The Holiday Visitor
Tara Taylor Quinn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Copyright

With more than forty-five original novels, published in more than twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn is a USA TODAY bestselling author with over six million copies sold. She is known for delivering deeply emotional and psychologically astute novels. Ms Quinn is a three-time finalist for the RWA RITA® Award, a multiple finalist for the National Reader’s Choice Award, the Reviewer’s Choice Award, the Booksellers’ Best Award and the Holt Medallion, and appears regularly on the Waldenbooks bestseller list. Ms Quinn recently married her college sweetheart and the couple currently lives in Ohio with their two very demanding and spoiled bosses: four-pound Taylor Marie and fifteen-pound rescue dog/ cockapoo, Jerry. When she’s not writing or fulfilling speaking engagements, Ms Quinn loves to travel with her husband, stopping wherever the spirit takes them. They’ve been spotted in casinos and quaint little smalltown antique shops all across the country.

For Chelsea Barney - a beautiful young woman who is a new addition to my family and who is very, very welcome here.

Chapter One

Friday, September 4, 1992

Dear James Winston Malone,

They gave me your name as someone who wanted to write to someone else who had a parent that was a rape victim. My name is Marybeth Lawson. I am twelve years old. My mother was raped and killed last March. I just started eighth grade this year. If you want, we can write.

Sincerely,

Marybeth Lawson

Tuesday, September 8, 1992

Dear Marybeth Lawson,

I just turned thirteen last week. When will you be thirteen? I am in eighth grade, too. Writing’s cool if that’s what you want. Later,

James Malone

Saturday, September 12, 1992

Dear James,

I only want to write if you do. But if you do, I do, too.

Sincerely,

Marybeth Lawson

P.S. I turn thirteen in January. I’m the youngest in my class because I started kindergarten early.

Tuesday, September 15, 1992

Dear Marybeth,

Okay, yeah, I want to. What classes are you taking? I have shop. I like it. I make things out of metal. Right now I’m working on a shelf for the bathroom wall for my mom’s birthday. There’s no medicine cabinet in there. We just moved and the place isn’t all that great. I have art, too, and that’s cool. English and the rest of that stuff I’m not so good at. I get okay grades, I just don’t like ‘em. Like who’s ever going to need to know that that Shakespeare dude wrote about some guy who killed a king to be king and then had his wife commit suicide and then was beheaded? What kind of crap is that?

Sorry. You probably like that stuff.

Later,

James

Friday, September 18, 1992

Dear James,

I can’t believe you’re reading Shakespeare, too! In our school it’s only the advanced classes who get it in eighth grade. I didn’t much like Macbeth, either, but I loved Romeo and Juliet. They were almost our age. Not that that means anything. I wouldn’t be in love if they paid me a million dollars. I just liked that they were such good friends that they would die for each other. Someday I want to have a friend like that. (I can tell you that because you’re just a piece of paper in another city and I’ll never have to meet you or anything. That’s what they said in counseling.) You’re in counseling, too, right? So your mom lived? You’re very lucky.

Write back soon,

Marybeth Lawson

Thursday, September 24, 1992

Marybeth,

Yeah, I’m in counseling just like you, but I don’t like it much. And yes, my mom is alive. It’s just me and her. I have to watch out for her, ‘cause I’m all she’s got. But, in case you’re wondering, I’m pretty good at watching out so if you ever need to say something, go ahead. I won’t make nothing of it. I could kinda be your good friend from far away, if you want. If you think that’s corny then just forget I said it. I’m sorry your mom died.

Write back if you want,

James

Saturday, September 26, 1992.

Dear James,

I just got your letter. It’s been over a week and I thought you weren’t going to write back. I don’t think what you said is corny at all. Why don’t you like counseling? I think it’s okay, it just doesn’t seem to change anything. They say talking makes it better, but it doesn’t. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to forget it. My dad quit already. He didn’t like it, either. But he won’t let me quit, yet. He’s a great guy. I love him a lot. He can’t help that he’s so quiet and sad all the time now. I’m all he’s got, too, and I try my best to take care of him. I’ve learned to cook some stuff pretty good, and I already knew how to clean. I ruined some of his white shirts in the wash but he didn’t yell or anything. He just told me not to cry and went out and got more. He was always good that way. In the olden days he would’ve given me a hug, but we don’t do that around here anymore. Does your mom? Sorry, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.

School’s okay. I was in cheerleading last year but dropped out this year. I’m doing gymnastics, though. I got my back handspring. I used to be too chicken, but I’m not any more. My coach says that I could probably compete in high school if I want to. I don’t know if I want to. My dad wouldn’t have the time to come see meets any way.

I like English. And math. Home ec is dumb. I already do all that stuff. But it’s a required class to pass eighth grade so my dad said to just try to find something to like about it. I tried, but so far, nothing.

My dad’s a manager of a company that makes computer parts. He golfs a lot. What does your mom do?

Write back soon,

Marybeth

Tuesday, September 29, 1992

Marybeth,

I came home from school today all bummed out ‘cause I didn’t make the baseball team and it was cool to have your letter here. I didn’t reallywant to play baseball anyway. I like basketball better. I played that in my old school. But we just moved here to Colorado and I missed basketball tryouts. My mom says maybe next year. Your address says Santa Barbara, California. I looked it up on a map and it looks like it’s right on the ocean. That’s cool. I’d like to live on the ocean. My mom said it’s a little town, not all rough and stuff like Los Angeles is on TV. I hope so and that you can be safe there.

My mom’s a teacher. This year she has third grade. It’s pretty cool. She likes kids and they seem to dig her pretty much, for a teacher and all.

Well, gotta go. Keep writing.

James Malone

P.S. Yeah, my mom hugs a lot—kinda too much but I don’t really mind. I’d only ever tell you that, though, ‘cause anyone else’d think I was a sissy or something. Sorry ‘bout your dad.

P.S.S. If you want to talk about what happened to your mom, that’s okay. Remember I’m just sorta a piece of paper.

Saturday, October 3, 1992

Dear James,

I’m sorry you didn’t make the baseball team but I think baseball’s boring. Guys just stand around while one or two throw and try to hit the ball and then there’s a lot more standing around and stuff. Once in a while something exciting happens, like the time last month when that Brett guy from Kansas got his 3000th hit. They were playing my dad’s team, the Angels, so I heard all the cheering. Anyway that kinda stuff only happens once in a while. My dad’s really into sports. He watches them all the time now that Mom’s gone. Mostly I hate them. Basketball’s okay, though. It’s fast.

No, I don’t want to talk about my mom. I just want to forget. But it was nice of you to ask.

Santa Barbara’s cool. I used to love it here. I wanted to move after what happened, but Dad couldn’t because of his job and anyway, it wasn’t like moving was going to make the memories go away. You got to, though, huh? That’s cool. Sometimes I think life would be so much better if I were someplace where no one knew me or about what happened. I hate that kids at school sometimes look at me strange because they know. Like they feel sorry for me but no one talks to me. My dad says it’s because they don’t know what to say.

I used to have a best friend, Cara Williams, but she’s hanging with some other kids now. I think I made her feel too weird ‘cause I cried a lot in the beginning. I don’t cry at all anymore. She still invites me to stuff, but I think it’s ‘cause her mother makes her. Anyway, she’s still nice. I just don’t want to be best friends anymore. I have to take care of my dad and do stuff here at home. And besides, all anyone ever tells me is, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay. And it’s not, you know? It’s not okay.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound nasty or anything. I made sloppy joes for dinner tonight. My dad’s golfing and there’s no telling what time he’ll be home and sloppy joes can sit on the stove till he gets here. My mom used to do stuff like that. Tonight I might babysit for the little girl next door. I do that sometimes while her parents play cards with their friends. They’re home, but I’m fully in charge ofWendy. She’s a year old and adorable. Plus they always have good snacks, like pizza rolls and I get paid. I’d do it even if I didn’t, but I’m saving for a new bike.

Well, bye for now.

