Some Enchanted Season (8 page)

And, in her opinion, it ruined their marriage. He knew that from previous arguments. Because he appreciated her restraint in not mentioning it again, he kept his response to her indictment mild. “Okay, I’m on vacation—a real vacation,” he said once they were settled in the car. “So before we find Melissa’s Garden, let’s do something vacationy, like taking a tour. Let’s reacquaint ourselves with Bethlehem. Are you interested?”

“Sure.”

“There’s another Bethlehem in New York—south of Albany,” he said as he backed out of the driveway. “Did you know that?”

“I didn’t know
this
one was here until you told Dr. Allen about it.” She gazed out the window at the neat houses that grew smaller with each passing block. “How many times did you come here last year?”

“Four. For my business meeting, to sign the papers on the house, to see it just before the work was finished, and to spend Christmas.”

“How many times did I come?”

“Practically every weekend between August and
Christmas. Sometimes, while the renovations were going on, you were here during the week too.”

He turned past the courthouse, drove by the square, then turned right on Main. All the shops and businesses were decorated in fall colors with a Thanksgiving theme. Before long, though, turkeys and pilgrims would give way to the most extensive Christmas decorations he’d ever seen. With a name like Bethlehem, he supposed it was required.

Maggie was wide-eyed, looking from side to side, trying to absorb everything. Though he had little interest in quaint shops, Ross slowed, then pulled into a parking space. “Want to make this a walking tour?”

“Can we?” Her smile was bright with anticipation, and its very presence reminded him of all the long months it had been absent from their lives. Over the years he’d tried to buy such delight with diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires, when all she really needed was a simple little indulgence like this.

Why hadn’t he known that? She was his wife, damn it—the one person who knew him best, the one person he should have known best. Why hadn’t he known?

Maybe because he
was
the selfish bastard she’d described last night.

They were on the west edge of downtown. With coats zipped against the chill, they started at a leisurely pace toward the other end. Hardly aware of the cold, Maggie gazed in each display window, making mental notes of places she would return to regularly—the gift shop and bookstore, the pharmacy, the clothing store, and the post office. She wondered if she’d bought supplies
for the house at the hardware store across the street, if she’d stocked Ross’s office from the office supply shop, if she’d taken her dry cleaning to the little corner establishment.

She wondered how lucky she’d been to find this place at exactly the time she’d needed it most. It must have been fate. Destiny.

Destiny
. Her last brush with destiny had come seventeen years earlier on the university campus. Some guy rushing by in the rain had knocked her books into a puddle, and the handsomest man she’d ever seen had helped her fish them out. They’d cut their next classes and gone to the student union for coffee, and when they’d parted eight hours later, she’d known she had met the man of her dreams.

Now she’d found the town—the home—of her dreams.

How sad that they were separate dreams.

She stopped to admire a display of Christmas china and wondered if she’d bought anything similar last year. If not, it could be her welcome-home gift to herself, because she intended to have an active social life. Of course, she’d had that in Buffalo and hated it, but in Bethlehem it would be different. She would entertain people because she liked them, not because Ross did business with them, and it would be small, intimate groups in her wonderful kitchen, not formal events with a guest list longer than Santa’s. There would be cocoa and egg nog rather than champagne, finger foods instead of catered hors d’oeuvres, poinsettias and not hothouse orchids, and children. Definitely children, and they would be heard and not just seen.

“They have an interesting mix of stores here,” Ross said. “When you’re sick, you can pick up your prescription, rent a video, and grab a bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup all in one stop. Here we have china and sporting goods, obviously owned by a Chicago Bulls fan.”

She shifted her gaze to the sign above the door—
THE BULLS IN A CHINA SHOP
—and smiled. “If you want to survive in today’s business climate, you have to diversify.”

“So you did listen to me from time to time.”

“I listened a lot. I’ve probably learned from you the equivalent of an MBA, which would be great if I were interested in business.”

He grew serious. “You always pretended to be—for the first ten or twelve years, at least.”

“I never cared about the business. I was interested in
you
.” Her answer caught him off guard and held him still while she moved on, passing an office building shared by one lawyer, two doctors, and three dentists. That brought her to the square in the middle of town. She looked at the wrought-iron benches, thought about how cold they would be for sitting, then settled her gaze on a diner across the street. “Want some coffee?”

That caught Ross off guard too. He looked at the diner, moderately busy, then back at her. “You mean, go in, sit down, and have something to drink?”

“You could have something to eat too,” she said dryly. “Judging by the number of customers there, they have better luck in the kitchen than I do.”

“You don’t mind?”

“If you eat someone else’s cooking?”

He brushed away her intended humor with an impatient gesture. “Going in. With strangers.”

She watched the traffic, saw drivers waving at people, heard a man on one side of the street call a hearty greeting to a woman on the other. A year from then, she wanted to be like those people, running into friends and neighbors while she took care of all her errands in a few square blocks. One sure way
not
to accomplish that was to remain self-conscious. “I’ll admit it doesn’t thrill me, but I’ve got to face strangers sometime.”

He took her arm—so she couldn’t change her mind, she suspected. As they approached Harry’s Diner, a group of men in suits came out, one of them holding the door open.

Inside, she chose the lone empty booth, and the waitress brought them menus and coffee. “I’ll be right back to take your order, folks—Maggie? Why, Maggie McKinney, it
is
you. How are you?”

Maggie hoped that her smile looked more genuine than it felt. “I’m—I’m fine.”

“Oh, and you look fine! I heard you were coming back to town. You couldn’t have picked a better time for it, with Thanksgiving only two days away and then Christmas— You
are
staying for Christmas, aren’t you?”

