I'll Be Home for Christmas (13 page)

She saw the clock, directly in her line of vision, sitting next to the phone that was dead.

The time was 3:15. Good Lord, she'd slept the clock around. It was Christmas Day. Her parents must be worried sick. Where was Keith? She played with the fantasy that he was out with the state troopers looking for her, but only for a minute. Keith didn't like the cold. He only pretended to like skiing because it was the trendy thing to do.

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 times. 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 Colorado. Everything looks wonderful. It smells wonderful, and I know it's going to taste wonderful, too.” She was babbling like a schoolgirl. She clamped her lips shut and folded her hands in her lap.

He seemed amused. “I tried. 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 Cherry Hill.”

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 Delaware Bridge or not. I followed the car's lights in front of me and then suddenly the lights were gone and I was on my own. The car just gave out even though I still had some gas left.”

“Where were you going? Where did you leave from?”

“I live in Delaware. My parents live in Woodbridge, New Jersey. I was going home for Christmas like thousands of other people. My mother called and told me how bad the snow was. Because I have a four-wheel drive Cherokee, I felt confident I could make it. There was one moment there before I started out when I almost went back. I wish now I had listened to my instincts. It's probably the second most stupid thing I've ever done. Again, I'm very grateful. I could have died out there and all because I had to get home. I just had to get home. I tried the telephone in the bedroom but the line was dead. How long do you think it will take before it comes back on?” How anxious her voice sounded. She cleared her throat.

“A day or so. It stopped snowing about an hour ago. I heard a bulletin that said all the work crews are out. Power 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.”

“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.”