Marybeth Lawson

Wednesday, October 7, 1992

Marybeth Lawson,

Don’t think I’m weird or anything and maybe I shouldn’t say this, but I’m glad we’re writing. I hope you are, too. My mom asked about you today when she saw that your letter came. She said to say hi. Don’t worry, she doesn’t see your letters and I don’t tell her what we say. She’s cool, though. She doesn’t ask, except about how you are.

We went to court today. They changed our names. My mom and everyone said to do it. It’s kind of like you said, people won’t always be knowing about the past this way and we can live our lives here with all the new people who never knew us before. But they didn’t know me by my name anyway, ‘cause my mom wasn’t married to my dad yet when she had me and so my name was different from theirs. I just don’t think it’s all that cool. I mean, it’s like I have to pretend now. Like the old me was too rotten to live. Maybe, like Mom says, I’ll understand when I’m older. I guess it’s cool that she and I have the same last name now, instead of me having her maiden name. But anyway, if it’s okay with you, I still want to be James Winston Malone here. That’s who I really am and now you will be the only one who knows him. Unless that’s too weird, then we don’t have to.

See ya,

James Winston Malone

Saturday, October 10, 1992

Dear James Winston Malone,

Of course I’ll call you James, still. It doesn’t really matter what we call each other, does it? I guess you’ll get your letters if I address them that way. If you don’t, I hope you write and tell me who to write to. But if you don’t, you won’t even get this anyway so, oh, well, anyway, tell your mom I said hi back.

Hey, I know what, why don’t you call me something else, too? Then, with you, I can just be any old girl, ‘cause unlike you, I’d kind of like to not have to be me anymore. I’m so sick of all those looks.

Anyway, how ‘bout if you call me Candy? I’ll be Candy Lawson. ‘Kay?

My friend Cara likes a boy in the ninth grade. She saw him at the JV football game last night. I think she’s dumb. I don’t want to start liking boys for a really long time. Well, I gotta go. My dad’s golfing and I’m going with the people next door, the Mathers, they’re Wendy’s parents, you know the little girl I babysit, anyway I’m going with them to see Batman Returns. It’s at the dollar theater. Have you seen it? Cara saw it this summer and said it’s really cool.

Write back soon, ‘kay?

Candy Lawson

Chapter Two

Saturday, December 16, 2006

Dear Candy,

It’s going to be a hard Christmas for both of us. Would that I could send a hug through a letter, my sweet friend, for you would surely have one now and anytime you opened an envelope from me.

Hard to believe that our parents both passed in the same year. And so young. I guess it’s true that someone can die of a broken heart. I watched Mom slowly dwindle over the years, losing whatever zest she’d once had for life. It seemed as though she had the energy to see me raised, but once I left for college, she had no reason left to live.

Much like you say it was for your father.

In answer to your question, no, I won’t be alone for Christmas. I was very glad to hear that you wouldn’t be, as well. I picture you surrounded by people you care about.

I agree with what you said about heart—that it is the only true source that we can trust to guide us through life.

At the same time, the whole heart thing has me perplexed. If it’s damaged by life’s trials and tribulations, how much can we trust it? How much does it control us and how much can we control it?

Will I ever be able to open up and fully feel my heart, fully give it, or did the “incident” irrevocably change my ability to experience love on the deepest levels? Will I always be as I am now, moving through life without ever being fully engaged? Is there something I’m doing that keeps me trapped? Am I sabotaging myself? Or is this just the inevitable result to what happened when we were kids and a way of life for me that I can do nothing about—much like if I’d been in a skiing accident and lost a leg.

Tough questions. I look forward to your thoughts on this one.

In the meantime, know that I will be thinking about you through the season.

Yours,

James

“MARYBETH?”

Stuffing the letter she was reading into the writing desk drawer, Marybeth turned, smiling as a spry, little woman came through the kitchen into her living area, petting Brutus, two hundred and ten pounds of flesh and fur lounging in the doorway, as she passed.

“Hey! I didn’t expect you until later.” Jumping up, Marybeth stepped over the two-year-old mastiff and hugged Bonnie Mather, her surrogate mother from the time she was twelve.

“My garden club luncheon finished earlier than I thought—the speaker canceled.”

“Well, come on in. The cookies are cooling, but I should be able to frost them if you want to wait.” She’d told Bonnie she’d bake six dozen cookies to take to the soup kitchen.

“How about if I help?” Bonnie said, dropping the colorful cloth purse that was almost as big as she was onto Marybeth’s sofa. “I might not make frosting as good as you do, but I can wield a mean knife.”

“Yeah, right.” Marybeth laughed. “My recipe is yours and you know it.”

“That doesn’t mean I can make it as well as you do.” Bonnie stepped over Marybeth’s dirt-colored pal on her way back out of the room. “I know you argued about having that dog, but knowing he’s here with you sure gave your father peace of mind.”

“I’ve gotten used to having him around.”

“Your dad was beside himself when you first announced that you were going to run this place yourself.”

That was putting it mildly. He’d done everything he could to get Marybeth to sell the bed-and-breakfast she’d inherited from a great-aunt she’d barely known.

“He didn’t miss a single check-in from the time I opened until the day he died.”

“Checking out the guests,” Bonnie said.

Bonnie and Marybeth moved effortlessly in the professional kitchen of the Orange Blossom, assisting each other without word. As well they should considering the more than fourteen years they’d been cooking together. Bonnie had taught Marybeth, who had been written up in national travel magazines for her culinary talents and original recipes, most of what she knew.

Reaching around Marybeth for a stack of cooled bellshaped cookies, Bonnie’s arm rested along her waist. “How are you doing?” she asked softly.

“Okay,” Marybeth said, whipping green food coloring into a bowl of confectioner’s sugar and water icing. “Keeping busy. I have guests arriving today who’ll be staying through next weekend. And then another check-in on the twenty-third staying until the thirty-first.”

“Over Christmas?”

“Yeah.”

“A family? Are they taking all four rooms?”

“No, just one person. In Juliet’s room.” Her lone holiday visitor, on a holiday that was going to be very lonely.

“You’re coming over for the day, though, right?” Since her mother’s death, Marybeth and her dad had spent every Christmas with Bonnie, Bob and Wendy Mather.

“I don’t think so.” Marybeth delivered what she knew wasn’t going to be welcome news. She glanced at Bonnie, hoping the older woman would understand and not be hurt. “I…it’s going to be hard this year and I think it’d be better if I had a change. I feel like I need to do something different, to, I don’t know, start my own life or something.” It made a whole lot more sense when she thought about it to herself, than it did when she said it out loud. “Besides,” she added, “I don’t want to be a downer on your holiday.”

“We loved your dad, too, missy,” Bonnie said in her most motherly voice. “We’ll all be missing him. Please come.”

“I…maybe,” Marybeth told her, really feeling like she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not this first Christmas anyway. “I have to see what my guest is going to be doing.”

“You’re only responsible for breakfast and evening libations,” Bonnie said. “You’ll have the rest of the day free.”

“I was thinking about going to the beach. Or…I don’t know. Can I let you know?”

“Of course. And if you say no and change your mind, you can drop in, too. You know that. You don’t need an invitation.”

Meeting Bonnie’s gaze, Marybeth blinked back the tears she was so valiantly trying to prevent. “Thank you.”

“It’ll be strange having Christmas without you.”

“I know. I just…I have to do this. Okay?”

Bonnie’s okay didn’t sound happy. Or even satisfied. But at least the dreaded chore of telling her was done.

“So what was that you were reading when I came in?” Bonnie asked after a few minutes of silence as the two of them, spreaders in hand, covered dozens of sugar cookie renditions of Santas and bells and Christmas trees with red and green and white frosting and sprinkles.

Marybeth grabbed the nonpareils. They’d always been her favorites—even way back when her mom had been the one doing the baking. “A letter from James.”

“A recent one?”

“Yeah. His mom died this year, too.”

“So you’re still writing to him.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Fourteen years and he continues to write regularly?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t realize you were still in touch with him.”

“Of course I am.” She was addicted to him. With every single one of the hundreds of letters she’d received from James over the years, she’d read and reread the most recent until she heard from him again. And if something in her life was particularly challenging, if she needed some extra strength, she’d pull out the plastic storage boxes under her bed and reread some of the others, as well. “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked the person she was closest to in the world next to James.

