Some Enchanted Season (5 page)

“So we weren’t sharing a bedroom. Things were worse than I’d realized.”

“We weren’t even sharing a life, Maggie. And how
much worse could things have gotten? You were planning to file for divorce. So was I.”

Deep inside she’d known that, but this was the first time he’d told her so. It had never mattered to her who did the leaving, just as long as she got out. Yet it hurt to hear that he’d been as eager to leave her as she’d been to leave him.

Glancing out the window into the night-dark sky, she noticed lights in the houses behind them. “We have neighbors. We haven’t had neighbors for a long time.”

Slowly Ross came into the room, coming to stand at the opposite end of the window. “Are you changing the subject, just making a comment, or is this one of those head-trauma things I’m supposed to be patient with?”

She gave him a long, steady look. “Just making a comment. Was that genuine perplexity, or have some fragile remains of your sense of humor actually survived your obsession with business?”

His only response, before changing—or returning to—the subject, was what might have been the fragile remains of that wicked grin she had so long ago fallen in love with. “We’ve always had neighbors. It’s just been eight or ten years since they’ve been this close. You’d met the people in all these houses and had grown rather fond of the two elderly sisters who live in the Victoria catercorner from us. You said they were great bakers, wonderful surrogate grandmothers, and grand ladies.”

“Did they like me too?”

“I suppose. They invited you to their parties, and
you went—to one, at least.” He shrugged. “What’s not to like?”

Maggie glanced around the bedroom—
her
bedroom, where she had slept alone while her husband slept across the hall—and felt another twinge of pain. “You tell me.”

Ross grew more serious too, and withdrew just a little. “Not tonight, Maggie,” he said quietly. “I’m going to bring our luggage up. After we unpack, why don’t we see about dinner, then call it a night. It’s been a long day.”

She nodded in agreement, then went to the bed as he left the room. The mattress was so thick that sitting down required a boost. Her feet dangling above the floor, she let her shoes drop, then inspected the nightstand’s single drawer. It held a novel, one of last year’s blockbuster hits according to the dust jacket, plus a box of tissues, a bottle of antacids, and a bottle of lotion.

Underneath it all was a picture frame, facedown. She pulled it free, turned it over, and saw that the glass was shattered, with several jagged pieces missing. The damage was new to her, but the photo was achingly familiar. It was their wedding picture, taken by a disinterested clerk in the judge’s chambers. She was wearing her best outfit—a simple green sheath and matching jacket—and Ross wore jeans and a white cotton shirt. They had been so young, so much in love.

And look at them now.

At the sound of Ross’s footsteps in the hall, she quickly returned the frame to the drawer. He set her suitcases at the foot of the bed, then asked, “Do you need help unpacking?”

She shook her head.

“Then I’ll get my stuff. I’ll be across the hall or downstairs. If you need anything, call.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

Maggie slid to her feet, then heaved the heaviest of her suitcases onto the bed. One of the first things they’d taught her at the rehab center was how to dress herself, and she’d been happy to learn, to escape the hospital gowns and nightgowns in which she’d lived the preceding three months. She had started simply, with sweats, before graduating to jeans and T-shirts, button-front shirts and sweaters. In the summer months she had developed quite an affection for light, airy dresses that slipped easily over her head.

Her current wardrobe was a far cry from the elegant, dressy, sophisticated clothes in the closet. She liked the sight of denim and cotton sharing the same space with velvet and silk, liked overwhelming all that formality with her rediscovered taste for the casual.

She was placing the last of her shoes on the shelves in the closet, when the built-in jewelry chest caught her attention. In the fifteen years of their marriage before the accident, Ross had given her a not-so-small fortune in jewelry. It had started with the piece that mattered most—a plain gold wedding band inscribed with the date and one simple word:
love
. She’d worn the ring constantly until the anniversary—their ninth? tenth?—when he’d replaced it with a diamond monstrosity that weighted her hand and made her cringe to look at it.

The only other jewelry that mattered was a pair of emerald studs. When they were first married and living
in a shabby apartment, he’d promised her that one day he would buy her emeralds to match her eyes, and, keeping that promise his first year in business—a grand extravagance for which he’d worked hard and sacrificed much—had meant the world to him. Because of that, the earrings had meant the world to her.

