. She should be okay, but do it anyway. Good thing that fireplace is gas—she'll stay warm if she sleeps through the night. Guess I get the couch. He watched as the retriever circled the sleeping girl, nudging the quilt that had slipped from her shoulders. As before, he sniffed her dark hair, stopping long enough to lick her cheek and check on the red ribbon. Marcus motioned for him. Together, they made their way down the hall to the living room and the festive Christmas tree.
It was only
Mo opened one eye, instantly aware of where she was and what had happened to her. She tried to stretch her arms and legs. She bit down on her lower lip so she wouldn't cry out in pain. A hot shower, four or five aspirin, and some liniment might make things bearable. She closed her eyes, wondering what time it was. She offered up a prayer, thanking God that she was alive and as well as could be expected under the circumstances.
Where was her host? Her savior? She supposed she would have to get up to find out. She tried again to boost herself to a sitting position. With the quilt wrapped around her, she stared at the furnishings. It seemed feminine to her with the priscilla curtains, the pretty pale blue carpet, and satin-striped chaise longue. There was also a faint powdery scent to the room. A leftover scent as though the occupant no longer lived here. She stared at the large louvered closet that took up one entire wall. Maybe that's where the powdery smell was coming from. Closets tended to hold scents. She looked down at the purple and white flowers adorning the quilt. It matched the drapes. Did men use fluffy yellow towels? If they were leftovers, they did. Her host seemed like the green, brown, and beige type to her.
She saw the clock, directly in her line of vision, sitting next to the phone that was dead.
The time was
She got up, tightened the belt on the oversize robe, and hobbled around the room, searching for the scent that was so familiar. One side of the closet held women's clothes, the other side, men's. So, there was a Mrs. Host. On the dresser, next to the chaise longue, was a picture of a pretty, dark-haired woman and her host. Both were smiling, the man's arm around the woman's shoulders. They were staring directly at the camera. A beautiful couple. A friend must have taken the picture. She didn't have any pictures like this of her and Keith. She felt cheated.
Mo parted the curtains and gasped. In her life she'd never seen this much snow. She knew in her gut the Jeep was buried. How would she ever find it? Maybe the dog would know where it was.
Mo shed her clothes in the bathroom and showered again. She turned the nozzle a little at a time, trying to get the water as hot as she could stand it. She moved, jiggled, and danced under the spray as it pelted her sore, aching muscles. She put the same long underwear and socks back on and rolled up the sleeves of the robe four limes. She was warm, that was all that mattered. Her skin was chafed and wind-burned. She needed cream of some kind, lanolin. Did her host keep things like that here in the bathroom? She looked under the sink. In two shoeboxes she found everything she needed. Expensive cosmetics, pricey perfume. Mrs. Host must have left in a hurry or a huff. Women simply didn't leave a fortune in cosmetics behind.
She was ready now to introduce herself to her host and sit down to food. She realized she was ravenous.
He was in the kitchen mashing potatoes. The table was set for two and one more plate was on the floor. A large turkey sat in the middle of the table.
"Can I do anything?" Her voice was raspy, throaty.
The chair moved and he was facing her.
"You can sit down. I waited to mash the potatoes until I heard the shower going. I'm Marcus Bishop. Merry Christmas."
"I'm Morgan Ames. Merry Christmas to you and Murphy. I can't thank you enough for taking me in. I looked outside and there's a lot of snow out there. I don't think I've ever seen this much snow. Even in
He seemed amused. "I try. Most of the time I just grill something out on the deck. This was my first try at a big meal. I don't guarantee anything. Would you like to say grace?"
Would she? Absolutely she would. She had much to be thankful for. She said so, in great detail, head bowed. A smile tugged at the corners of Bishop's mouth. Murphy panted, shifting position twice, as much as to say, let's get on with it.
Mo flushed. "I'm sorry, I did go on there a bit, didn't I? You see, I promised ... I said . . ."
"You made a bargain with God," Marcus said.
"How did you know?" God, he was handsome. The picture in the bedroom didn't do him justice at all.
"When it's down to the wire and there's no one else, we all depend on that Supreme Being to help us out. Most times we forget about Him. The hard part is going to be living up to all those promises."
"I never did that before. Even when things were bad, I didn't ask. This was different. I stared at my mortality. Are you saying you think I was wrong?"
"Not at all. It's as natural as breathing. Life is precious. No one wants to lose it." His voice faltered, then grew stronger.
Mo stared across the table at her host. She'd caught a glimpse of the pain in his eyes before he lowered his head. Maybe Mrs. Bishop was . . . not of this earth. She felt flustered, sought to change the subject. "Where is this place, Mr. Bishop? Am I in a town or is this the country? I only saw one house up on the hill when I looked out the window."
"The outskirts of
She was gobbling her food, then stopped chewing long enough to say, "This is absolutely delicious. I didn't realize I had driven this far. There was absolutely no visibility. I didn't know if I'd gone over the
"Where were you going? Where did you leave from?"
"I live in
"A day or so. It stopped snowing about an hour ago. I heard a bulletin that said all the work crews are out. Tower is the first thing that has to be restored. I'm fortunate in the sense that I have gas heat and a backup generator in case power goes out. When you live in the country these things are mandatory."
"Do you think the phone is out in the big house on the hill?"
"If mine is out, so is theirs," Marcus said quietly. "This is Christmas, you know."
"I know," Mo said, her eyes misting over.
"Eat!" Marcus said in the same authoritative tone he'd used the day before.
"My mother always puts marshmallow in her sweet potatoes. You might want to try that sometime. She sprinkles sesame seeds in her chopped broccoli. It gives it a whole different taste." She held out her plate for a second helping of turkey.
"I like the taste as it is, but I'll keep it in mind and give it a try someday." N
"No, you won't. You shouldn't say things unless you mean them. You strike me as a person who does things one way and is not open to anything but your own way. That's okay, too, but you shouldn't humor me. I happen to like marshmallows in my sweet potatoes and sesame seeds in my broccoli."
"You don't know me at all so why would you make such an assumption?"
"I know that you're bossy. You're used to getting things done your way. You ordered me to take a shower and get out of my wet clothes. You just now, a minute ago, ordered me to eat."
"That was for your own good. You are opinionated, aren't you?"
"Yep. I feel this need to tell you your long underwear scratches. You should use fabric softener in the final rinse water."
Marcus banged his fist on the table. "Aha!" he roared. "That just goes to show how much you really know.
Fabric softener does something to the fibers and when you sweat the material won't absorb it. So there!"
"Makes sense. I merely said it would help the scratching. If you plan on climbing a mountain . . . I'm sorry. I talk too much sometimes. What do you have for dessert? Are we having coffee? Can I get it or would you rather I just sit here and eat."
"You're my guest. You sit and eat. We're having plum pudding, and of course we're having coffee. What kind of Christmas dinner do you think this is?" His voice was so huffy that Murphy got up, meandered over to Mo, and sat down by her chair.
"The kind of dinner where the vegetables come in frozen boil bags, the sweet potatoes in boxes, and the turkey stuffing in cellophane bags. I know for a fact that plum pudding can be bought frozen. I'm sure dessert will be just as delicious as the main course. Actually, I don't know when anything tasted half as good. Most men can't cook at all. At least the men I know." She was babbling again. "You can call me Mo. Everyone else does, even my dad."
"Don't get sweet on my dog, either," Marcus said, slopping the plum pudding onto a plate.
"I think your dog is sweet on me, Mr. Bishop. You should put that pudding in a little dessert dish. See, it spilled on the floor. I'll clean it up for you." She was half out of her chair when the iron command knifed through the air.
"Sit!" Mo lowered herself into her chair. Her eyes started to burn.
"I'm not a dog, Mr. Bishop. I only wanted to help. I'm sorry if my offer offended you. I don't think I care for dessert or coffee." Her voice was stiff, her shoulders stiff, too. She had to leave the table or she was going to burst into tears. What was wrong with her?
"I'm the one who should be apologizing. I've had to learn to do for myself. Spills were a problem for a while. I have it down pat now. I just wet a cloth and use the broom handle to move it around. It took me a while to figure it out. You're right about the frozen stuff. I haven't had many guests lately to impress. And you can call me Marcus."
"Were you trying to impress me? How sweet, Marcus. I accept your apology and please accept mine. Let's pretend I stopped by to wish you a Merry Christmas and got caught in the snowstorm. Because you're a nice man you offered me your hospitality. See, we've established that you're a nice man and I want you to take my word for it that I'm a nice person. Your dog likes me. That has to count."
Marcus chuckled. "Well said."
Mo cupped her chin in her hands. "This is a charming little house. I bet you get the sun all day long. Sun's important. When the sun's out you just naturally feel better, don't you think? Do you have flowers in the spring and summer?"
"You name it, I've got it. Murphy digs up the bulbs sometimes. You should see the tulips in the spring. I spent a lot of time outdoors last spring after my accident. I didn't want to come in the house because that meant I was cooped up. I'm an engineer by profession so I came up with some long-handled tools that allowed me to garden. We pretty much look like a rainbow around April and May. If you're driving this way around that time, stop and see for yourself."
"I'd like that. I'm almost afraid to ask this, but I'm going to ask anyway. Will it offend you if I clean up and do the dishes?"