“I don’t know.” Bonnie’s shrug, the way she was concentrating so hard on putting little Christmas tree sugar shapes in a row along the cookie to make them look like a string of lights, caught Marybeth’s attention. “It’s just that I worry about you.”

“About me?” No way. Those days were long gone. She didn’t need sympathy anymore. Or worry. She was a big girl now. All grown up, in control and happy with her life. “And James?”

“Not you and James. I wish there was a you and James.” Bonnie’s reply wasn’t timid. “Look at you, sweetie. You’re twenty-six years old and gorgeous with those blue eyes and blond hair, and you haven’t so much as had a date that I know of since you graduated from college three years ago and took over this place.”

“That has nothing to do with James.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Of course not.” Frost, sprinkle, lay out to dry. Frost, sprinkle, lay out to dry. She worked her way through a pile of stars.

“Then what does it have to do with? Your mother?”

“No!” Her mother’s death had been fourteen years ago. She’d lived before then. And since. So why did people continue to seem to tie every single thing in her life back to that one event? “It’s not that I have a problem with dating,” she said. “I’m not afraid. I have no aversions. I simply haven’t yet met a man who inspires any feeling in me. There’s no attraction. No spark.”

“What about with James?”

“I’ve never even seen a picture of him, how could there be an attraction?”

“What about feelings of affection?”

“Of course I have feelings for James. How could I not? He’s my best friend. I can tell him anything.”

“This guy you’ve never met.”

“Right.”

“You sure you aren’t using him as an excuse not to open up too completely to any of the real, flesh-and-blood people in your life?”

“I open up to you. You’re flesh and blood.”

“I’m different,” Bonnie said. “I’m talking about people out there in the world. Someone you could actually build a life with.”

Marybeth frosted. Cookies for Bonnie. Cookies for the senior center. Cookies for here. With any luck, she’d be done in time to have a tray of them on the desk at check-in by three o’clock for her visitors to enjoy.

“I have a life,” she said after taking time to think about what Bonnie had said. “James isn’t taking the place of any other relationships,” she continued. “He’s his own relationship. We have these ongoing philosophical discussions that always hit home with me. Probably because, based on the unusual nature of our relationship, we talk about things that people don’t usually share. You know, deep, random thoughts, illogical matters of the heart and head and life. Observations that generally pass through your mind and are forgotten in the business of daily living.” She’d been discussing the meaning of life with James for fourteen years and wasn’t about to stop now. Wasn’t sure she could even if she wanted to.

“You have no idea how many times we help each other find solutions to challenges we’re facing. We don’t judge each other. We just talk.”

“All things you could be doing with a spouse.”

“Do you and Bob do them?”

Bonnie’s silence was answer enough.

“James is my peace, Bonnie. My solace and support. He’s my kind inner voice counteracting my inner critic who, as you know, so often tries to rule my life. He’s not a romance. Or a partner in life.”

Marybeth finished the stars and the Santas and moved on to help Bonnie with the trees. And because her friend remained silent, she continued to talk. “James is like this ethereal being who, unlike any spiritual, omniscient being, knows nothing of my everyday life, you know? And he shares nothing of his. We share a past, a dark time. We both went through the same thing at the same time in our lives. That’s it.”

“I hope so, my dear,” Bonnie said as they finished up. “I just know that your idea of normal isn’t healthy. You, here all alone, living vicariously through the people who parade in and out of this inn.”

“I take care of them. It’s my job. My livelihood. And I like it.”

“I know you do, sweetie, and I’m thrilled that you’ve found something that satisfies you. I just wish you had a private life, too.”

She did have a private life. Not a single one of her guests had ever stepped foot beyond the public parts of the house. What went on out there was work. What went on back here was her life.

She simply hadn’t found anyone she wanted to share that life with in the way Bonnie meant. Marybeth didn’t really even want to try.

“I’m not lonely,” she told her pseudomother. “But if I ever start to feel that way, I promise you, I’ll find someone. I’ll start frequenting the personal ads if I have to.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Bonnie assured her. “I know of a half dozen people in this town who’d love to take you out.” So did she. Unfortunately none of them interested her in the least.

CRAIG ANTHONY MCKELLIPS drove slowly by the Orange Blossom Bed-and-Breakfast, every one of his senses reeling with sensation. His mouth watered. He could practically taste the oranges that were pungently ready for picking on the trees that lined both sides of the lot, separating the freshly painted white Victorian home—complete with grand balconies upstairs and an even grander porch down—from the picturesque old homes on either side.

Sweating in spite of the crisp fifty-nine-degree temperature, Craig pushed the button to lower his window a bit and was hit with the sweet scents wafting from the wildly colorful, but perfectly tended flower gardens in manicured rings in the yard and lining the entire front of the house. He could taste a hint of salt in the air, letting him know that he was by the ocean again. By nightfall he’d be feeling the salty residue on his skin.

And the quiet. It amazed him! This California coastal town, maybe an hour’s drive from the Los Angeles he’d known as a kid, was the exact antithesis of the noisy, frenetic southern California he’d grown up in.

A perfect place to spend his first Christmas alone—his first Christmas since his mother passed away.

Satisfying himself that he knew where the house was, Craig drove by for now. Judging by the empty, five-car parking lot down a small hill to the side of the house, none of the other guests had arrived—or else were out for the day. Check-in wasn’t until three.

Would the other guests be there at three, too? Filling the house with chaos and confusion, noise, distracting their hostess? Would he know who she was? She might not look like the photo he’d seen of her in the travel brochure. Maybe she had an employee who handled registration.

Driving slowly through the small town, Craig used the breathing techniques he’d perfected over the years to quiet his mind. After months of constant push to get through all of the commissions that were due by Christmas, he needed this break from the studio that consumed so much of his life.

And from the constant drive to create.

He also needed the inner calm his work brought.

When he couldn’t settle the energy thrumming through him, Craig found a spot close to the water and parked. He thought about calling Jenny. His wife should just about be landing in Paris.

But he didn’t.

Reaching over, he locked his cell phone in the glove box of the rental car.

What he needed was a good long walk on the beach.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, everyone!” Marybeth turned to wave at the gathering of wheelchairs in the recreation room of the seniors’ center the Saturday before Christmas, bearing the collective weights of people who’d grown dear to her over the three years she’d been catering their Christmas lunch party. This year she’d brought homemade ornaments for them to hang on their bedposts—ornaments she’d crocheted during the evenings while she and Brutus watched television.

She lingered, helping lay out all the food, handing out the gifts and chatting with everyone. They pressed her to join them for the meal, but she bowed out claiming her arriving guest as her excuse.

Leaving the seniors’ center she headed over to the Mathers’s to unload the pile of gifts she had for them on the backseat of her Expedition. Though Bonnie had tried all week to get her to change her mind, Marybeth still thought she wanted to be alone this first Christmas without her dad.

“I can’t believe you aren’t coming over on Monday,” fifteen-year-old Wendy said as she helped Marybeth carry in packages.

Her dad was still at work and her mother was at the soup kitchen.

“It’s just this one year,” Marybeth told the teenager who was as much daughter and sister to her as longtime neighbor. “I think it’ll be easier if I’m not following the same traditions, you know?”

“I get it,” Wendy said. “I’m not sure Mom does, but she’ll come around. She always does.”

“Hey,” Marybeth said, nudging the younger girl. “How’d your date go last night?”

“With Randy?” Wendy had had a crush on the boy from their church for months and he’d finally asked her out.

“Who else?”

Wendy’s blush was answer enough. “It was good,” she said and Marybeth knew immediately that this was one of those times when the word was a definite understatement.

Finished with the presents, Wendy walked with Marybeth back to her car. “Who was your first boyfriend? I don’t remember him.”

“That’s because I never really had one,” she said. “And it’s a good thing because you’d have been bugging us all the time if I had.”

“No,” Wendy said, frowning. “Seriously. What about that first time you met someone and just knew you’d die if he didn’t like you as much as you liked him?”

