The Man Under The Mistletoe

“We won’t be at war,” she argued. “We just won’t be…in contact.”

It wasn’t until Derek cleared his throat that she realized he and his brother were standing nearby and had probably heard most of what she and Matt had said.

“Just wanted to say thanks,” Derek said quickly, doing his best to pretend they hadn’t heard anything. “Anything I can do to take some of the burden off you?”

Rosie was momentarily distracted from Matt by Derek’s sweetness. Francie was a lucky girl. “I think everything’s under control. Just hang up the tux, and be ready on time tomorrow.”

“You got it. See you tonight.” Derek and Corin left, and silence fell over the shop.

Matt eased out of the jacket and handed it to her. “I know this isn’t the time for it, but I want to sort through what happened between us and try to figure out where we lost each other.”

“There’s no going back,” she said. But she took the jacket from him and clutched it to her. He wondered if the small gesture spoke of what she truly felt but wouldn’t allow herself to say.

“I don’t want to go back,” he assured her. “Believe it or not, there’s as much pain there for me as there is for you. But if we put effort into it, maybe there’s a way ahead.”

He saw the smallest flare of hope in her eyes. Or maybe he wanted to see hope so much that what he saw was merely the reflection of his own hope.

“You left me,” she said. Her free arm closed over the one holding the jacket. She was creating the creases she’d warned against.

“You no longer wanted me,” he said, feeling a little crazy that she didn’t remember it that way. He strained for patience. “You have to stop blaming me for what was ultimately your fault. You hated me, but for what? I didn’t do anything. Unless it was just that I was still alive and our daughter and all the other men you loved were dead.”

She looked stricken but didn’t seem to know how to respond.

“It doesn’t get us anywhere to go over that old ground,” he finally added. “Let’s just agree to talk about it after the wedding.”

She met his gaze, then seemed to realize what she was doing to the jacket. She held it in front of her and shook it out in disgust. “I don’t want to,” she said finally. “Thanks for driving the family to the dinner. I have to go fix this. Excuse me.”

He’d been with her long enough to know that when argument turned to polite dismissal, there was little point in continuing. She’d frozen up, turned off. He went into the claustrophobic little room, changed into his own clothes, hung up the slacks, placed all the other accessories on the bench and left the shop.

THE REHEARSAL DINNER was an exercise in charm and good manners. The Yankee Inn had been decorated for the holidays with chunky garlands wound with lights, huge Christmas trees in the lobby and the banquet room, and festive table linens.

All the guests did their best to be amenable. Even the outspoken Aunt Ginger engaged Corin’s wife, Kate, in pleasant conversation. Sonny captivated Derek’s parents with stories about Francie and the amusing things she and her siblings had done as children.

Francie tried to listen, but Rosie seemed determined to distract her with a brochure featuring all the highlights she could expect to see on her honeymoon in Bermuda. Rosie wore a simple purple suit, her hair loose and full, the sight of it almost more than Matt could bear. She tossed it a lot, and he knew that to mean she was acting. This good cheer was all for Francie’s benefit.

The only tense moment of the evening came when Derek’s mother asked if Matt’s presence at the wedding meant they were together again.

“No,” Rosie replied politely. “Matt and Francie have always had a great affection for each other, and with our father gone, he was the logical choice to walk her down the aisle.”

Mrs. Page frowned. “Isn’t that awkward for you?”

“Not at all,” Rosie lied, then tucked her arm in his to prove her point, and walked him onto the dance floor.

He hesitated before taking her into his arms. “I thought you didn’t want to dance with me.”

She placed her hand firmly on his shoulder. “I don’t, but I didn’t know where else to take you. I want everything to be perfect for Francie.”

“So you keep saying, but what about how things should be for you?”

She seemed surprised that he’d asked such a question. He had to forestall what he was sure would be her response.

“If you say, why should I care because I left you,” he warned, “I swear I’ll kiss you senseless right here in front of God and everybody.”

She took his hand and forced him into a dance attitude. “Then I’d say dancing is the lesser of two evils.”

Taking her into his arms was so easy. Her hand on the shoulder of his sports jacket, her fragrant hair skimming his nose, her slender body in his arms. Everything was dearly familiar.

Painful as hell, but dearly familiar.

She did, however, hold herself rather stiffly tonight, when she used to lean into him trustingly, comfortably. She’d always been warm and invitingly physical, even in a crowd, touching him, bumping against him, whispering things to him, her lips and her cheek touching his. He wanted that back with a desperation he struggled not to show.

But he’d been the one to admit there was no going back. They couldn’t recapture even the best parts of the old days. They had to find a new way to connect, another method of communication.

He splayed his left hand between her shoulder blades and applied enough pressure to bring their bodies into contact.

“Matthew…” she warned under her breath.

“Relax, Roseanne. It’s just a dance. That’s all life is. That’s all love is.”

“I’m not…” She tried to wedge some distance between them, but he thought the effort a little halfhearted, so he held on to her.

He lowered his head until his cheek rested against the side of her temple. “You’re still a warm and vital woman. The three most important people in your life may have died, but you didn’t. Just let yourself be alive for the space of this dance.”

“I…don’t want to dance,” she complained, but she’d stopped pulling away.

“You led me to the dance floor,” he reminded her.

She said in a breathless whisper, “There was nowhere else to go.”

He held her closer. “That’s right. Until the music stops, just pretend you belong right here.”

To his amazement, she did. “Embraceable You” played on, mellow and torchy, and when it was finally over, she drew out of his arms with seeming reluctance. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, and all he knew for sure was that she considered him responsible for those tears. That was fine with him, he thought, watching her hurry off the dance floor toward the ladies’ room. He’d become familiar with assuming the blame.

FRANCIE AND DEREK’S wedding was as perfectly organized and executed as any major military or political event Matt had ever covered as a journalist. He knew it was a testament to Rosie’s expertise that every detail was perfect, right down to the red ornament at every place setting. FRANCIE AND DEREK and the date, had been hand-printed on it in gold leaf.

Matt overheard several women at a table behind where he sat with Chase speculate over why it was, when Rosie could probably be an event planner in Hollywood if she wanted to, that she felt tied to Maple Hill.

“She lost everything here,” one of them said. “Her brother, her father, her baby, her marriage. And contrary to popular opinion, you don’t run when that happens, you stay and spend the rest of your life trying to figure out what went wrong.”

“I think she stays because her mother needs her,” another guessed. “Sonny Erickson comes on like she knows and understands everything, but I’ll bet she’s hollow inside since the tragedies. If it wasn’t for Rosie, she’d fall apart.”

“I think she’ll leave now that her sister’s moving away next year.” That came from a younger voice. “Francie’s brilliant, but a little wild. Rosie’s been a steadying influence.”

“Rosie was just waiting for Matt to come and take her away,” a fourth voice said with authority. “She never stopped loving him. Have you seen how she watches him now? There’s greed in her eyes! I’ll lay you odds—”

“Shh!” One of the other women, probably recognizing the back of his head, stopped her abruptly. Matt heard mad whispering, a giggle, a groan of regret. Ordinarily he might have been annoyed at being the object of gossip, but he was happy to hear that last opinion.

“Aunt Francie looks beautiful!” Chase said, scarfing down his third piece of cake with ice cream. “Even with her blue hair.”