"Hell, no! I hate doing dishes. I use paper plates whenever possible. Murphy eats off paper plates, too."
Mo burst out laughing. Murphy's tail thumped on the floor.
Mo filled the sink with hot, soapy water. Marcus handed her the plates. They were finished in twenty minutes.
"How about a Christmas drink? I have some really good wine. Christmas will be over before you know it."
"This is good wine," Mo said.
"I don't believe it. You mean you can't find anything wrong with it?" There was a chuckle in Marcus's voice so Mo didn't take offense. "What do you do for a living, Morgan Ames?"
"I'm an architect. I design shopping malls—big ones, small ones, strip malls. My biggest ambition is to have someone hire me to design a bridge. I don't know what it is, but I have this . . . this thing about bridges. I work for a firm, but I'm thinking about going out on my own next year. It's a scary thought, but if I'm going to do it, now is the time. I don't know why I feel that way, I just do. Do you work here at home or at an office?"
"Ninety percent at home, ten percent at the office. I have a specially equipped van. I can't get up on girders, obviously. I have several employees who are my legs. It's another way of saying I manage very well."
"It occurs to me to wonder, Marcus, where you slept last night. I didn't realize until a short while ago that there's only one bedroom."
"Here on the couch. It wasn't a problem. As you can see, it's quite wide and deep—the cushions are extra thick.
"So, what do you think of my tree?" he asked proudly.
"I love the bottom half. I even like the top half. The scent is so heady. I've always loved Christmas. It must be the kid in me. My mother said I used to make myself sick on Christmas Eve because I couldn't wait for Santa." She wanted to stand by the tree and pretend she was home waiting for Keith to show up and put the ring on her finger, wanted it so bad she could feel the prick of tears. It wasn't going to happen. Still, she felt driven to stand in front of the tree and . . . pretend. She fought the burning behind her eyelids by rubbing them and pretending it was the wood smoke from the fireplace that was causing the stinging. Then she remembered the fireplace held gas logs.
"Me, too. I was always so sure he was going to miss our chimney or his sleigh would break down. I was so damn good during the month of December my dad called me a saint. I have some very nice childhood memories. Are you okay? Is something wrong? You look like you lost your last friend suddenly. I'm a good listener if you want to talk."
Did she? She looked around at the peaceful cottage, the man in the wheelchair, and the dog sitting at his feet. She belonged in a scene like this one. The only problem was, the occupants were all wrong. She was never going to see this man again, so why not talk to him? Maybe he'd give her some male input where Keith was concerned. If he offered advice, she could take it or ignore it. She nodded, and held out her wineglass for a refill.
It wasn't until she was finished with her sad tale that she realized she was still standing in front of the Christmas tree. She sat down with a thump, knowing full well she'd had too much wine. She wanted to cry again when she saw the helpless look on Marcus's face. "So, everyone is entitled to make a fool of themselves at least once in their life. This is . . . was my time." She held out her glass again, but had to wait while Marcus uncorked a fresh bottle of wine, She thought his movements sluggish. Maybe he wasn't used to so much wine. "I don't think I'd make a very good drunk. I never had this much wine in my whole life."
"Me either." The wine sloshed over the side of the glass. Murphy licked it up.
"I don't want to get sick. Keith used to drink too much and get sick. It made me sick just watching him. That's sad, isn't it?"
"I never could stand a man who couldn't hold his liquor," Marcus said.
"You sound funny," Mo said as she realized her voice was taking on a sing-song quality.
"You sound like you're getting ready to sing. Are you? I hope you aren't one of those off-key singers." He leered down at her from the chair.
"So what if I am? Isn't singing good for the soul or something? It's the feeling, the thought. You said we were going to sing carols for Murphy. Why aren't we doing that?"
"Because you aren't ready," Marcus said smartly. He lowered the footrests and slid out of the chair. "We need to sit together in front of the tree. Sitting is as good as standing ... I think. C'mere, Murphy, you belong to this group."
"Sitting is good." Mo hiccupped. Marcus thumped her on the back and then kept his arm around her shoulder. Murphy wiggled around until he was on both their laps.
"Just what exactly is wrong with you? Or is that impolite of me to . . . ask?" She swigged from the bottle Marcus handed her. "This is good—who needs a glass?"
"I hate doing dishes. The bottle is good. What was the question?"
"Huh?"
"What was the question?"
"The question is . . . was . . . do all your parts . . . work?"
"That wasn't the question. I'd remember if that was the question. Why do you want to know if my . . . parts work? Do you find yourself attracted to me? Or is this a sneaky way to try and get my dog? Get your own damn dog. And my parts work just fine."
"You sound defensive. When was the last time you tried them out . . . what I mean is . . . how do you know?" Mo asked craftily.
"I know! Are you planning on taking advantage of me? I might allow it. Then again, I might not."
"You're drunk," Mo said.
"Yep, and it's all your fault. You're drunk, too."
"What'd you expect? You keep filling my glass. You know what, I don't care. Do you care, Marcus?"
"Nope. So, what are you going to do about that jerk who's waiting by your Christmas tree? Christmas is almost over. D'ya think he's still waiting?"
Mo started to cry. Murphy wiggled around and licked at her tears. She shook her head.
"Don't cry. That jerk isn't worth your little finger. Murphy wouldn't like him. Dogs are keen judges of character."
"Keith doesn't like dogs."
Marcus threw his hands in the air. "There you go! I rest my case." His voice sounded so dramatic, Mo started to giggle.
It wasn't much in the way of a kiss because she was giggling, Murphy was in the way, and Marcus's position and clumsy hands couldn't seem to coordinate with her. "That was sweet," Mo said.
"Sweet! Sweet!" Marcus bellowed in mock outrage.
"Nice?"
"Nice is better than sweet. No one ever said that to me before."
"How many were there . . . before?" "None of your business."
"That's true, it isn't any of my business. Let's sing. 'Jingle Bells.' We're both too snookered to know the words to anything else. How many hours till Christmas is over?"
Marcus peered at his watch. "A few." He kissed her again, his hands less clumsy. Murphy cooperated by wiggling off both their laps. "I liked that!"
"And well you should. You're very pretty,
"My father wanted a boy. He got me. It's sad. Do you know how many times I used that phrase in the past few hours? A lot." Her head bobbed up and down for no good reason. "Jingle Bells . . ." Marcus joined in, his voice as off-key as hers. They collapsed against each other, laughing like lunatics.
"Tell me about you. Do you have any more wine?"
Marcus pointed to the wine rack in the kitchen. Mo struggled to her feet, tottered to the kitchen, uncorked the bottle, and carried it back to the living room "I didn't see any munchies in the kitchen so I brought us each a turkey leg."
"I like a woman who thinks ahead." He gnawed on the leg, his eyes assessing the girl next to him. He wasn't the least bit drunk, but he was pretending he was. Why? She was pretty, and she was nice. So what if she had a few hangups. She liked him, too, he could tell. The chair didn't intimidate her the way it did other women. She was feisty, with a mind of her own. She'd been willing to share her private agonies with him, a stranger. Murphy liked her. He liked her, too. Hell, he'd given up his room to her. Now, she was staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to talk about himself. What to tell her? What to gloss over? Why couldn't he be as open as she was?
"I'm thirty-five. I own and manage the family engineering firm. I have good job security and a great pension plan. I own this little house outright. No mortgages. I love dogs and horses. I even like cats. I've almost grown accustomed to this chair. I am self-sufficient I treat my elders with respect. I was a hell of a Boy Scout, got lots of medals to prove it. I used to ski. I go to church, not a lot, but I do go. I believe in God. I don't have any . . . sisters or brothers. I try not to think too far ahead and I do my best not to look back. That's not to say I don't think and plan for the future, but in my position, I take it one day at a time. That pretty much sums it up as far as my life goes."
"It sounds like a good life. I think you'll manage just fine. We all have to make concessions . . . the chair . . . it's not the end of the world. I can tell you don't like talking about it, so, let's talk about something else."
"How would you feel if you went home this Christmas Eve and there in your living room was Keith in a wheelchair? What if he told you the reason he hadn't been in touch was because he didn't want to see pity in your eyes. How would you feel if he told you he wasn't going to walk again? What if he said you might eventually be the sole support?" He waited for her to digest the questions, aware that her intoxicated state might interfere with her answers.
"You shouldn't ask me something like that in my . . . condition. I'm not thinking real clear. I want to sing some more. I didn't sing last year because I was too sad. Are you asking about this year or last year?"
"What difference does it make?" Marcus asked coolly.
"It makes a difference. Last year I would have . . . would have . . . said it didn't matter because I loved him . . . Do all his parts . . . work?"
"I don't know. This is hypothetical." Marcus turned to hide his smile.
"I wouldn't pity him. Maybe I would at first. Keith is very active. I could handle it, but Keith couldn't. He'd get depressed and give up. What was that other part?"
"Supporting him."
"Oh, yeah. I could do that. I have a profession, good health insurance. I might start up my own business. I'll probably make more money than he ever did. Knowing Keith, I think he would resent me after awhile. Maybe he wouldn't. I'd try harder and harder to make it all work because that's the way I am, I'm not a quitter. I never was. Why do you want to know all this?"