Warning bells ringing, Marybeth stopped by the door of her car. “I never met anyone who made me feel that way,” she said slowly, while her mind raced ahead. “But I knew some girls who did,” she added, remembering how frantic her friend Cara had been their last year in junior high. The girl had even run away from home to be with the guy she’d thought was her soul mate. “And what I can tell you is that as intense as those feelings are, they can’t be trusted until you’re a bit older. Right now, they aren’t just from the heart, but get confused and mixed up with hormonal changes, too.”

Bonnie, don’t hate me. I hope I’m not screwing this up.

“I don’t know,” Wendy said. “I mean, even hearing Randy’s laugh makes me all warm inside.”

No. Not this soon. Please. “Have you talked to your mom about this?”

“Sorta. She likes Randy. She likes his parents, too. She just tells me to be careful, but that’s not the point. I am careful. I’m a good girl. How could I not be with you and Mom in my life?”

Marybeth grinned with the girl.

“I’m not going to do anything crazy,” Wendy said, growing serious. “I’m just going crazy with these feelings. I’ll die if he doesn’t ask me out again.”

“No, you won’t.” Marybeth gave the girl a hug. “You’ll call me and come over for the weekend and we’ll eat tacos and ice cream and watch movies that make us cry and talk bad about Randy and you’ll find someone else to like before you know it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t find a Randy, either.” Marybeth thanked fate for the little help finding a comeback on that one. “Not all women are meant to fall in love. If you are, then it’ll happen. And if not, no amount of wishing or pushing can make it happen. Wishing and pushing will only make you make mistakes. And bring unhappiness.”

“I don’t get it,” Wendy said as Marybeth climbed into her SUV.

“Get what?”

“You. I mean, look at you. You’ve got it all. Looks, brains, money. You’re skinny and gorgeous. Any guy would be a fool not to fall for you.”

“But in order for it to work, I’d have to fall for him, too,” Marybeth said, wondering if it was her father’s death, leaving her all alone in the world, that was bringing out this sudden urge in the Mathers for her to find a mate. “I’m not opposed to falling in love, sweetie,” she told her friend. “I just haven’t. And I’m okay with that. Most days, I think I prefer it that way.”

“I sure wouldn’t,” Wendy said with a chuckle. “Think about Christmas,” she called out as Marybeth drove off.

She agreed that she would. But she didn’t think she was going to change her mind.

HE’D STEPPED into a Christmas wonderland. He should have suspected when he’d noticed that the garden stakes interspersed throughout the flowers were of old world Santa and snowman design, and seen the lights hiding in the garland bordering the porch railing. Red bows dotted the garland and the pine smell teased his nostrils with memories of long ago Christmases with his parents at their cabin in Northern California.

The outside of the Orange Blossom Inn was festive. Still, it did nothing to prepare Craig for the spectacular sight as he stepped inside. From the felt and sequined door hangings and stops, to the intricately stitched wall hangings, from the colorful stockings hanging from every door handle, to the various collections of figurines sitting on every available surface, Craig’s gaze moved around the foyer and reception area and beyond to the enormous, heavily decorated Christmas tree adorning the formal parlor to his right. Brightly lit, with the colored lights he preferred over the small white lights that had become so popular, the tree promised hours of sightseeing. It looked like every single ornament on the edifice was homemade.

No porcelain or glass or anything else that appeared the least bit factory influenced. Oddly out of place, considering the rest of Christmas abundance around him, was the bare wood floor beneath and around the tree.

Where were the gaily wrapped and decorated packages the tableau cried out for?

An electric train, much like the collector’s one he and his father had worked on when he’d been a kid—complete with the lighted town buildings and trees and people—filled a table that took up an entire wall of the parlor. It chugged softly along, the only moving entity in the room.

The place smelled like cookies and pine and with a long, deep breath, Craig knew he’d made the right decision. The song “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” came to mind and it took him a second or two to realize that it was playing softly.

There was a voice singing it, too, but from a distance. Singing live. With a tone so pure, so solid it gave him chills. Whoever that woman was, she should be in L.A., or on the stage, making millions on recordings.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t hear the bell.”

Craig wasn’t sure which he noticed first, that the singing had stopped, or that the owner of that voice he was hearing was speaking another rendition of that angelic gift.

“I’m looking for Marybeth Lawson,” he stated his business, trying, without success, to break gazes with the violeteyed blonde standing there holding a plate of delicious-looking cookies.

The cook? Was his first thought.

And his second—what a waste.

“I’m Marybeth.”

Two words. Innocuous. Everyday.

They changed his life.

Or they were going to.

Craig couldn’t explain the impression. Nor could he argue with it. It simply was. With or without his cooperation or acceptance.

Chapter Three

CRAIG MCKELLIPS was much younger than the doddering, elderly gentleman who opted to spend Christmas alone guest she’d expected. And gorgeous. Tall, with dark golden, slightly long hair he was the epitome of every bronze god Marybeth had ever imagined. Skin, eyes, expression—everywhere she looked the man glowed.

Not that she was looking, Marybeth assured herself a couple of hours after Craig had checked in. The man was her guest. One of the hundreds she’d hosted in the three years since she’d opened the Orange Blossom for business. He was back downstairs, seemingly completely satisfied with Juliet’s room, ready for the evening cocktail she advertised in her brochure and on the Internet.

The only reason she was noticing him so intensely was because of her recent conversation with Wendy. She’d been thinking about the feelings the girl had described for Randy that afternoon.

Trying to imagine how infatuation felt so that she knew how to advise the girl. How to help the teenager keep herself away from temptation and out of trouble.

Craig McKellips stood in the doorway to the parlor, still looking godlike in spite of—or because of?—having freshened up, his eyes trained on the far side of the room and the lump lying in the archway leading to the kitchen and the private part of the house.

“I’m assuming that’s yours?” he asked, staring, hands resting on either side of the open French doors.

“Yeah.” She tried to smile reassuringly, as she did every evening that she introduced her family member to their guests, but couldn’t seem to pull it off. Neither could she walk up to him, shake his hand as he joined her. She was nervous.

And there was absolutely no reason why she should be. She’d hosted many single men over the years.

“His name’s Brutus.” She was supposed to be telling him that the oversize dog was friendly. A sweetheart. She meant to. But stood there feeling like an adolescent with a crush instead.

Or, at least, reminding herself of how Cara had acted in eighth grade. How Wendy had sounded that afternoon.

Nodding, Craig stood still, keeping his distance from Brutus, though to give him credit, he looked more respectful than leery.

“Having him here is a good idea,” he said. “With your home open to the public, strangers coming and going, you’re wise to take precautions.”

Very perceptive. Not that any of the guests ever knew that Marybeth stayed in the back part of the house alone. As she’d told Bonnie last week, up until her father’s death two months ago, he’d been there to meet every guest she had. Had insisted she send him her guest register at the beginning of every week.

It had been the only time she’d ever seen him.

“He doesn’t bite unless I give the command.” Her suddenly lame brain was spitting out all the wrong things.

Dropping his arms, Craig advanced slowly, then knelt, his long, gorgeous legs bending beneath him as he called Brutus over. The two-hundred-plus-pound lug took half a minute to drag himself to a standing position and saunter over. Sitting a head above their only guest, Brutus stared the man down.

“Good boy,” Craig said, holding out a hand and Marybeth nearly dropped the glass she’d been holding. Not once in three years had a guest touched Brutus without her right there holding the dog and guiding the introductions.

Brutus, kind being that he was, didn’t rebuke Craig for his insolence. Instead he sniffed the hand beneath his nose and then sat, with only a small frown on his face, and accepted the petting that was, after all, his due.

“White wine or red?” Marybeth asked, turning to the cherrywood bar against one wall.

“White, please.” Even his voice warmed the space around him.

And suddenly, Marybeth heard Wendy’s voice in her head, “even his laugh makes me feel warm.”

What in the hell was going on here?

“Frosty the Snowman” played in the background—an old Partridge Family rendition that sounded more like a love ballad than a friendly rollick—leaving Marybeth embarrassed, though she had no idea why.

