I'll Be Home for Christmas (15 page)

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 quarter to twelve. He felt like his eyeballs were standing at attention from the coffee he'd just finished. He announced the time in a quiet voice.

“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 had 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 four o'clock when Marcus motioned for the retriever to take his place under the robe. The dog would keep her warm while he showered and got ready for the day. He rolled over, grabbed the arm of the sofa and struggled to his feet. Pain ripped up and down his legs as he made his way to the bathroom with the aid of the two canes he kept under the sofa cushions. This was his daily walk, the walk the therapists said was mandatory. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he gritted his teeth. Inside the shower, he lowered himself to the tile seat, turned on the water and let it beat at his legs and body. He stayed there until the water turned cool.

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 I'm 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, fully 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 Cherry Hill. The Jeep gave out and I had to walk. You won't believe this, but a dog found me. I'll tell you all about it when I get home. My host tells me the roads are cleared and they're checking my car now. I should be ready to leave momentarily. Did you have a nice Christmas?” She wasn't going to ask about Keith. She wasn't going to ask because suddenly she no longer cared if he showed up in front of the tree or not.

“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 Manhattan to his mother's. He was terribly upset that you weren't here. This is just my opinion, but I don't think he was upset that you were stuck in the snow—it was more that he was here and where were you? I'm sorry, Morgan, I am just never going to like that young man. That's all I'm going to say on the matter. Dad feels the same way. Drive carefully, honey. Call us, okay?”

“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 Wilmington, stop…you know, stop and…we can have a…reunion…I'm not good at this.”

“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 so call me when you get home.”