But it was difficult to keep treasures she no longer had. Though the monstrosity was in the chest, along with everything else she must have planned to wear over the holidays last year, there was no sign of the little gold band or the emeralds. Maybe she’d left them at the house in Buffalo. Maybe she’d had them with her at the time of the accident, and they had been given to Ross.

Maybe they were gone for good. Like their marriage.

Like their love.

R
oss was pulling a colander of grapes from the refrigerator when Maggie came into the kitchen. Walking with a slight limp in Ragg socks, she crossed to the island and eased onto a tall stool there. He faced her. “I told you to yell if you needed anything.”

“I know. I didn’t need anything.”

“You shouldn’t be going up and down the stairs alone.”

She picked up a handful of grapes. “If I’d fallen, I would have yelled.”

“That’s not funny,” he said sharply—too sharply,
judging by her look and the carefully controlled tone of her voice when she answered.

“Trust me, I’ve fallen enough to know that it’s not funny. Why do you think they had all that padding in the physical therapy rooms?” She popped a grape into her mouth, then asked around it, “What do we have for dinner?”

“Whatever you want to cook. Or we can go out.”

She answered too quickly, too casually. “No, thanks. I’d rather cook.”

Rather cook than what? he wondered. Go out with him? Or go out in public, where she might meet people she’d once known but had since forgotten, or strangers who might wonder about the thin scars and the slight limp? If she was self-conscious about making a public appearance, she would have to deal with it. She was too young to become a recluse.

But for one night, it couldn’t hurt. “How about sandwiches? Then you can start tomorrow off cooking breakfast. Nothing fancy—just some crepes. Maybe eggs Benedict. Fruit compote. Homemade croissants.”

She looked wary. “I don’t think I should be quite so ambitious to start. Maybe oatmeal with sliced bananas.”

He wasn’t sure how serious she was—but then, that was nothing new. Too many times in the last few years, he hadn’t had a clue what she thought, meant, or wanted. For most of that time he had cared. Then he hadn’t.

Instead of wondering about it now, he gathered sandwich ingredients. The bread was wrapped in
Thanksgiving-themed paper and secured with a seal that read
FROM THE WINCHESTER KITCHEN
.

“Who are the Winchesters?” Maggie asked, reading the label upside down.

“I think they’re the elderly sisters across the street.”

She took a deep whiff as he unwrapped the bread. “The great bakers,” she murmured. “Absolutely.”

“You’re a great baker too,” he reminded her, and she got that wary look again.

“We’ll see. I don’t have the best of luck concentrating these days, and following directions isn’t always an option. Sometimes I just can’t do it.”

“You don’t sound too broken up over it.”

With a shrug that didn’t achieve the casual effect she was aiming for, she parroted words he knew she’d been told at the center. “I’ve gotten better, and Dr. Allen says I should continue to improve. But plenty of people who
haven’t
had brain injuries can’t follow directions. If I can’t, I’ll adapt. And even if I can’t follow orders, I can give them. Put that knife away and get a bread knife. There should be one in the same drawer—long, thin, with a serrated blade.”

He did as she instructed and started slicing the bread. “Don’t get too bossy. It’s not an attractive trait.”

“Tell me about it,” she murmured as she claimed the first two slices for her plate.

He paused, the blade poised above the loaf. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing. I was simply agreeing with you.”

“You were implying that I’m bossy.”

As if her attention stretched to only one task at a time, she made her sandwich: turkey and ham,
provolone and mozzarella, topped with spicy mustard. Then she looked at him, her expression flat and steady. “You treated me like an employee. You told me how to dress, how to act, where to go, what to do, who to be friends with, and who wasn’t suitable. When I did my job well, I got rewarded with another fabulous piece of jewelry. When I didn’t do it well, you made your displeasure known and gave me the cold shoulder until you needed me again.”