She didn’t meet his gaze as she handed him the wine. But she almost dropped the glass when his knuckles brushed against hers.

“There’s, uh, cheese and crackers and, um, fresh fruit on the bar. Help yourself,” she invited, having to concentrate to remember what food she’d just carried out.

She then went to turn down the temperature on the thermostat.

“Aren’t you joining me?” He gestured to the wine. “It’s impolite to drink alone.”

“Not when you’re the only guest it isn’t.” She couldn’t drink with him. He was a guest.

Though the relaxation she might find with a glass of wine sounded heavenly at the moment. She had too much Wendy and teenage love on the brain.

“Well, it’s not healthy,” he said, still holding the completely full glass. “Once you start drinking alone, it gets easier and easier and, before you know it, you’re pouring yourself a glass in the middle of the afternoon.”

Frowning, Marybeth wondered if she should have served any alcohol at all. If he had a problem…

It wasn’t her problem. He was a grown man. An adult—albeit a much younger one than she’d assumed. He couldn’t be much more than twenty-six or seven. Her age…

“You sound as though you’re speaking from experience.”

“Not my own,” he told her. “I used to…know…someone….”

Ah. Someone close to him if she had to guess. Not that it mattered to her.

“Yes, well, in that case, I’ll have one small glass.”

What? She didn’t want any wine. Not really. She was a hostess. Working.

And while she was pouring the drink she didn’t want, Marybeth wasted brain cells wondering what her guest thought of her red, heavily embroidered, beaded and appliquéd Christmas sweater, rather than if he liked the food she’d presented.

“You’re spilling.”

Oh, God. She was. Over her fingers. Setting down the bottle, Marybeth tried to come up with a pithy, logical and sensible excuse for overfilling her glass. To no avail.

But cleaning it up gave her a minute to berate herself. Collect herself. Cool down.

Was she attracted to this man?

Was this…this energy running through her body what Wendy had been talking about?

“So…” she asked, dropping the soaked napkins in the metal bin—it, too, matched the seasonal decor—beside the bar. “Who brings you to Santa Barbara for the holiday?” Busywork done, she faced him.

Craig choked midsip. “Who?”

“Can I get you some water?”

“No.” Another slight cough. “I’m fine. What did you mean, who?” Even though he was still emitting half coughs, his gaze was piercing. Too piercing.

“Well…” Marybeth led the way over to a conversational grouping of antique sofas in front of the gas fireplace, burning merrily for the occasion. To go with the air-conditioning she’d also just switched on. “It’s Christmas,” she said, sitting farthest from the tree while Brutus reclaimed his spot guarding their quarters. “I can’t imagine you’re here on business. Or for a beach holiday on Christmas Day. I assumed whoever you’re spending the holiday with didn’t have enough beds to accommodate everyone….”

“I’m spending the holiday with myself.”

He was available. Marybeth glanced at the third finger of his left hand. No wedding band.

No rings on those hands period.

“What about your parents?” The question came without her usual forethought and Marybeth wondered if she should escape to her private quarters, lock herself up or something until the craziness that was consuming her passed.

Grace, the woman who came in to help Marybeth clean, had had a cold a week or two ago. Perhaps she’d contracted some latent germ from the woman and the microscopic mite had suddenly decided to spring to life in her groin area.

“I’m sorry,” she added when he hesitated. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” She stood. “I don’t mean to pry. I’ll just leave you to your evening. Remember, if you leave after seven, to take your key with you. The doors lock automatically—”

All information she’d already given him.

“No!” Craig stood, as well, his jeans and sweater a perfect fit on his tall, athletic body. She loved how his hair curled up over his collar. “Please, don’t go,” he was saying while she ogled him. “Unless you have something else to do, that is. I’d…love the company.”

She had to make breakfast. Sometime before six in the morning. And finish gluing together the clay pot snowman ornaments she was making for the refreshment tables at tomorrow night’s Christmas Eve services.

“I mean, I’ve never stayed at one of these before,” he said, sounding not the least bit awkward. “If it’s not proper, or something, for you to visit with your guests, I understand, I just thought…well, it is the holidays and I’m sure you have a million things to do—family that’s waiting for you.”

That was her opening. Or closing, she meant. Her escape.

“No, actually, I generally mingle during happy hour,” she heard herself admit the very thing she’d decided not to mention. “In case anyone has questions about the area, or needs directions or suggestions for dinner. Speaking of which, there’s a binder here filled with all of the places to eat in town.” She grabbed the familiar, well-used book and handed it to him. “I’ve made notes on the ones I think are exceptional. And discarded a couple that I no longer feel comfortable recommending. You’re welcome to take a look. Only a few will be open on Christmas Day, so you might want to choose early. They’re marked. I should make a reservation for you as soon as possible…”

No man should smell so good. It had to be a sin.

“Okay, I’ll take a look,” Craig said when she stopped to catch her breath. And let her brain catch up with her. “I hadn’t really thought about Christmas dinner,” he admitted, opening the black book. “I’ll probably just spend the day on the beach. Or driving along the coast. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“The trip up State Route One is remarkable.” There. A good answer. “If you’ve never taken it before, you might want to give it a try. It’s slow going in some parts, but follows the coast. You can go all the way to San Francisco without losing sight of the ocean for more than a few minutes.”

“San Francisco. That’s, what, about three hours from here?”

“Three or four, depending on how fast you drive. And on traffic.” No one liked to be rushed, or run out of time. Which would explain why she wanted to stand there with him for…a long time.

He nodded. And she realized that they’d been looking each other straight in the eye for too many seconds. She was going to look away. To take a sip of wine.

“My parents are both gone,” he said, answering her earlier question.

Her heart filled with compassion. Empathy. “I’m so sorry. Recently?”

And as his golden-brown eyes glistened, continuing to speak to her even before he spoke again, Marybeth knew that this man was special. Different.

“My dad’s been gone a long time,” he said with little emotion. And then swallowed. “Mom died this past year. Kidney problems.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?” Maybe they were all at spouses’ family homes for the holidays. Maybe they’d invited him and he, not wanting to crash the party, had declined. Maybe he had a sibling here, in Santa Barbara….

The thoughts chased themselves around her mind more quickly than she could keep up with them. She just knew she didn’t want him to be alone. Didn’t want him to have to know how alone felt.

“I’m an only child,” he told her and Marybeth peered across the room. Sipped her wine. Studied the lights on the tree, the patterns in light color repetition. There weren’t any patterns.

“Me, too.” The words were soft, only half spoken, really. She was breaking cardinal rule numbers one through ten. Marybeth did not speak about her private life to her guests. Ever. Or drink with them. Or open her heart to them. Or feel attraction…

“You’re an only child?” The question was quiet, respectful. His head was cocked slightly as he watched her.

When her usual yes, without further elaboration, wasn’t enough, Marybeth knew she was in trouble.

“My parents are both dead.”

She was really reacting to this guy.

Was she just vicariously living Wendy’s feelings for Randy? Suffering from transference?

Was it the holidays?

“Recently?”

She couldn’t stop looking at him. “My mom died when I was a kid. An…accident. Dad passed just this year. He had a heart attack on the tennis court.”

“Completely unexpected.”

She nodded. “I…have a friend, who lost a parent this year, too.” Thoughts of James while she was sitting here attracted to another man made the whole situation that much more surreal.

James should be sitting in her living room, making her tongue-tied and uneven. Not this stranger. She and James had history. Things that could never, ever be duplicated. They understood each other on levels most people didn’t even know existed.

She needed him this week. More than ever.

And he’d refused to meet her. Ever.

“Someone here locally?”

He’d promised, from the ripe age of thirteen, that he’d always be there for her. “No,” she said. “He’s in Colorado.” Or at least his mailing address was.

“With family?”

She had no idea how to answer that. The truth—that she didn’t know if James had any family other than the mother who’d just died, didn’t even know if he was married, or living with a woman, or gay for that matter—would be too hard to explain in light of the fact that she’d just called him a friend.

And the greater truth—that her best friend since junior high school was a pen pal she’d never met—wasn’t sharing material. Ever. With anyone.