Marcus shrugged. "Insight, maybe. In case I ever find myself attracted to a woman, it would be good to know how she'd react. You surprised me—you didn't react to the chair."
"I'm not in love with you," Mo said sourly. "What's wrong with me?"
"There's nothing wrong with you. I'm not that drunk that I don't know what you're saying. I'm in love with someone else. I don't care about that chair. That chair wouldn't bother me at all if I loved you. You said your parts work. Or, was that a lie? I like sex. Sex is wonderful when two people . . . you know ... I like it!"
"Guess what? I do, too."
"You see, it's not a problem at all," Mo said happily. "Maybe I should just lie down on the couch and go to sleep."
"You didn't answer the second part of my question." "Which was?"
"What if you had made it home this Christmas and the same scenario happened. After two long years. What would be your feeling?"
"I don't know. Keith whines. Did I tell you that? It's not manly at all."
"Really."
"Yep. I have to go to the bathroom. Do you want me to get you anything on my way back? I'll be on my feet. I take these feet for granted. They get me places. I love shoes. Well, what's your answer? Remember, you don't have any munchies. Why is that?"
"I have Orville Redenbacher popcorn. The colored kind. Very festive."
"No! You're turning into a barrel of fun, Marcus Bishop. You were a bossy, domineering person when I arrived through your doggie door. Look at you now! You're skunked, you ate a turkey leg, and now you tell me you have colored popcorn. I'll be right back unless I get sick. Maybe we should have coffee with our popcorn. God, I can't wait for this day to be over."
"Follow her, Murph. If she gets sick, come and get me," Marcus said. "You know," he said, making a gagging sound. The retriever sprinted down the hall.
A few minutes later, Mo was back in the living room. She dusted her hands together as she swayed back and forth. "Let's do the popcorn in the fireplace! I'll bring your coffeepot in here and plug it in. That way we won't have to get up and down."
"Commendable idea. It's ten-thirty."
"An hour and a half to go.
I'm going to kiss you at
"I don't like to be used."
"Me either. I'll be kissing you because I want to kiss you. So there yourself!" "What will Keith think?"
"Keith who?" Mo laughed so hard she slapped her thighs before she toppled over onto the couch. Murphy howled. Marcus laughed outright.
On her feet again, Mo said, "I like you, you're nice. You have a nice laugh. I haven't had this much fun in a long time. Life is such a serious business. Sometimes you need to stand back and get. . . what's that word . . . perspective? I like amusement parks. I like acting like a kid sometimes. There's this water park I like to go to and I love Great Adventure. Keith would never go so I went with my friends. It wasn't the same as sharing it with your lover. Would you like to go and . . . and . . . watch the other people? I'd take you if you would." "Maybe."
"I hate that word. Keith always said that. That's just another way of saying no. You men are all alike."
"You're wrong, Morgan. No two people are alike. If you judge other men by Keith you're going to miss out on a lot. I told you, he's a jerk."
"Okayyyy. Popcorn and coffee, right?"
"Right."
Marcus fondled Murphy's ears as he listened to his guest bang pots and pans in his neat kitchen. Cabinet doors opened and shut, then opened and shut again. More pots and pans rattled. He smelled coffee and wondered if she'd spilled it. He looked at his watch. In a few short hours she'd be leaving him. How was it possible to feel so close to someone he'd just met? He didn't want her to leave. He hated, with a passion, the faceless Keith.
"I think you need to swing around so we can watch the popcorn pop. I thought everyone in the world had a popcorn popper. I'm improvising with this pot. It's going to turn black, but I'll clean it in the morning. You might have to throw it out. I like strong black coffee. How about you?"
"Bootblack for me."
"Oh, me, too. Really gives you a kick in the morning." "I don't think that's the right lid for that pot," Marcus said.
"It'll do—I told you I had to improvise."
"Tell me how you're going to improvise this!" Marcus said as the popping corn blew the lid off the pot. Popcorn flew in every direction. Murphy leaped up to catch the kernels, nailing the fallen ones with his paws. Marcus rolled on the floor as Mo wailed her dismay. The corn continued to pop and sail about the room. "I'm not cleaning this up."
"Don't worry, Murphy will eat it all. He loves popcorn. How much did you put in the pot?" Marcus gasped. "Coffee's done."
"A cup full. Too much, huh? I thought it would pop colored. I'm disappointed. There were a lot of fluffies— you know, the ones that pop first."
"I can't tell you how disappointed I am," Marcus said, his expression solemn.
Mo poured the coffee into two mugs.
"It looks kind of. . . syrupy."
"It does, doesn't it? Drink up! What'ya think?"
"I can truthfully say I've never had coffee like this," Marcus responded.
Mo settled herself next to Marcus. "What time is it?"
"It's late. I'm sure by tomorrow the roads will be cleared. The phones will be working and you can call home. I'll try and find someone to drive you. I have a good mechanic I'll call to work on your Jeep. How long were you planning on staying with your parents?"
"It was . . . vague . . . depending ... I don't know. What will you do?"
"Work. The office has a lot of projects going on. I'm going to be pretty busy."
"Me, too. I like the way you smell," Mo blurted. " Where'd you get that shampoo in the black bottle?"
"Someone gave it to me in a set for my birthday."
"When's your birthday?" Mo asked.
"April tenth. When's yours?"
"April ninth. How about that? We're both Aries."
"Imagine that," Marcus said as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
"This is nice," Mo sighed. "I'm a home and hearth person. I like things cozy and warm with lots and lots of green plants. I have little treasures I've picked up over the years that I try to put in just the right place. It tells anyone who comes into my apartment who I am. I guess that's why I like this cottage. It's cozy, warm, and comfortable. A big house can be like that, too, but a big house needs kids, dogs, gerbils, rabbits, and lots of junk."
He should tell her now about the big house on the hill being his. He should tell her about Marcey and about his upcoming operation. He bit down on his lip. Not now—he didn't want to spoil the moment. He liked what they were doing. He liked sitting here with her, liked the feel of her. He risked a glance at his watch. A
"Do you think he showed up, Marcus?"
He didn't think any such thing, but he couldn't say that. "He's a fool if he didn't."
"His mother told my mother he wasn't coming home for the holidays."
"Ah. Well, maybe he was going to surprise her. Maybe his plans changed. Anything is possible, Morgan."
"No, it isn't. You're playing devil's advocate. It's all right. Really it is. I'll just switch to Plan B and get on with my life."
He wanted that life to include him. He almost said so, but she interrupted him by poking his arm and pointing to his watch.
"Get ready. Remember, I said I was going to kiss you and blow your socks off."
"You did say that. I'm ready."
"That's it, you're ready. It would be nice if you showed some enthusiasm."
"I don't want my blood pressure to go up," Marcus grinned. "What if . . ."
"There is no what if. It's a kiss."
"There are kisses and then there are kisses. Sometimes . . ."
"Not this time. I know all about kisses. Jackie Bristol told me about kissing when I was six years old. He was ten and he knew everything. He liked to play doctor. He learned all that stuff by watching his older sister and her boyfriend."
She was that close to him. She could see a faint freckle on the bridge of his nose. She just knew he thought she was all talk and no action. Well, she'd show him and Keith, too. A kiss was ... it was . . . what it was was ...
It wasn't one of those warm, fuzzy kisses and it wasn't one of those feathery light kind, either. This kiss was reckless and passionate. Her senses reeled and her body tingled from head to toe. Maybe it was all the wine she'd consumed. She decided she didn't care what the reason was as she pressed not only her lips, but her body, against his. He responded, his tongue spearing into her mouth. She tasted the wine on his tongue and lips, wondered if she tasted the same way to him. A slow moan began in her belly and rose up to her throat. It escaped the moment she pulled away. His name was on her lips, her eyes sleepy and yet restless. She wanted more. So much more.
This was where she was supposed to say, Okay, I kept my promise, I kissed you like I said. Now, she should get up and go to bed. But she didn't want to go to bed. Ever. She wanted . . . needed . . .
"I'm still wearing my socks," Marcus said. "Maybe you need to try again. Or, how about I try blowing your socks off?"
"Go for it," Mo said as she ran her tongue over her bruised and swollen lips.
He did all the things she'd done, and more. She felt his hands all over her body—soft, searching. Finding.
Her own hands started a search of their own. She felt as warm and damp as he felt to her probing fingers. She continued to tingle with anticipation. The heavy robe was suddenly open, the band of the underwear down around her waist, exposing her breasts. He was stroking one with the tip of his tongue. When the hard pink bud was in his mouth she thought she'd never felt such exquisite pleasure.
One minute she had clothes on and the next she was as naked as he was. She had a vague sense of ripping at his clothes as he did the same with hers. They were by the fire now, warm and sweaty.
She was on top of him with no memory of getting there. She slid over him, gasped at his hardness. Her dark hair fanned out like a waterfall. She bent her head and kissed him again. A sound of exquisite pleasure escaped her lips when he cupped both her breasts in his hands.
"Ride me," he said hoarsely. He bucked against her as she rode him, this wild stallion inside her. She milked his body, gave a mighty heave, and fell against him. It was a long time before either of them moved, and when they did, it was together. She wanted to look at him, wanted to say something. Instead, she nuzzled into the crook of his arm. The oversized robe covered them in a steamy warmth. Her hair felt as damp as his. She waited for him to say something, but he lay quietly, his hand caressing her shoulder beneath the robe. Why wasn't he saying something?