“I did not—”

“Oh, please,” she interrupted. Though it had been absent a long time, he had no difficulty recognizing the subtle scorn in her voice. It had become a familiar companion, there every time she’d bothered to speak to him. “I’m not up to your version of our history tonight. I don’t like fairy tales until bedtime.”

“The only fairy tales you ever liked were your own anyway.” Pulling a stool around the island, he sat down opposite her and put together his own sandwich. Before he took the first bite, though, he said, “So tell me this, Maggie. If I was such a bastard, why did you stay with me so long?”

Something in her face shifted, and he felt it within himself—the realization that they’d so easily slipped into old habits, old resentments. She toyed with her food, pinching bits of crust from the bread, before finally meeting his gaze and replying in a quiet, subdued voice. “I assume for the same reasons you were still with me. In the beginning, I still loved you. And in the end … I didn’t get the chance to leave.”

There was nothing he could say to that. She was absolutely correct. In the beginning—practically from
the first time he’d laid eyes on her—he had loved her passionately. She’d made all the hardships worthwhile, had been part of his drive to succeed. He’d wanted to repay her for all her sacrifices, to show his gratitude, to give her things as beautiful and precious as she was.

And in the end … He hadn’t gotten the chance to divorce her before fate, bad weather, and an icy mountain road intervened.

“I suspect we’ll get along much better as exes than as husband and wife,” she said thoughtfully. “If, of course, we ever see each other, which we won’t, once you leave here.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

Abruptly, unexpectedly, she grinned. It was a sight he hadn’t seen in far too long. “It’s been a
long
time since you’ve said that.”

His smile was faint. “You haven’t even seen the town yet, but you think you’ll want to stay.”

She nodded.

“Based on what?”

“This place. You were right—and I know, it’s been a long time since
I
said
that
. I did love this house. I can feel it. I can tell just by looking at it. I was planning to stay here then, and I knew the town then. I knew some of the people. I’m trusting that I made a good decision.”

“What will you do?”

Her shrug made her hair shift, reflecting the lights overhead, the red tones gleaming. “I don’t know. I must have had plans, but they’re gone now. Maybe I’ll get a job. Maybe I’ll do volunteer work.”

“Maybe you’ll get married again and have those babies
you wanted.” As far as Ross was concerned, that would be the best-case scenario. For years she’d wanted children, and for years he’d put her off. He wasn’t making enough money, he wanted to be able to give their kids the absolute best, he was traveling too much, the business was too demanding. He’d had excuses lined up, just waiting to be given, until suddenly she stopped asking. She stopped talking about a family, stopped doting on their friends’ babies. At the time, he’d been relieved. He wondered now if that had been, for her, the beginning of the end.

“Maybe I will. I’m only thirty-four. That’s young enough.”

“Thirty-five. Missing your birthday because you’re in a coma doesn’t entitle you to take a year off your age.”

“It should,” she said dryly. “Still, thirty-five is young enough. If I got started right away, I could have four or five babies before I turn forty.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” He paused. “You didn’t ask what my plans are.”

She snorted, a coarse sound coming from such a delicate woman. “You’ll do what you’ve done the fifteen—excuse me, sixteen—years we’ve been married. You’ll work hundred-hour weeks, buy new companies, expand your old companies into every conceivable market in the world, make millions more, and impress the hell out of everyone with your business acumen.”

Her prediction was on target, but its limited scope—strictly business, as if he would have no personal life—left him feeling prickly. “Maybe I’ll get married again too.”

“Maybe. But why bother when you can get everything you want—someone to plan your parties, to accompany you to business functions, to put in appearances on your behalf, and to satisfy your occasional need for sex—simply by contracting with the appropriate businesses on a need-by-need basis? It’s much more cost effective that way, and there’s never a need for a divorce.”

“You have complaints about the sex?”

“What sex?” she asked with the innocence of a child. “I can’t even remember the last time we had sex.”

He smiled cynically. “That’s right. You can’t. Trust me though. You weren’t complaining.” Then he deliberately, coolly, added, “It was a pleasant change.”

For a long time she simply looked at him, her expression calm. For the first minute, he endured, then he began getting edgy again. Suspicion that he was somehow being manipulated made him uneasy, then annoyed, then guilty for insulting her.