“He’s not alone,” she said in the end. It was the only information pertinent to the current conversation.

“And what about you?” Craig’s lids lowered slightly as he asked the question.

“I…” She parried personal questions. Always. And not just since she’d become the keeper of a house filled with others’ memories in the making, either.

The silence was long enough for him to bow out of the conversation. To let her off the hook.

He didn’t. He simply sat there. Watching her. Waiting.

Time to clean up the cheese and crackers. To call Brutus over. To start breakfast. Or glue something.

“Yes.” Dammit. She’d known the word was coming. Should have tried harder to prevent it from slipping out. She had no idea where any of this could go.

No idea if he even noticed she was alive, other than as a hostess he was paying to take care of him for a few days.

“My surrogate family wants me to come over, as Dad and I have done every year since Mom died.”

“But you turned them down?” He didn’t sound critical. Or even as though he thought her crazy.

“I told them I was working. Breakfasts don’t cook and linens don’t get changed by themselves and I sure wasn’t going to call my cleaning lady, Grace, away from her family.”

Frowning, Craig set his glass on the claw-foot, cherry coffee table. “I’m keeping you away from your friends? I can go—”

“No!” What was it about him? And her? “I’d stay home whether you were here or not. Truly. I already told them I wasn’t coming.”

Her choice to live her life alone might seem odd to most people, but she didn’t have to justify herself. Nor would she. She was all grown up now. An adult. Her life was her own.

And she was happy.

She was also completely turned on for the first time in her life.

Chapter Four

CRAIG TRIED TO CALL Jenny when he went back to his room to grab a jacket before heading out for the short walk to a quaint little diner he’d seen about a block away from the inn. When she didn’t pick up, he stifled his frustration mixed with relief, quickly left a message letting her know that he’d arrived in Santa Barbara, that he was hoping she’d arrived safely, as well, and that he’d call her again in a day or so, reception allowing.

“Love you.” His final words were offered with sincerity.

Her flight might have been delayed. Or she could be out. Or with her family and not able to answer. She could have left her cell phone in her room. Or failed to charge it. One thing was for certain. If Miss Jenny Fournier-Chevalier didn’t end up safely at her folks’ castle situated on richly grown acres of French countryside, Craig McKellips would be hearing about it.

HE DIDN’T SEE his hostess again that night. Though he made eating a business, tackling the task efficiently, rather than lingering and appreciating the anomaly of free time, the door to her quarters had been firmly closed when he returned to the Orange Blossom. The light shining from beneath her door had called to him, though.

He’d thought about knocking. And thought about Brutus and privacy and the fact that he had nothing to offer the young, vibrant woman who lived on the other side of that portal—no matter how much he wanted to be in her presence. He was married. More, he had secrets, things Marybeth Lawson couldn’t ever know, things that prevented them from ever being more than casual acquaintances.

Craig spent more hours than he’d have liked in front of the window in the Juliet room that night, and again, the next morning staring at the ocean in the distance—unwinding, thinking, trying to come to terms with his life—until it was finally time to head downstairs to breakfast. Dressed in baggy black shorts and a white polo shirt topped with a black sweater to protect him from ocean breezes, he forced himself to take the steps one at a time when what he wanted to do was jog the whole way.

“Have you eaten?” he asked his beautiful hostess as he entered the dining room to see her filling a glass with orange juice from an antique-looking glass pitcher, at a table set for one.

She wore black jeans. A white cotton top that hugged her thin waist and outlined the swell of her breasts, and another one of those adorable Christmas sweaters—this one a cardigan sporting the embroidered design of dalmatians and hearths with stockings hanging from them.

“Good morning!” She seemed to be having just as hard a time not staring at him as he was not staring at her. “No, I haven’t eaten,” she continued, heading over to a heated sideboard that had to be portable because it looked identical to the one he’d seen in the living room the night before—scarred leg and all. “I wait until everyone else is finished and take whatever’s left over.”

“Since everyone else is just me, would it be completely awkward for you if I asked you to join me?” he asked without any remorse at all. “It being Christmas Eve and all, and I won’t eat much if I think I’m taking food from your mouth and…”

Hands in his pockets, feeling plain good for a moment, he was prepared to go on and on.

“Okay!” With a grin, she smiled at him. “But only because it’s a holiday and I’d hate to eat alone, too, if I were you.”

While ordinarily Craig would more than bristle at being a target of pity—even in play—if it meant Marybeth was joining him, he’d accept as much pity as she wanted to hand out.

And then, minutes later, as she glanced at his hand, her smile faded.

“You’re wearing a wedding ring this morning.”

They were just starting the first course—a concoction of fresh fruit and yogurt and he didn’t know what, served in parfait glasses. Or rather, he was. She sat, slightly slouched, frowning, her spoon poised above her dish, watching him.

He nodded. “This is great. Delicious. Did you make it yourself?”

“Yeah. I do all my own cooking. From scratch and I use freshly picked fruits and vegetables whenever possible.” Her voice had no inflection at all.

She took a bite. Chewed, her gaze distant.

“I’m married.”

There. That was done.

“I didn’t notice the ring last night.”

“I didn’t have it on.”

She didn’t say anything. He felt like an A-class jerk.

“Jenny and I…we’re…”

What was he doing? This woman was a stranger to him. Or should be.

“It’s okay,” she said, jumping up in spite of the fact that she’d only taken the one bite. “I don’t mean to pry. I’ll bring in the casserole. Do you prefer sausage, bacon or both?”

“Sausage, please.”

And she was gone, leaving him brimming with frustration at his own inadequacies.

He was no less fretful when his beautiful hostess returned less than two minutes later, two plates laden with an egg-and-sausage concoction, some kind of rosemary-looking potatoes and garnished with more fruit, in her hands.

“Jenny’s older than I am.” He gave her the most innocuous fact of his life. “By five years.”

“Oh.” She sat. Cut a piece of casserole. Put it in her mouth. Chewed. “Coffee?” She held up the pot.

Shaking his head, Craig watched her take another bite. Watched her lips.

And attacked his own breakfast.

“We’re both artists,” he offered, several minutes into the meal when all he could think about was touching his hostess’ hands to see if they were as soft as they looked.

“Painters?”

He reached for the coffeepot. She got there first and filled his cup for him. A wifely thing to do.

“She paints. I sculpt. Sort of.”

“What does that mean?” A small, impersonal smile curved her lips and Craig felt himself sinking again.

“I build things out of metal. Wall scenes. Pictures. Even furniture. Pretty much anything I’m commissioned to do.” A simplistic explanation, but it would suffice. His art, his career, didn’t matter here.

“Do you work under your own name?”

“Yes.” Such a hazy distinction between duplicity and truth.

Trying to follow her lead, to get them back to the level of married guest with innkeeper, he answered all of her questions as they finished the main course, meeting some internal need he didn’t understand as he told her about himself. He didn’t own a retail shop, preferring to sell his stuff at shows, but he did have a studio on his property. No, he and his wife didn’t share workspace. Her studio was the whole upstairs of the cabin they’d had built the year before. He used all kinds of metals in his work and had perfected a way to colorize in a technique similar to ceramics with special paints and repeated firings of the metal. And while he’d been all around the country, these days he had very little time to be out on the road hocking his wares due to the numbers of commissioned orders he was receiving.

“We have a fairly well-known art show not far from here,” she said over her last bite of casserole. She licked her fork. He followed the path her tongue took. “It’s sometime in June and draws artists from all over the States.”

“I know.” He had to look away as his body responded to the innocent stimuli. “I’m signed up for it. That’s actually how I came to be here now. They sent an acceptance packet with local information. Your ad was one of the many offering accommodations.”

Think work, man. Work and secrets. And Jenny.

“Do I have you booked then?” She didn’t seem unhappy about that.

“Not yet.” He’d needed to check things out first. Always. No matter what he did. “But I plan to do that before I leave.”

He could do this. Have a friend. Jenny had many—both male and female. He’d tell her about Marybeth. Marybeth knew he was married. It was all okay. Whether he was married or not, he could never be more than passing-through friends with Marybeth Lawson, anyway. There were reasons for that, too.