Her active imagination took over. One night stand. Girl lost in snowstorm. Man gives her shelter and food. Was this her payback? Would he respect her in the morning? Damn, it was already morning. What in the world possessed her to make love to this man? She was in love with Keith. Was. Was in love. At this precise moment she couldn't remember what Keith looked like. She'd cheated on Keith. But, had she really? No, her mind shrieked. She felt like crying, felt her shoulders start to shake. They calmed immediately as Marcus drew her closer.
"I ... I never had a one night stand. I would hate . . . I don't want you to think ... I don't hop in and out of bed . . . this was the first time in two years . . . I . . ."
"Shhh, it's okay. It was what it was—warm, wonderful, and meaningful. Neither one of us owes anything to the other. Sleep, Morgan," he whispered.
"You'll stay here, won't you?" she said sleepily "I think I'd like to wake up next to you."
"I won't move. I'm going to sleep, too."
"Okay."
It was a lie, albeit a little one. As if he could sleep. Always the last one out of the gate, Bishop. She belongs to someone else, so don't get carried away. How right it all felt. How right it still felt. What had he just said to her? Oh yeah—it was what it was. Oh yeah, well, fuck you, Keith whatever-your-name-is. You don't deserve this girl. I hope your damn dick falls off. You weren't faithful to this girl. I know that as sure as I know the sun is going to rise in the morning. She knows it, too—she just won't admit it.
Marcus stared at the fire, his eyes full of pain and sadness. Tomorrow she'd be gone. He'd never see her again. He'd go on with his life, with his therapy, his job, his next operation. It would be just him and Murphy.
It was
It took him twenty minutes to dress. He was stepping into his loafers when he heard the snowplow. He struggled, with his canes, out to the living room and his chair. His lips were white with the effort. It took every bit of fifteen minutes for the pain to subside. He bent over, picked up the coffeepot, and carried it to the kitchen where he rinsed it and made fresh coffee. While he waited for it to perk he stared out the window. Mr. Drizzoli and his two sons were maneuvering the plows so he could get his van out of the driveway. The younger boy was shoveling out his van. He turned on the outside lights, opened the door, and motioned to the youngster to come closer. He asked about road conditions, the road leading to the main house, and the weather in general. He explained about the Cherokee. The boy promised to speak with his father. They'd search it out and if it was driveable, they'd bring it to the cottage. "There's a five gallon tank of gas in the garage," Marcus said. From the leather pouch attached to his chair, he withdrew a square white envelope: Mr. Drizzoli's Christmas present. Cash.
"The phones are back on, Mr. Bishop," the boy volunteered.
Marcus felt his heart thump in his chest. He could unplug it. If he did that, he'd be no better than Keith what's-his-name. Then he thought about Morgan's anxious parents. Two cups of coffee on his little pull-out tray, Marcus maneuvered the chair into the living room. "Morgan, wake up. Wake her up, Murphy."
She looked so pretty, her hair tousled and curling about her face. He watched as she stretched luxuriously beneath his robe, watched the realization strike her that she was naked. He watched as she stared around her.
“Good morning. It will be daylight in a few minutes. My road is being plowed as we speak and Pm told the phone is working. You might want to get up and call your parents. Your clothes are in the dryer. My maintenance man is checking on your Jeep. If it's driveable, he'll bring it here. If not, they'll tow it to a garage."
Mo wrapped the robe around her and got to her feet. Talk about the bum's rush. She swallowed hard. Well, what had she expected? One night stands usually ended like this. Why had she expected anything different? She needed to say something. "If you don't mind, I'll take a shower and get dressed. Is it all right if I use the phone in the bedroom?"
"Of course." He'd hoped against hope that she'd call from the living room so he could hear the conversation. He watched as she made her way to the laundry room, coffee cup in hand. Watched as she juggled cup, clothing, and the robe. Murphy sat back on his haunches and howled. Marcus felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Murphy hadn't howled like this since the day of Marcey's funeral. He had to know Morgan was going away. He felt like howling himself.
Marcus watched the clock, watched the progress of the men outside the window. Thirty minutes passed and then thirty-five and forty.
Murphy barked wildly when he saw Drizzoli come to what he thought was too close to his master's property.
Inside the bedroom, with the door closed, Morgan sat down, folly dressed, on the bed. She dialed her parents' number, nibbling on her thumbnail as she waited for the phone to be picked up. "Mom, it's me."
"Thank God. We were worried sick about you, honey. Good Lord, where are you?"
"Someplace in
"Yes and no. It wasn't the same without you. Dad and I had our eggnog. We sang 'Silent Night', off-key of course, and then we just sat and stared at the tree and worried about you. It was a terrible storm. I don't think I ever saw so much snow. Dad is whispering to me that he'll come and get you if the Jeep isn't working. How was your first Christmas away from home?"
"Actually, Mom, it was kind of nice. My host is a very nice man. He has this wonderful dog who found me. We had a turkey dinner that was pretty good. We even sang 'Jingle Bells'."
"Well, honey, we aren't going anywhere so call us either way. I'm so relieved that you're okay. We called the state troopers, the police, everyone we could think of."
"I'm sorry, Mom. I should have listened to you and stayed put until the snow let up. I was just so anxious to get home." Now, now she'll say if Keith was there.
"Keith was here. He came by around eleven. He said it took him seven hours to drive from
"Okay, Mom."
Morgan had to use her left hand to pry her right hand off the phone. She felt sick to her stomach suddenly. She dropped her head into her hands. What she had wanted for two long years, what she'd hoped and prayed for, had happened. She thought about the old adage: Be careful what you wish for because you might just get it. Now, she didn't want what she had wished for.
It was light out now, the young sun creeping into the room. The silver-framed photograph twinkled as the sun hit it full force. Who was she? She should have asked Marcus. Did he still love the dark-haired woman? He must have loved her a lot to keep her things out in the open, a constant reminder.
She'd felt such strange things last night. Sex with Keith had never been like it was with Marcus. Still, there were other things that went into making a relationship work. Then there was Marcus in his wheelchair. It surprised her that the wheelchair didn't bother her. What did surprise her was what she was feeling. And now it was time to leave. How was she supposed to handle that?
Her heart thumped again when she saw a flash of red go by the bedroom window. Her Jeep. It was running. She stood up, saluted the room, turned, and left.
Good-byes are hard, she thought. Especially this one. She felt shy, schoolgirlish, when she said, "Thanks for everything. I mean to keep my promise and send Murphy some steaks. Would you mind giving me your address? If you're ever in
"I'm not, either. Here's my card. My phone number is on it. Call me anytime if you ... if you want to talk. I listen real good."
Mo handed over her own card. "Same goes for me."
"You just needed some antifreeze. We put five gallons of gas in the tank. Drive carefully. I'm going to worry BO call me when you get home."
"I'll do that. Thanks again, Marcus. If you ever want a building or a bridge designed, I'm yours for free. I mean that."
"I know you do. I'll remember."
Mo cringed. How polite they were, how stiff and formal. She couldn't walk away like this. She leaned over, her eyes meeting his, and kissed him lightly on the lips. "I don't think I'll ever forget my visit." Tell me now, before I leave, about the dark-haired, smiling woman in the picture. Tell me you want me to come back for a visit. Tell me not to go. Ill stay. I swear to God, I'll stay. I '11 never think about Keith, never mention his name. Say something.
"It was a nice Christmas. I enjoyed spending it with you. I know Murphy enjoyed having you here with us. Drive carefully, and remember to call when you get home."
His voice was flat, cool. Last night was just what he said; it was what it was. Nothing more. She felt like wailing her despair, but she damn well wasn't going to give him the satisfaction "I will," Mo said cheerfully. She frolicked with Murphy for a few minutes, whispering in his ear. "You take care of him, you hear? I think he tends to be a little stubborn. I have my ribbon and I'll keep it safe, always. I'll send those steaks Fed Ex." Because her tears were blinding her, Mo turned and didn't look at Marcus again. A second later she was outside in the cold, bracing air.
The Cherokee was warm, purring like a kitten. She tapped the horn, two light taps, before she slipped the gear into four-wheel drive. She didn't look back.
It was an interlude.
One of those rare happenings that occ
A moment in time.
In a little more than twenty-four hours, she'd managed to fall in love with a man in a wheelchair—and his dog. She cried because she didn't know what else to do.
Mo's homecoming was everything she had imagined it would be. Her parents hugged her. Her mother wiped at her tears with the hem of an apron that smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. Her father acted gruff, but she could see the moistness in his eyes.
"How about some breakfast, honey?"
"Bacon and eggs sounds real good. Make sure the ..."
"The yolk is soft and the white has brown lace around the edges. Snap-in-two bacon, three pieces of toast for dunking, and a small glass of juice. I know, Morgan. Lord, I'm just so glad you're home safe and sound. Dad's going to carry in your bags. Why don't you run upstairs and take a nice hot bath and put on some clothes that don't look like they belong in a thrift store."
"Good idea, Mom."
In the privacy of her room, she looked at the phone that had, as a teenager, been her lifeline to the outside world. All she had to do was pick it up, and she'd hear Marcus's voice. Should she do it now or wait till after her bath when she was decked out in clean clothes and makeup? She decided to wait. Marcus didn't seem the type to sit by the phone and wait for a call from a woman.
