The Holiday Visitor

“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.