“Good. Now’s the time to do it.” Marybeth cleared their plates, leaving them on the sideboard as she brought over the coffee cake that had been warming. “I’ve only been open three years, but all three summers were completely booked. Every single night from May until September.”

“I hope you have people in here helping you.”

“A woman comes in and cleans, but I pretty much do the rest myself. I like it that way.”

“Seven days a week for three months straight? What about time off?”

“Other than cooking, I’m off a good part of each day unless I’m doing the cleaning. I’m here for breakfast, and for check-in at three. And for evening libations. Otherwise I come and go.”

“But you don’t have a full day off? Not even one?”

Putting a too big piece of mouthwatering cake on a plate in front of him, Marybeth shrugged. “What for?”

The response tugged at him.

HE ATE EVERY BITE of the huge piece of caramel walnut coffee cake she’d made last night after she’d heard Craig come in from dinner. It had been her father’s favorite. A family tradition to have it on Christmas Eve. One of the few that Marybeth had kept up after her mother’s death.

One of the few her father had acknowledged. She hadn’t planned on making it this year. Then Craig McKellips had walked through the door and she’d been doing all sorts of crazy things.

Like sitting down to breakfast with a guest. Like feeling more hungry for the guest than for the food she’d prepared. The guest with a wedding ring on his finger.

“So what made you decide to take a whole week in Santa Barbara right now?” she asked, when what she really needed to know was why he was there alone.

“I wanted to get out of the cold.”

She pulled his plate toward her. Stacked it atop her own.

How could a man who exuded such heat ever be cold? And how could she, knowing that he was married, that he belonged to someone else, still feel so compelled to be near him?

As their gazes met, held, as she couldn’t look away because she wanted so badly to know every single thought behind the searching she found there, Marybeth blurted, “What about your wife? What was her name? Jenny?”

His blinked, and it was as if he left one world for another, but he still looked her straight in the eye. “What do you want to know about her?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And everything.

And nothing again. He was a guest—albeit one who’d seemingly changed who she was. All these years of waiting to find a man who sparked magic—who sparked some kind of reaction in her—and he comes along married.

“Jenny and I…that’s not something I can readily explain.”

“I understand,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot as she stood. She had to stop feeling things around him.

Craig’s hand on the handle of the pot stopped her.

“Please, I’d like to tell you about her, if you don’t mind. If for no other reason than because I purposely took off my wedding ring yesterday when I got here.”

Danger, Will Robinson. A line from a drama space show she used to watch popped into her brain. A TV show from long, long ago. Pre-twelve years of age. Marybeth could see the robot’s arms flailing all over the place, as though a precursor to what would come if she stayed in that room right then.

His wedding ring, wherever he kept it, had nothing to do with her.

“I don’t think…”

“I want it very clear that I have no intention of behaving with anything but complete appropriateness while I’m away from my wife. I have never, not once, been unfaithful to her. Nor will I be.”

The tone of his voice, so filled with emotion, as much as his words put her butt right back in the chair.

He had to be feeling it, too—this…whatever had overtaken her the minute she’d seen him standing in the foyer of her home. Apparently he felt it, and was trying to be responsible to it.

“I’m listening.”

“I…Jenny and I are friends. Great friends. We hung out together in art school and were buddies for a couple of years before we ever talked about becoming something more.”

Buddies with this man? Marybeth couldn’t see it.

“We’re good together. Good for each other. We understand each other.”

At least he hadn’t given her the classic my wife doesn’t understand me line.

“There’s mutual respect and trust because of that understanding. Most importantly, there are no false expectations. When both of us are free at the same time, we enjoy each other’s company. But there’s no hurt feelings, or longing to be together when we’re apart.”

“Then why did you get married?” God, he looked good to her. Even now she was hanging on his every word. Wanted to know everything about him.

“It was her idea,” Craig said slowly, as though from someplace far away. “Neither of us had a lifestyle conducive to a traditional marriage. Neither of us wanted one. We’re both the type of people who need emotional distance. Yet, we seemed to gravitate toward each other. Taking the next step seemed natural. Right. She was certain that we could make it work.”

“What about you? Were you certain, too?”

“I wanted to believe her.” He shook his head, seemed to come back to the present as he once again looked right at her.

“I did believe her,” he amended. “I wanted it to work.” Past tense? “And now?”

“I still want it to work.” Craig toyed with the edge of his napkin, watching the shape he was forming as though it was some form of art. “I’ve never been in this situation before,” he said, glancing up, then down again. His fingers were beautiful, art in themselves, as he worked on the soft paper between them.

“What situation?”

“Being in the presence of another woman…and wanting to stay.”

Marybeth tried not to make more of his remark than was there. She wasn’t for him. Wasn’t ever going to be his woman.

“Whose idea was it to spend the holidays apart?”

“Mine, mostly.” Craig continued to toy with his napkin, rolling, folding, forming something, all with just the two fingers. “Jenny’s the daughter of French aristocracy. She was raised in a castle about a hundred miles outside of Paris.”

Great, Marybeth was competing with a princess. But not really. She’d already lost. Before she’d ever had a chance.

But then, she’d learned a long time ago about the curves life threw.

“Her parents are stereotypically French. As far as they’re concerned Americans are second-rate citizens. Most certainly not good enough to marry their precious only daughter. She doesn’t pay much attention to their attitudes, never has, but she does love them.”

His grin was laconic. “About as much as they don’t love me.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“I know it’s not personal. They hatedmebefore we ever met.”

“So you have met?”

He nodded. “Our first Christmas together. Jenny goes home every December. They insisted on it as part of the deal they made with her before they allowed her to come to the States. Her entire family—aunts, uncles, cousins—shows up that week, no matter where they might be living. The holiday get-together is kind of a sacred thing with all of them.”

It sounded lovely to her.

“That first year, I went with her. And decided never to repeat the experience.”

“Why?”

“Because I hated to see Jenny so torn. She loves her family very much, and yet she sees what they are, too. The entire week, her parents acted as though she was alone. They never once looked at me. If they spoke directly to me, which wasn’t often, they looked past me as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t much care…it left me a lot of time to explore France. I came home with more inspiration than I knew what to do with. But the week took a toll on Jenny. She felt terrible for the way I was treated. And yet she was pulled because that week is her only time with them and she wanted to be with them.”

“Did she try to talk to them about it?”

“Of course. Jenny’s not one to take things sitting down. But her parents think they know best, that their added years of experience have taught them things she has yet to learn. They keep hoping she’ll come to her senses.”

“So this isn’t the first Christmas you’ve spent apart.” She felt better. Less like a sinner. Sort of.

“No. And yes. After that first year, we decided to spend future Christmases with our respective parents. I hated leaving my mother alone and Jenny hated that the seven days she had with her folks had been spent in constant bickering over me.”

Between his fingers an animal was taking shape. A body. Four legs and a blob where a head should be. A blob with points. A reindeer.

“She offered to stay home this year,” he was saying, “because of my mom passing, but I know she misses her family, and they her. And who knows how long she’ll have them?”

They both knew the hard truth within the rhetorical question.

“So,” she had to ask, “do you love her?”

“Sure I do.” This time when he looked up, it was as though he was searching for something from her. As though he needed her to understand more than he was saying. “As much as I love, period.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve just…I’m not a real emotional guy.”

She didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it. Not with the charge he’d brought into her home with him. The man seeped from the inside out.

“How can you say you’re in love and think yourself unemotional at the same time?”

“I didn’t say I’m in love. I said I love her as much as I love anyone.”

“Does she know that?”

“Of course. It’s the same with her. Our passion goes into our work. By the time we get to the people in our lives, there’s not much left.”

The theory had merit. It was obvious Craig believed what he was telling her. And just as clear to her that he was one hundred percent wrong.

Which left her wondering—needing to know—why he had to believe it.

“When she’s in the throes of creation, Jenny doesn’t have anything left for herself. She’ll forget to eat, to sleep, to lock the door if she happens to take a walk. That’s where I come in. I make sure she eats.”