The only word she could think of to describe her bath was delicious. The silky feel of the water was full of Wild Jasmine bath oil, her favorite scent in the whole world. As she relaxed in the steamy wetness, she forced herself to think about Keith. She knew without asking that her mother had called Keith's mother after the phone call. Right now, she was so happy to be safe, she would force herself to tolerate Keith. All those presents she'd wrapped so lovingly. All that money she'd spent. Well, she was taking it all back when she returned to
Mo heard her father open the bedroom door, heard the sound of her suitcases being set down, heard the rustle of the shopping bags. The tenseness left her shoulders when the door closed softly. She was alone with her thoughts. She wished for a portable phone so she could call Marcus. The thought of talking to him while she was in the bathtub sent shivers up and down her spine.
A long time later, Mo climbed from the tub. She dressed, blow-dried her hair, and applied makeup, ever so sparingly, remembering that less is better. She pulled on a pair of
In the kitchen her mother looked at her with dismay. "Is that what you're wearing?"
"Is something wrong with my sweater?"
"Well, no. I just thought ... I assumed . . . you'd want to spiff up for . . . Keith. I imagine he'll be here pretty soon."
"Well, it better be pretty quick because I have an errand to do when I finish this scrumptious breakfast. I guess you can tell him to wait or tell him to come back some other time. Let's open our presents after supper tonight. Can we pretend it's Christmas Eve?"
"That's what Dad said we should do."
"Then we'll do it. Listen, don't tell Keith. I want it to be just us."
"If that's what you want, honey. You be careful when you're out. Just because the roads are plowed, it doesn't mean there won't be accidents. The weatherman said the highways were still treacherous."
"I'll be careful. Can I get anything for you when I'm out?"
"We stocked up on everything before the snow came. We're okay. Bundle up—it's real cold."
Mo's first stop was the butcher on
She spent the balance of the afternoon browsing through Nordstrom's department store—it was so full of people she felt claustrophobic. Still, she didn't leave.
At
Credit card in one hand, Marcus's business card in the other, Mo placed her call. A wave of dizziness washed over her the minute she heard his voice. "It's Morgan Ames, Marcus. I said I'd call you when I got home. Well, I'm home. Actually, I'm in a shopping mall. Ah . . . my mother sent me out to ... to return some things . . . my dad was on the phone, I couldn't call earlier."
"I was worried when I didn't hear from you. It only takes a minute to make a phone call."
He was worried and he was chastising her. Well, she deserved it. She liked the part that he was worried. "What are you doing?" she blurted.
"I'm thinking about dinner. Leftovers or Spam. Something simple. I'm sort of watching a football game. I think Murphy misses you. I had to go looking for him twice. He was back in my room lying in the pillows where you slept."
"Ah, that's nice. I Federal Expressed his steaks. They should get there tomorrow. I tied the red ribbon on the post of my bed. I'm taking it back to
"I'll tell him. How were the roads?"
"Bad, but driveable. My dad taught me to drive defensively. It paid off." This had to be the most inane conversation she'd ever had in her life. Why was her heart beating so fast? "Marcus, this is none of my business. I meant to ask you yesterday, but I forgot. Who is that lovely woman in the photograph in your room? If it's something you don't care to talk about, it's okay with me. It was just that she sort of looked like me a little. I was curious." She was babbling again.
"Her name was Marcey. She died in the accident I was in. I was wearing my seatbelt, she wasn't. I'd rather not talk about it. You're right, though—you do resemble her a little. Murph picked up on that right away. He pulled the towel off your head and kind of sniffed your hair. He wanted me to . . . to see the resemblance, I guess. He took her death real hard."
She was sorry she'd asked. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . . I'm so sorry." She was going to cry now, any second. "I have to go now. Thank you again. Take care of yourself." The tears fell then, and she made no move to stop them. She was like a robot as she walked to the exit and the parking lot. Don't think about the phone call. Don't think about Marcus and his dog. Think about tomorrow when you're going to leave here. Shift into neutral.
She saw his car and winced. Only a teenager would drive a canary yellow Camaro. She swerved into the driveway. Here it was, the day she'd dreamed of for two long years.
"I'm home!"
"Look who's here, Mo," her mother said. That said, she tactfully withdrew, her father following close behind
"Keith, it's nice to see you," Mo said stiffly. Who was this person standing in front of her, wearing sunglasses and a houndstooth cap? He reeked of Polo.
"I was here—where were you? I thought we had a date in front of your Christmas tree on Christmas Eve. Your parents were so worried. You look different, Mo," he said, trying to take her into his arms. She deftly sidestepped him and sat down.
"I didn't think you'd show," she said flatly.
"Why would you think a thing like that?" He seemed genuinely puzzled at her question.
"Better yet," Mo said, ignoring his question, "what have you been doing these past two years? I need to know, Keith?"
His face took on a wary expression. "A little of this, a little of that. Work, eat, sleep, play a little. Probably the same things you did. I thought about you a lot. Often, Every day."
"But you never called. You never wrote."
"That was part of the deal. Marriage is a big commitment. People need to be sure before they take that step. I don't believe in divorce."
How virtuous his voice sounded. She watched, fascinated, as he fished around in his pockets until he found what he was looking for. He held the small box with a tiny red bow on it in the palm of his hand. "I'm sure now. I know you wanted to get engaged two years ago. I wasn't ready. I'm ready now." He held the box toward her, smiling broadly.
He got his teeth capped, Mo thought in amazement. She made no move to reach for the silver box.
"Aren't you excited? Don't you want to open it?"
"No."
"No what?"
"No, I'm not excited; no, I don't want the box. No, I don't want to get engaged and no, I don't want to get married. To you."
"Huh?" He seemed genuinely perplexed.
"What part of no didn't you understand?"
"But . . ."
"But what, Keith?"
"I thought . . . we agreed . . . it was a break for both of us. Why are you spoiling things like this? You always have such a negative attitude,
"I'm saying I had two long years to think about us. You and me. Until just a few days ago I thought ... it would work out. Now, I know it won't. I'm not the same person and you certainly aren't the same person. Another thing, I wouldn't ride in that pimpmobile parked out front if you paid me. You smell like a pimp, too. I'm sorry. I'm grateful to you for this . . . whatever it was . . . hiatus. It was your idea, Keith. I want you to know, I was faithful to you." And she had been. She didn't make love with Marcus until Christmas Day, at which point she already knew it wasn't going to work out between her and Keith. "Look me in the eye, Keith, and tell me you were faithful to me. I knew it! You have a good life. Send me a Christmas card and I’ll do the same."
"You're dumping me!" There was such outrage in Keith's voice, Mo burst out laughing.
"That's exactly what you did to me two years ago, but I was too dumb to see it. All those women you had, they wouldn't put up with your bullshit. That's why you're here now. No one else wanted you. I know you, Keith, better than I thought I did. I don't like the word dump. I'm breaking off our relationship because I don't love you anymore. Right now, for whatever it's worth, I wouldn't have time to work at a relationship anyway. I've decided to go into business for myself. Can we shake hands and promise to be friends?"
"Like hell! It took me seven goddamn hours to drive here from
Mo sat down on the sofa. She felt lighter, buoyant somehow. "I feel, Mom, like someone just took fifty pounds off my shoulders. I wish I'd listened to you and Dad. You'd think at my age I'd have more sense. Did you see him? Is it me or was he always like that?"
"He was always like that, honey. I wasn't going to tell you, but under the circumstances, I think I will. I really don't think he would have come home this Christmas except for one thing. His mother always gives him a handsome check early in the month. This year she wanted him home for the holidays so she said she wasn't giving it to him until Christmas morning. If he'd gotten it ahead of time I think he would have gone to Vail. We weren't eavesdropping—he said it loud enough so his voice carried to the kitchen. Don't feel bad,
"Mom, I don't. That dinner you're making smells soooo good. Let's eat, open our presents, thank God for our wonderful family, and go to bed." "Sounds good to me."
"I'm leaving in the morning, Mom. I have some things I need to . . . take care of." "I understand." "Merry Christmas, Mom."
Mo set out the following morning with a full gas tank, an extra set of warm clothes on the front seat, a brand new flashlight with six new batteries, a real shovel, foot warmers, a basket lunch that would feed her for a week, two pairs of mittens, a pair of fleece-lined boots, and the firm resolve never to take a trip without preparing for it. In the cargo area there were five shopping bags of presents that she would be returning to Wanamaker's over the weekend.
She kissed and hugged her parents, accepted change from her father for the tolls, honked her horn, and was off. Her plan was to stop in
She had a speech all worked out in her head, words she'd probably never say. She'd say, Hi, I was on my way home and thought I’d stop for coffee. After all, she'd just sent a dozen different kinds. She could help cook a steak for Murphy. Maybe Marcus would kiss her hello. Maybe he'd ask her to stay.
It wasn't until she was almost to the
* * *
She tormented herself all of January and February. She picked up the phone a thousand times, and always put it back down. Phones worked two ways. He could call her. All she'd gotten from him was a scrawled note thanking her for the coffee and steaks. He did say Murphy was burying the bones under the pillows and that he'd become a coffee addict. The last sentence was personal. I hope your delayed Christmas was everything you wanted it to be. A large scrawled "M." finished off the note.