“I’m staying.” Maggie tried to read the name tag pinned to the waitress’s left shoulder, but the lace hanky it secured fell over all but the first letter. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage and blurted out, “I’m fine, but there’s a lot I don’t remember about
last year, and names, I’m afraid, are part of it. You are …?”

“Maeve. I’m sorry, honey. Sheriff Ingles told us about the memory problem, but I was so surprised to see you that it slipped my mind.” Hearing her own words, she smiled broadly. “If you’re forgetful, honey, you’ll fit in just fine with us. Why, half the people in here have forgotten that they’re supposed to be at work.”

“Yeah,” a diner at a nearby table chimed in. “And Maeve’s forgotten that she was supposed to be getting me some decaf.”

“You just hold your horses, Charlie. If you’re in such a hurry, you know where the coffeepot is.” She turned her attention back to them. “I’m Maeve Carter, and I run this joint.”

“So there’s no Harry?”

“Oh, sure. Harry Winslow. He’s the cantankerous old goat behind the counter. He owns the place, but”—she smugly patted her carefully styled hair—“it would be nothing without me.”

“I heard that, Maeve,” Harry called. “Don’t believe a thing she says, Maggie girl. She’s full of talk. And welcome back. That big house has missed you.”

“So have we, sugar,” Maeve added before shifting her attention across the booth. “So … who’s this handsome fellow?”

“This is my husband, Ross.”

“Welcome to Bethlehem, Ross.” Maeve offered her hand. “You’re going to like it here. It’s a wonderful change from big-city life.”

Murmuring something appropriate, Ross shook her hand, then Maeve excused herself.

“That wasn’t so bad.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Maggie agreed without looking at Ross. And it hadn’t been, except for the embarrassment she’d felt at admitting her memory lapses and the bit of guilt that nagged her. She feared that she had given the impression, however innocently, that she and Ross were there to stay—as a couple. What would people think after the holidays were over, when she no longer needed him and he returned to the city?

They would think it was a shame the marriage had ended, she assured herself, and they would continue to welcome her. Bethlehem was a small town, but it wasn’t removed from modern social ills. She wouldn’t be the first divorced woman in town. They wouldn’t make her an outcast because of it.

“You want a late breakfast or an early lunch?”

Maggie refocused her attention on Ross. He was, as Maeve had so bluntly stated, a handsome man, and sometimes—like then—when she looked at him, she felt such regret. Sometimes she thought about a future without him in it and panic fluttered through her. Sometimes she wanted to stamp her feet and wail that this wasn’t how her life was supposed to go. She hadn’t worked so hard and made so many sacrifices only to end up all alone. It wasn’t
fair
.

But life
wasn’t
fair. If nothing else, the last year had taught her that. And it was too important to mope over lost dreams. She could have all the regrets she wanted about Ross and their marriage, but she couldn’t lose
sight of her future. She intended to make it a good one—the best.

“Maggie?”

She smiled as she opened the menu. “A late breakfast is fine.”

And
she
was too. Absolutely fine.

Chapter Four
 

I
n the back room of the nursery, Melissa Thomas was knee-deep in poinsettias and humming a Christmas carol to herself. Even if the holidays weren’t the busiest time of year for the shop, she would love them anyway. She was eager for Thursday to bring Thanksgiving, which she and Alex would spend with the Winchester sisters. She couldn’t wait to drive down Main Street Friday morning and see the decorations that would go up the afternoon before, was looking forward to Saturday evening, when they would put up their tree, following Thomas family tradition. She loved the shopping, the parade, the Tour of Lights, Santa Claus, and even the cold and snow that were scheduled to arrive that weekend.

The only way she could love the holidays more was if she and Alex had a real family to spend them with. Oh, they had Alex’s uncle Herb, the Winchesters,
Holly McBride, the Bishops, the Walkers—all good friends. But she wanted a
family
. Children, toys underfoot, puppies and kittens, trikes in the driveway, diapers on the shopping list.

More than anything else in the world, she wanted a baby—a bunch of babies, but one would be a wonderful start. One would make her life complete.

Shaking off the melancholy that always accompanied such wishful thinking, she turned in a slow circle. The delivery truck had dropped off its load a half hour before, and she’d made little headway. Perhaps she should save her wishes for something more within her grasp, like a prospective employee answering the help wanted ad she’d placed in the paper. Then she could be up front putting together the autumn-hued centerpiece she was taking to the Winchesters Thursday, or the delicately shaded peach roses Nathan Bishop had ordered to mark the first anniversary of meeting his wife, Emilie, or any of the other dozen orders that waited on the counter.

The bell over the front door rang, and she scooped up an armload of artificial poinsettias to deliver to the shop. She deposited them on a shelf, then approached the customers. “Hi. Welcome to Melissa’s Garden. Can I help you?”

The man turned first—a stranger with dark hair and less than friendly blue eyes. His movement revealed the woman behind him, whom Melissa recognized by her sleekly styled auburn hair. A quick glance at her face confirmed the identification. “Maggie, how nice to see you. I’m Melissa Thomas. We met last year.”

For an instant, Maggie’s expression was utterly
blank. Even when she smiled, there was no hint of recognition. When her husband had asked Alex to ready the house for them, he’d mentioned that Maggie had no memory of Bethlehem. It hadn’t quite registered with Melissa that that meant no memory of the people either. As far as Maggie was concerned, they were complete strangers. She didn’t know that they’d had lunch together from time to time, didn’t remember coming to the shop and choosing the flowers that had decorated her house last Christmas, didn’t remember the long evening of conversation during one of the Winchesters’ holiday parties.