Surprised by the prick of jealousy she felt, Marybeth tried to imagine a life with someone watching her back the way she’d watched her father’s. And now her guests’.

Mostly she envisioned herself being irritated, feeling smothered. And yet as she pictured this virtual stranger there, concerned that she wasn’t getting enough rest, strange things happened to her.

Dangerous things.

“Jenny and I are honest with each other,” he was saying, “which is part of what makes us work so well.”

She got that. And wanted to believe that his choices had no correlation with her life. She wasn’t envious. She’d rather be alone than settle for less.

Wouldn’t she?

“I’ve got to get going.” Marybeth stood, gathering things carefully as she tried to put life—him—in perspective before she went down a path to destruction. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Can I tag along with you to church?”

She’d told him the day before that she’d be going, offered to direct him to a congregation of his faith, if he attended at all. She’d not expected this.

There was something intimate about the thought of sitting in church with a man. Attending with him.

She liked the idea too much.

But it was Christmas Eve.

And he was alone.

“Sure. We can have something to eat around five, if you’d like, and go to the early service at seven.”

“I’d like that.”

She nodded. Watched him watching her. And when she made herself leave, she took the memory of his smile with her.

Chapter Five

Sunday, December 31, 2006

Will I always be as I am now, moving through life without ever being fully engaged? Is there something I’m doing that keeps me trapped? Am I sabotaging myself? Or is this the inevitable result to what happened when we were kids and a way of life for me that I can do nothing about—much like if I’d been in a skiing accident and lost a leg.

Putting down the letter, Marybeth stared at the hand-writing through eyes blurred from lack of sleep. And maybe a few tears, as well.

Craig McKellips was gone. Finally. And nothing had happened. Oh, he’d helped her deliver Christmas dinner to the nursing home, visited with residents while she did the same. While she’d been at the Mathers’s, exchanging gifts, on Christmas Eve day, he’d bought a miniature Victorian Santa lamp for the sideboard, had it wrapped and under the tree when she got home. He’d watched the original version of Miracle on 34th Street with her. Eaten voraciously and appreciatively all week.

They’d talked, incessantly it seemed at times, about the world, global warming and politics and same-sex marriage.

They’d exchanged long looks, and sat not far from each other on the couch.

And they never so much as shook hands.

He’d been gone for twelve hours—left that morning to make it home in time to pick Jenny up from the airport and spend New Year’s Eve with his wife—and she was relieved.

No more pressure to save herself from disaster. No more temptation to want more than was her right to have.

But he’d be back.

In June.

She had a feeling she’d be waiting.

She’d told him to bring Jenny with him next time.

He’d said she didn’t really like bed-and-breakfasts—preferring the anonymity of hotels. And room service available in the middle of the night.

He’d be coming alone.

His glance had promised her something she needed.

Craig had looked her straight in the eye when he’d stood at the door with his bag, having already taken care of his bill. Then he’d left without saying goodbye.

Dear James,

Putting the pen she’d been holding for more minutes than she cared to count to the paper in front of her, Marybeth didn’t think, didn’t analyze, didn’t calculate.

As always when she came to this place, with pen and paper, no computers, no outside world, she was herself.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the questions you asked in your last letter. You wanted to know if you’d lost something vital because of what happened, if somehow your ability to love fully had been amputated. You seemed to think that I’d have answers for you.

I don’t.

Do you remember when I wrote to you on my sixteenth birthday and told you that I wasn’t dating at all? I told you I was too busy. Playing tennis (a mostly individual sport), taking care of the house and cooking and laundry, babysitting Wendy next door, getting A’s in college prep classes…

Well, you know all that; I don’t have to repeat it all.

Then in college when you asked I told you I wasn’t dating because there was no spark. Guys asked me out, they liked me, but I didn’t ever return their feelings. I was fine to be friends. And nothing more.

Does this sound like someone who understands or experiences the fullness of loving?

Do I think what happened to my mom had anything to do with this? Of course, I do. And for you, too.

But do I think it’s for life? I used to think so, but I don’t know anymore. I can only tell you I hope not.

I spent my senior year in college fearing that I was going to be alone for the rest of my life. And the more frightened I got the more I became certain that I needed to meet you. I really believed that if we could stand face-to-face, if we could bolster each other in real life instead of only in this fantasy world we inhabit, we would be able to free each other from the binds that keep us hostage. Or, at the very least, to share the experience of being bound.

It took months for me to get up the courage to ask you to see me. And you said no. I don’t disagree with your reasons. Of course there would be some level of awkwardness—at least at first. We know so much about each other that we’d never have told anyone we had to see again. And yes, life and society would intervene. Judgments might creep in. Maybe wewould start filtering our words to each other. Maybe wewould lose this safe place.

But maybe, just maybe, we’d finally be fully alive.

You ask about your lack of ability to love completely? Maybe this is part of it.

I don’t know, maybe it’s the holidays, my first Christmas without my dad, and I’ll feel better again, soon, but I’m really kind of angry with you, my friend. I needed you this week. I needed a real flesh-and-blood friend. Someone who could cry with me. We’re adults now, not kids.

I needed something more personal than your handwriting. (Although the familiar script still brings joy to my life.)

Yet you have a life I know nothing about. Very likely you’re involved with someone. Guys don’t live celibate forever. I know that it’s not a mistake that the entire tone of our relationship changed since I pushed for that meeting. You backed away. We haven’t spoken of anything personal to our daily lives in a couple of years. And while I love the philosophical discussions, while I desperately need what we have, this safe place to talk, to say anything and know that there will be automatic acceptance, I also think we’re doing ourselves a disservice.

You are my best friend. My soul mate. If you’re married, have a lover or a girlfriend…or boyfriend, if you have a child, I want to know them, too. Don’t you see how crazy this is? I have a best friend who I know nothing about?

We’ve created something unrealistic here, James. The semblance of a perfect relationship. Anything real, anything here on a daily basis, grinding through the boring parts of life, would have to seem flawed in comparison. Wouldn’t they? How could they possibly compete with total acceptance and support?

Look at me. I’m spending New Year’s Eve alone with a pen.

Maybe we were both damaged by the incidences of our youth. Maybe we have had some vital part of our ability to give wholly and completely permanently stripped away.

Or maybe not. Maybe we have to end this fantasy to free ourselves to love in the real world. Maybe it’s time we grew up and got over the past.

Please, James, can we meet?

Monday, January 1, 2007

My dearest Candy,

My hand trembles as I write this to you with hopes that it finds you well. Would that I could be there with you as you begin another new year. It’s been almost three weeks since I sent my last letter and I still have not received one back. It’s never been this long between letters and I hope and pray that you are well. I miss you greatly, my friend. I rely on your words, your presence in the tapestry of my life.

I need to know what you’re thinking—that you are well.

As expected, the holidays were a struggle, though, as life would have it, not exactly the struggle I’d envisioned. As for the questions I asked in my last letter, I have discovered the answer. And I felt compelled to share it with you, lest those questions kept you from answering me for some reason.

I suspect, from things you haven’t said, that you, too, find yourself unable to open up and give completely and I would hate to think that my ramblings and soul searching in any way made you doubt yourself. I want to give you strength, not take from you.

So…the answer. Yes, it is possible to feel deeply, to open up and give of self, beyond, or in spite of the tragedies of the past. I cannot tell you that the emotion is enough to sustain relationships as expected by the general population, but I do know that my capability to reach that depth still exists. This I can promise you with absolute certainty.

I found that out this holiday season.

I know, too, that you, that this very rare and special relationship we have here allowed me to risk going outside myself. I always had you, this, as a safety net—a place where I would be all right either way. If I could feel, then great. If not, well then, okay, too.

You know, one of the things that makes us so special is that there are no expectations between us. I don’t have to behave a certain way, say certain things, do certain things, in order for you to feel loved and wanted. Nor do you. We just know, without thought or question, that, no matter what, we are there for each other.

Our friendship (such a stale, weak word for what we share) does not require any action other than an occasional pen to paper, so there is so little chance of failing at it. You know?

I’m not feeling eloquent today, but needed to get this off to you as the thoughts are raging through my mind. You are raging through my mind.

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