She must have written five hundred letters in response to that little note. None of which she mailed.
She was in love. Really in love. For the first time in her life.
And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Unless she wanted to make a fool of herself again, which she had no intention of doing.
She threw herself into all the details it took to open a new business. She had the storefront, she'd ordered the vertical blinds, helped her father lay the carpet and tile. Her father had made three easels and three desks, in case she wanted to expand and hire help. Her mother wallpapered the kitchen, scrubbed the ancient appliances, and decorated the bathroom while she went out on foot and solicited business. Her grand opening was scheduled for April first.
She had two new clients and the promise of two more. If she was lucky, she might be able to repay her father's loan in three years instead of five.
On the other side of the bridge, Marcus Bishop wheeled his chair out onto his patio, Murphy alongside him. On the pull-out tray were two beers and the portable phone. He was restless, irritable. In just two weeks he was heading back to the hospital. The do-or-die operation he'd been living for, yet dreading. There were no guarantees, but the surgeon had said he was confident he'd be walking in six months. With extensive, intensive therapy. Well, he could handle that. Pain was his middle name. Maybe then . . . maybe then, he'd get up the nerve to call Morgan Ames and . . . and chat. He wondered if he dared intrude on her life with Keith. Still, there was nothing wrong with calling her, chatting about Murphy. He'd be careful not to mention Christmas night and their love-making. "The best sex I ever had, Murph. You know me—too much too little too late or whatever that saying is. What's she see in that jerk? He is a jerk, she as much as said so. You're a good listener, Murph. Hell, let's call her and say . . . we'll say . . . what we'll do is . . . hello is good. Her birthday is coming up—so is mine. Maybe I should wait till then and send a card. Or, I could send fowers or a present. The thing is, I want to talk to her now. Here comes the mailman, Murph. Get the bag!"
Murphy ran to the doggie door and was back in a minute with a small burlap sack the mailman put the mail in. Murphy then dragged it to Marcus on the deck. He loved racing to the mailman, who always had dog biscuits as well as Mace in his pockets.
"Whoaoooo, would you look at this, Murph? It's a letter or a card from you know who. Jesus, here I am thinking about her and suddenly I get mail from her. That must mean something. Here goes. Ah, she opened her own business. The big opening day is April first. No April Fool's joke, she says. She hopes I'm fine, hopes you're fine, and isn't this spring weather gorgeous? She has five clients now, but had to borrow money from her lather. She's not holding her breath waiting for someone to ask her to design a bridge. If we're ever in
It's
Marcus ordered the ficus tree and a dozen yellow roses. He was assured delivery would be made by twelve-thirty. He passed the time by speaking with his office help, sipping coffee, and throwing a cut-off broom handle for Murphy to fetch. At precisely
"Morgan Ames. Can I help you?"
"Morgan, it's Marcus Bishop. I called to congratulate you. I got your card today."
"Oh, Marcus, how nice of you to call. The tree is just what this office needed and the flowers are beautiful. That was so kind of you. How are you? How's Murphy?"
"We're fine. You must be delirious with all that's happening. How did Keith react to you opening your own business? For some reason I thought . . . assumed . . . that opening the business wasn't something you were planning on doing right away. Summer . . . or did I misunderstand?"
"No, you didn't misunderstand. I talked it over with my father and he couldn't find any reason why I shouldn't go for it now. I couldn't have done it without my parents' help. As for Keith . . . it didn't work out. He did show up. It was my decision. He just . . . wasn't the person I thought he was. I don't know if you'll believe or even understand this, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of relief."
"Really? If it's what you want, then I'm happy for you. You know what they say, if it's meant to be, it will be." He felt dizzy with her news.
"So, when do you think you can take a spin down here to see my new digs?"
"Soon. Do you serve refreshments?"
"I can and will. We have birthdays coming up. I'd be more than happy to take you out to dinner by way of celebration. If you have the time."
"I'll make the time. Let me clear my decks and get back to you. The only thing that will hinder me is my scheduled operation. There's every possibility it will be later this week."
"I'm not going anywhere, Marcus. Whenever is good for you will be good for me. I wish you the best. If there's anything I can do . . . now, that's foolish, isn't it? Like I can really do something. Sometimes I get carried away. I meant . . ."
"I know what you meant, Morgan, and I appreciate it. Murphy is ... he misses you."
"I miss both of you. Thanks again for the tree and the flowers."
"Enjoy them. We'll talk again, Morgan."
The moment Marcus broke the connection his clenched fist shot in the air. "Yessss!" Murphy reacted to this strange display by leaping onto Marcus's lap. "She loves the tree and the flowers. She blew off what's-his-name. What that means to you and me, Murph, is maybe we still have a shot. If only this damn operation wasn't looming. I need to think, to plan. I'm gonna work this out. Maybe, just maybe we can turn things around. She invited me to dinner. Hell, she offered to pay for it. That has to mean something. I take it to mean she's interested. In us, because we're a package deal." The retriever squirmed and wiggled, his long tail lolling happily.
"I feel good, Murph. Real good."
Mo hung up the phone, her eyes starry. Sending the office announcement had been a good idea after all. She stared at the flowers and at the huge ficus tree sitting in the corner. They made all the difference in the world. He'd asked about Keith and she'd responded by telling him the truth. It had come out just right. She wished now that she had asked about the operation, asked why he was having it. Probably to alleviate the pain he always seemed to be in. At what point would referring to his condition, or his operation, be stepping over the line? She didn't know, didn't know anyone she could ask. Also, it was none of her business, just like Marcey wasn't any of her business. If he wanted her to know, if he wanted to talk about it, he would have said something, opened up the subject.
It didn't matter. He'd called and they sort of had a date planned. She was going to have to get a new outfit, get her hair and nails done. Ohhhhh, she was going to sleep so good tonight. Maybe she'd even dream about Marcus Bishop.
Her thoughts sustained her for the rest of the day and into the evening.
Two days later, Marcus Bishop grabbed the phone on the third ring. He announced himself in a sleepy voice, then waited. He jerked upright a second later. "Jesus, Stewart, what time is it?
"C'mon, Murph, we're going to see your girlfriend. Morgan. We're going to see Morgan and ask her if she'll take care of you until I get on my feet or . . . we aren't going to think about . . . we're going to think positive. Get your leash, your brush, and all that other junk you take with you. Put it by the front door in the basket. Go on."
He whistled. He sang. He would have danced a jig if it was possible. He didn't bother with a shower—they did that for him at the hospital. He did shave, though. After all, he was going to see Morgan. She might even give him a good luck kiss. One of those blow-your-socks-off kisses.
At the front door he stared at the array Murphy had stacked up. The plastic laundry basket was filled to overflowing. Curiously, Marcus leaned over and poked among the contents. His leash, his brush, his bag of vitamins, his three favorite toys, his blanket, his pillow, one of his old slippers and one of Marcey's that he liked to sleep with, the mesh bag that contained his shampoo and flea powder.
"She's probably going to give us the boot when she sees all of this. You sure you want to take all this stuff?" Murphy backed up, barking the three short sounds that Marcus took for affirmation. He barked again and again, backing up, running forward, a sign that Marcus was supposed to follow him. In the laundry room, Murphy pawed the dryer door. Marcus opened it and watched as the dog dragged out the large yellow towel and took it to the front door.
"I'll be damned. Okay, just add it to the pile. I'm sure it will clinch the deal."
Ten minutes later they were barreling down 1-95. Forty minutes after that, with barely any traffic on the highway, Marcus located the apartment complex where Morgan lived. He used up another ten minutes finding the entrance to her building. Thank God for the handicapped ramp and door. Inside the lobby, his eyes scanned the row of mailboxes and buzzers. He pressed down on the button and held his finger steady. When he heard her voice through the speaker he grinned.
"I'm in your lobby and I need you to come down.
Now! Don't worry about fixing up. Remember, I've seen you at your worst."
"What's wrong?" she said, stepping from the elevator.
"Nothing. Everything. Can you keep Murphy for me? My surgeon called me an hour ago and he wants to do the operation this afternoon. The man scheduled for today came down with the flu. I have all Murphy's gear. I don't know what else to do. Can you do it?"
"Of course. Is this his stuff?"
"Believe it or not, he packed himself. He couldn't wait to get here. I can't thank you enough. The guy that usually keeps him is off in
"It's not a problem. Good luck. Is there anything else I can do?"
"Say a prayer. Well, thanks again. He likes real food. When you go through his stuff you'll see he didn't pack any."
"Okay."
"What do you call that thing you're wearing?" Marcus asked curiously.
"It's my bathrobe. It used to be my grandfather's. It's old, soft as silk. It's like an old friend. But better yet, it's warm. These are slippers on my feet even though they look like fur muffs. Again, they keep my feet warm. These things in my hair are curlers. It's who I am," Mo said huffily.
"I wasn't complaining. I was just curious. I bet you're a knockout when you're wearing makeup. Do you wear makeup?"
Mo's insecurities took over. She must look like she just got off the boat. She could feel a flush working its way up to her neck and face. She didn't mean to say it, didn't think she'd said it until she saw the look on Marcus's face. "Why, did Marcey wear lots of makeup? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I wear very little. I can't afford the pricey stuff she used. What you see is what you get. In other words, take it or leave it and don't ever again compare me to your wife or your girlfriend." She turned on her heel, the laundry basket in her arms, Murphy behind her.
"Hold on! What wife? What girlfriend? What pricey makeup are you talking about? Marcey was my twin sister. I thought I told you that."
"No, you didn't tell me that," Mo called over her shoulder. Her back to him, she grinned from ear to ear. Ahhh, life was lookin' good. "Good luck," she said, as the elevator door swished shut.
In her apartment with the door closed and bolted, Mo sat down on the living room floor with the big, silky dog. "Let's see what we have here," she said, checking the laundry basket. "Hmmm, I see your grooming is going to take a lot of time. I need to tell you that we have a slight problem. Actually, it's a large, as in very large, problem. No pets are allowed in this apartment complex. Oh, you brought the yellow towel. That was sweet, Murphy," she said, hugging the retriever. "I hung the red ribbon on my bed." She was talking to this dog like he was a person and was going to respond any minute. "It's not just a little problem, it's a big problem. I guess we sleep at the office. I can buy a sleeping bag and bring your gear there. There's a kitchen and a bathroom. Maybe my dad can come down and rig up a shower. Then again, maybe not. I can always come back to the apartment and shower. We can cook in the office or we can eat out. I missed you. I think about you and Marcus a lot. I thought I would never hear from him again. I thought he was married. Can you beat that?
"Okay, I'm going to take my shower, make some coffee, and then we'll head to my new office. I'm sure it's nothing like Marcus's office and I know he takes you there with him. It's a me office, if you know what I mean. It's so good to have someone to talk to. I wish you could talk back."
Mo marched into the kitchen to look in the refrigerator. Leftover Chinese that should have been thrown out a week ago, leftover Italian that should have been thrown out two weeks ago, and last night's pepper steak that she'd cooked herself. She warmed it in the microwave and set it down for Murphy, who lapped it up within seconds. "Guess that will hold you till this evening."
Dressed in a professional, spring-like suit, Mo gathered her briefcase and all the stuff she carried home each evening into a plastic shopping bag. Murphy's leash and his toys went into a second bag. At the last moment she rummaged in the cabinet for a water bowl. "Guess we need to take your bed and blanket, too." Two trips later, the only thing left to do was call her mother.
"Mo, what's wrong? Why are you calling this early in the morning?"
"Mom, I need your help. If Dad isn't swamped, do you think you guys could come down here?" She related the events of the past hours. "I can't live in the office— health codes and all that. I need you to find me an apartment that will take a dog. I know this sounds stupid, but is it possible, do you think, to find a house that will double as an office? If I have to suck up the money I put into the storefront, I will. I might be able to sublease it, but I don't have the time to look around. I have so much work, Mom. All of a sudden it happened. It almost seems like the day the sign went up, everybody who's ever thought about hiring an architect chose me. I'm not complaining. Can you help me?"
"Of course. Dad's at loose ends this week. It's that retirement thing. He doesn't want to travel, he doesn't want to garden, he doesn't know what he wants. Just last night he was talking about taking a Julia Child cooking course. We'll get ready and leave within the hour." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You should see the sparkle in his eyes—he's ready now. We'll see you in a bit."
Once they reached the office, Murphy settled in within seconds. A square patch of sun under the front window became his. His red ball, a rubber cat with a hoarse squeak, and his latex candy cane were next to him. He nibbled on a soup bone that was almost as big as his head.
Mo worked steadily without a break until her parents walked through the door at ten minutes past
"Now, that's what I call a real gentleman. I feel a lot better about you being here alone now that you have this dog," her father said.
"It's just temporary, Dad. Marcus will take him back as soon as . . . well, I don't know exactly. Dad, I am so swamped. I'm also having a problem with this . . . take a look, give me your honest opinion. The client is coming in at four and I'm befuddled. The heating system doesn't work the way he wants it installed. I have to cut out walls, move windows—and he won't want to pay for the changes."
"In a minute.
Your mother and I decided that I will stay here and help you. She's going out with a realtor at twelve-thirty. We called from the car phone and set it all up. We were specific with your requirements so she won't be taking your mother around to things that aren't appropriate. Knowing your mother, I'm confident she'll have the perfect location by
"I think you should hire him, Mo," her mother stage-whispered. "He'd probably work for nothing. A couple of days a week would be great. I could stay down here with him and cook for you, walk your dog. We'd be more than glad to do it, Mo, if you think it would work and we wouldn't be infringing on your privacy."
"I'd love it, Mom. Murphy isn't my dog. I wish he was. He saved my life. What can I say?"
"You can tell me about Marcus Bishop. The real skinny, and don't tell me there isn't a skinny to tell. I see that sparkle in your eyes and it isn't coming from this dog."
"Later, okay? I think your real estate person is here. Go get 'em, Mom. Remember, I need a place as soon as possible. Otherwise I sleep here in the office in a sleeping bag. If I break my lease by having a pet, I don't get my security deposit back and it was a hefty one. If you can find something for me it will work out perfectly since my current lease is up the first of May. I'm all paid up. I appreciate it, Mom."
"That's what parents are for, sweetie. See you. John... did you hear me?"
"Hmmmnn."
Mo winked at her mother.
Father and daughter worked steadily, stopping just long enough to walk Murphy and eat a small pizza they had delivered. When Mo's client walked through the door at
"Now, Mr. Caruthers, this is what Morgan and I came up with. You get everything you want with the heating system. See this wall? What we did was . . ."
Knowing her client was in good hands, Mo retired to the kitchen to make coffee. She added some cookies to a colorful tray at the last moment. When she entered the office, tray in hand, her father was shaking hands and smiling. "Mr. Caruthers liked your idea. He gets what he wants plus the atrium. He's willing to absorb the extra three hundred."
"I'm going to be relocating sometime in the next few weeks, Mr. Caruthers. Since I've taken on an associate, I need more room. I'll notify you of my new address and phone number. If you happen to know anyone who would be interested in a sublease, call me."
Caruthers was gone less than five minutes when Helen Ames bustled through the door, the realtor in tow. "I found it! The perfect place! An insurance agent who had his office in his home is renting it. It's empty. You can move in tonight or tomorrow. The utilities are on, and he pays for them. It was part of the deal. It's wonderful, Mo—there's even a fenced yard for Murphy. 1 took the liberty of okaying your move. Miss Oliver has a client who does odd jobs and has his own truck. He's moving your furniture as we speak. All we have to do is pack up your personal belongings and Dad and I can do that with your help. You can be settled by tonight. The house is in move-in condition. That's a term real estate people use," she said knowledgeably. "Miss Oliver has agreed to see if she can sublease this place. Tomorrow, her man will move the office. At the most, Mo, you'll lose half a day's work. With Dad helping you, you'll get caught up in no time. There's a really nice garden on the side of the house and a magnificent wisteria bush you're going to love. Plus twelve tomato plants. The insurance man who owns the house is just glad that someone like us is renting. It's a three-year lease with an option to buy. His wife's mother lives in
Everything worked out just the way her mother said it would.
The April showers gave way to May flowers. June sailed in with warm temperatures and bright sunshine. The only flaw in Mo's life was the lack of communication where Marcus was concerned.
Shortly after the Fourth of July, Mo piled Murphy into the Cherokee on a bright sunshiny Sunday and headed for
Murphy was ecstatic when the Jeep came to a stop outside his old home. He raced around the side of the house, barking and growling, before he slithered through his doggie door. On the other side, he continued to bark and then he howled. With all the doors locked, Mo had no choice but to go in the same way she'd gone through on Christmas Eve.
Inside, things were neat and tidy, but there was a thick layer of dust over everything. Obviously Marcus had not been here for a very long time.
"I don't even know what hospital he went to. Where is he, Murphy? He wouldn't give you up, even to me. I know he wouldn't." She wondered if she had the right to go through Marcus's desk. Out of concern. She sat down and thought about her birthday. She'd been so certain that he'd send a card, one of those silly cards that left the real meaning up in the air, but her birthday had gone by without any kind of acknowledgment from him.
"Maybe he did give you up, Murphy. I guess he isn't interested in me." She choked back a sob as she buried her head in the retriever's silky fur. "Okay, come on, time to leave. I know you want to stay and wait, but we can't. We'll come back again. We'll come back as often as we have to. That's a promise, Murphy."
On the way back to her house, Mo passed her old office and was surprised to see that it had been turned into a Korean vegetable stand. She'd known Miss Oliver had subleased it with the rent going directly to the management company, but that was all she knew.
"Life goes on, Murphy. What's that old saying, time waits for no man? Something like that anyway."
Summer moved into autumn and before Mo knew it, her parents had sold their house and rented a condo on the outskirts of
Thanksgiving was spent in her parents' condo with her mother doing all the cooking. The day was uneventful, with both Mo and her father falling asleep in the living room after dinner. Later, when she was attaching Murphy's leash, her mother said, quite forcefully, "You two need to get some help in that office. I'm appointing myself your new secretary and first thing Monday morning you're going to start accepting applications for associates. It's almost Christmas and none of us has done any shopping. It's the most wonderful time of the year and last year convinced us that . . . time is precious. We all need to enjoy life more. Dad and I are going to take a trip the day after Christmas. We're going to drive to
"Okay, Mom," Mo said meekly
"As usual, you're right, Helen," John said just as meekly.
"I knew you two would see it my way. We're going to take up golf when we get to
"Helen, for God's sake. I hate golf. I refuse to hit a silly little ball with a stick and there's no way I'm going to wear plaid pants and one of those damn hats with a pom-pom on it."
"We'll see," Helen sniffed.
"On that thought, I'll leave you."
At home, curled up in bed with Murphy alongside her, Mo turned on the television that would eventually lull her to sleep. She felt wired up, antsy for some reason. Here it was, almost Christmas, and Marcus Bishop was still absent from her life. She thought about the many times she'd called Bishop Engineering, only to be told Mr. Bishop was out of town and couldn't be reached. "The hell with you, Mr. Marcus Bishop. You gotta be a real low-life to stick me with your dog and then forget about him. What kind of man does that make you? What was all that talk about loving him? He misses you." Damn, she was losing it. She had to stop talking to herself or she was going to go over the edge.
Sensing her mood, Murphy snuggled closer. He licked at her cheeks, pawed her chest. "Forget what I just said, Murphy. Marcus loves you—I know he does. He didn't forget you, either. I think, and this is just my own opinion, but I think something went wrong with his operation and he's recovering somewhere. I think he was just saying words when he said he was used to the chair and it didn't bother him. It does. What if they ended up cutting off his legs? Oh, God," she wailed. Murphy growled, the hair on the back of his head standing on end. "Ignore that, too, Murphy. No such thing happened. I'd feel something like that."
She slept because she was weary and because when she cried she found it difficult to keep her eyes open.
"What are you going to do, honey?" Helen Ames asked as Mo closed the door to the office.
"I'm going upstairs to the kitchen and make a chocolate cake. Mom, it's December twentieth. Five days till Christmas. Listen, I think you and Dad made the right decision to leave for
"I promise. Tell me again, Mo, that you don't mind spending Christmas alone with the dog."
"Mom, I really and truly don't mind. We've all been like accidents waiting to happen. This is a good chance for me to laze around and do nothing. You know I was never big on New Year's. Go, Mom. Call me when you get there and if I'm not home, leave a message. Drive carefully, stop often."
"Good night,
"Have a good trip, Mom."
On the morning of the twenty-third of December, Mo woke early, let Murphy out, made herself some bacon and eggs, and wolfed it all down. During the night she'd had a dream that she'd gone to
"Wanna go home, big guy? Get your stuff together. We're gonna get a tree, and do the whole nine yards. Tomorrow it will be a full year since I met you. We need to celebrate."
A little after the
The wreath with the giant red bow went on the front door. Back inside, she added the lights to the tree and put all the colorful decorations on the branches. On her hands and knees, she pushed the tree stand gently until she had it perfectly arranged in the corner. It was heavenly, she thought sadly as she placed the colorful poin-settias around the hearth. The only thing missing was Marcus.
Mo spent the rest of the day cleaning and polishing. When she finished her chores, she baked a cake and prepared a quick poor man's stew with hamburger meat.
Mo slept on the couch because she couldn't bring herself to sleep in Marcus's bed.
Christmas Eve dawned, gray and overcast. It felt like snow, but the weatherman said there would be no white Christmas this year.
Dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a warm flannel shirt, Mo started the preparations for Christmas Eve dinner. The house was redolent with the smell of frying onions, the scent of the tree, and the gingerbread cookies baking in the oven. She felt almost light-headed when she looked at the tree with the pile of presents underneath, presents her mother had warned her not to open, presents for Murphy, and a present for Marcus.
She would leave it behind when they left after New Year's.
At
Murphy leaped from the couch, the hair on his back stiff. He growled and started to pace the room, racing back and forth. Alarmed, Mo got off the couch to look out the window. There was nothing to see but the barren trees around the house. She switched on more lights, even those on the tree. As a precaution against what, she didn't know. She locked all the doors and windows. Murphy continued to growl and pace. Then the low, deep growls were replaced with high-pitched whines, but he made no move to go out his doggie door. Mo closed the drapes and turned the floodlights on outside. She could feel herself start to tense up. Should she call the police? What would she say? My dog's acting strange? Damn.
Murphy's cries and whines were so eerie she started to come unglued. Perhaps he wasn't one of those dogs that were trained to protect owner, hearth, and home. Since she'd had him he'd never been put to the test. To her, he was just a big animal who loved unconditionally.
In a moment of blind panic she rushed around the small cottage checking the inside dead bolts. The doors were stout, solid. She didn't feel one bit better.
The racket outside was worse and it all seemed to be coming from the kitchen area. She armed herself with a carving knife in one hand and a cast iron skillet in the other. Murphy continued to pace and whine. She eyed the doggie door warily, knowing the retriever was itching to use it, but he'd understood her iron command of No.
She waited.
When she saw the doorknob turn, she wondered if she would have time to run out the front door and into her Cherokee. She was afraid to chance it, afraid Murphy would bolt once he was outside.
She froze when she saw the thick vinyl strips move on the doggie door. Murphy saw it, too, and let out an ear-piercing howl. Mo sidestepped to the left of the opening, skillet held at shoulder height, the carving knife in much the same position.
She saw his head and part of one shoulder. "Marcus! What are you doing coming in Murphy's door?" Her shoulders sagged with relief.
"All the goddamn doors are locked and bolted. I'm stuck. What the hell are you doing here in my house? With my dog yet."
"I brought him home for Christmas. He missed you. I thought . . . you could have called, Marcus, or sent a card. I swear to God, I thought you died on the operating table and no one at your company wanted to tell me. One lousy card, Marcus. I had to move out of my apartment because they don't allow animals. I gave up my office. For your dog. Well, here he is. I'm leaving and guess what—I don't give one little shit if you're stuck in that door or not. You damn well took almost a year out of my life. That's not fair and it's not right. You have no excuse and even if you do, I don't want to hear it."
"Open the goddamn door! Now!"
"Up yours, Marcus Bishop!"
"Listen, we're two reasonably intelligent adults. Let's discuss this rationally. There's an answer for everything."
"Have a Merry Christmas. Dinner is in the oven. Your tree is in the living room, all decorated, and there's a wreath on the front door. Your dog is right here. I guess that about covers it."
"You can't leave me stuck like this."
"You wanna bet? Toy with my affections, will you? Not likely. Stick me with your dog! You're a bigger jerk than Keith ever was. And I fell for your line of bullshit! I guess I'm the stupid one."
"Morgannnn!"
Mo slammed her way through the house to the front door. Murphy howled. She stooped down. "I'm sorry. You belong with him. I do love you—you're a wonderful companion and friend. I won't ever forget how you saved my life. From time to time I'll send you some steaks. You take care of that. . . that big boob, you hear?" She hugged the dog so hard he barked.
She was struggling with the garage door when she felt herself being pulled backward. To her left she heard Murphy bark ominously.
"You're going to listen to me whether you like it or not Look at me when I talk to you," Marcus Bishop said as he whirled her around.
Her anger and hostility dropped away. "Marcus, you're on your feet! You can walk! That's wonderful!" The anger came back as swiftly as it had disappeared. "It still doesn't excuse your silence for nine whole months."
"Look, I sent cards and flowers. I wrote you letters. How in the damn hell was I supposed to know you moved?"
"You didn't even tell me what hospital you were going to. I tried calling till I was blue in the face. Your office wouldn't tell me anything. Furthermore, the post office, for a dollar, will tell you what my new address is. Did you ever think of that?"
"No. I thought you . . . well, what I thought was . . . you absconded with my dog. I lost the card you gave me. I got discouraged when I heard you moved. I'm sorry. I'm willing to take all the blame. I had this grand dream that I was going to walk into your parents' house on Christmas Eve and stand by your tree with you. My operation wasn't the walk in the park the surgeon more or less promised. I had to have a second one. The therapy was so intensive it blew my mind. I'm not whining here, I'm trying to explain. That's all I have to say. If you want to keep Murphy, it's okay. I had no idea ... he loves you. Hell, I love you."
"You do?"
"Damn straight I do. You're all I thought about during my recovery. It was what kept me going. I even went by that Korean grocery store today and guess what? Take a look at this!" he held out a stack of cards and envelopes. "It seems they can't read English. They were waiting for you to come and pick up the mail. They said they liked the flowers I sent from time to time."
"Really, Marcus!" She reached out to accept the stack of mail. "How'd you get out of that doggie door?" she asked suspiciously.
Marcus snorted. "Murphy pushed me out. Can we go into the house now and talk like two civilized people who love each other?"
"I didn't say I loved you."
"Say it!" he roared.
"Okay, okay, I love you."
"What else?"
"I believe you and I love your dog, too." "Are we going to live happily ever after even if I'm rich and handsome?"
"Oh, yes, but that doesn't matter. I loved you when you were in the wheelchair. How are all your . . . parts?" "Let's find out."
Murphy nudged both of them as he herded them toward the front door.
"I'm going to carry you over the threshold." "Oh, Marcus, really!"
"Sometimes you simply talk too much." He kissed her as he'd never kissed her before.
"I like that. Do it again, and again, and again."
He did.