Chapter Nine #2
He returned to the family room with two steaming mugs topped with marshmallows just in time to catch her brushing an errant tear from her cheek.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Under the circumstances, everything is better than okay,” she told him.
“So why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” she denied, as she accepted the proffered mug.
“You just wiped away a tear.”
“A single tear isn’t crying,” she said.
“So what is it?” he pressed.
“Proof that the holidays make me a little emotional,” she confided.
“Christmas is my favorite time of year, but it’s a bittersweet time, too, because I can’t help but remember all the happy Christmases of my childhood, which makes me think about my parents, and then I find myself missing them and—” she cut herself off then. “Oh, Wilder, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because I know you lost your mom, too.”
“I didn’t lose her—she left,” he reminded her.
“And she didn’t stay in touch after the divorce?” she asked curiously.
“She died only a few months after the papers were signed.”
She wanted to apologize again for bringing up such a difficult subject, but he would only deny it was difficult. Instead she said, “I’m sorry you don’t have any memories of her.”
He shrugged. “And since I don’t, there’s nothing for me to miss.”
To Beth, that was just as sad.
“So what were your Christmases like?” she asked, hoping he might share some happy memories.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Presents under the tree, a big turkey dinner. Christmas cookies,” he said, and smiled then. “Our housekeeper made these amazing cookies decorated with icing and colored sugars.
“I thought we’d miss out this year, but she sent a box in the mail. There must have been six dozen cookies, and they were gone within two days.”
“Not just between you and your dad?”
“No,” he admitted. “The note said we had to share, so we did.”
She smiled at the obvious regret in his tone. “What about your tree—have you always had a real one?”
“Is there another kind?”
She tapped a finger against one of the branches, watched the tip bob. “They do smell good,” she confided.
“You don’t get a real tree?” he guessed.
She shook her head. “My apartment’s on the sixth floor, and it just seems like too much hassle to drag one into the building, cram it into an elevator, then haul it down the hall and into my apartment, leaving a path of needles along the way.”
“A path of needles would make it easy for Santa to find you,” he pointed out.
“Instead, I have a sign that goes in the window that says Santa, Please Stop Here!”
“You don’t think Saint Nick knows where he’s supposed to stop?”
“I don’t like leaving some things to chance.”
“And what was on your wish list for Santa this year?” Wilder asked her.
“Oh, um, just...you know...the usual stuff.”
“You didn’t make a list for Santa, did you?”
“Not exactly.”
His gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “But there was something specific you wanted,” he guessed.
“I just wanted to spend Christmas with Leighton and Cody—to be part of the happy memories of his first Christmas.”
“You do know he’s not going to remember his first Christmas when he’s older?”
“I know,” she admitted. “But I’ve been taking pictures of every event and milestone, to make a scrapbook of his first year, so that he’ll be able to look back and know, even if he can’t remember.”
“You should have asked me to take a picture of the two of you in the sleigh,” he told her.
“I was so mesmerized by the sleigh and the horses, I didn’t even think about it,” she confided.
“Next time,” he promised.
But they both knew there might not be a next time, because Beth’s days at the Ambling A were numbered—seven to ten—and the countdown was on.
She carefully sipped her hot chocolate and wondered why she didn’t seem as excited to anticipate her return to Dallas as she’d been only three days earlier.
Goodness knows, she would be happy enough to get back to a place where she didn’t need long underwear to step out the front door.
But when she did, she might actually miss interacting with Wilder and Max and the various other Crawfords who’d been in and out of the main house at the Ambling A during her brief time there.
She pushed the uncomfortable thought aside and sipped her drink again, savoring the warm sweetness as it slid down her throat. “This is really good,” she told Wilder.
“The key ingredients are real cream and dark chocolate,” he confided. “And marshmallows on top, of course.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“Speaking of marshmallows, you’ve got some right here,” he said, and indicated the location on his own lip.
“Oh.” She instinctively sought out the sticky spot with the tip of her tongue. “Did I get it?”
Instead of answering, he reached over and brushed his thumb over the curve of her bottom lip. The callused pad scraped against her soft skin, causing her breath to back up in her lungs and sending tingles through her veins.
She lifted her gaze to find his fixed on her mouth, his head tilted toward her, and for the space of a single heartbeat, she actually thought he was going to kiss her.
And, oh, how she yearned for his kiss. Just the thought of his lips pressed against hers made her tummy feel tingly and her knees grow weak.
But instead of shifting closer, he abruptly pulled away.
“It’s gone now,” he told her.
And then Cody was awake, allowing her to focus on the baby and ignore the twinge of what might have been disappointment.
After she’d snapped a few pictures of Cody propped up against the pile of presents, Wilder took her cell phone and assumed photographer duties while she helped her nephew open his gifts.
There were sleepers and outfits, a pair of high-top running shoes (and of course Wilder questioned the purpose of running shoes for a kid who couldn’t even walk), board books and bath books, wooden puzzles and cuddly toys, learning toys and silly toys.
“Let’s try these on you,” Beth said, tugging off Cody’s socks and replacing them with the foot rattles he’d just opened.
One was red-and-orange and decorated to look like a giraffe; the other was black-and-white like a zebra; both had noisemakers sewn into their ears. She put them on his feet and helped him kick his legs to demonstrate how they could make sound.
Cody rewarded her with a gummy smile.
“What’s this one?” Wilder asked, picking up a smallish square box wrapped in Santa paper with a red bow.
She took the box from his hand and glanced at the tag that read: To Mommy Love Cody.
“Oh.” She managed a smile. “It’s a ‘Mommy’ Christmas ornament, dated for the year Cody was born.”
She set it aside and reached for a bigger and flatter package. After carefully prying the tag off the wrapping, she handed the gift to Wilder.
“What’s this?”
“A present.”
“I know you didn’t buy this for me.”
“No, I didn’t,” she acknowledged. “But it’s something I’d like you to have.”
Curious, he slid a finger beneath the fold of paper to break the tape.
The flat, unmarked box didn’t give anything away, so he lifted the lid and peeled back the tissue inside to reveal a beautiful brushed silver-tone frame engraved with the words “Cody’s First Christmas.
” Inside the frame was a photo of the baby, asleep in the crook of Santa’s arm.
“What a great picture,” he said, sincerely touched by her gesture. “This was another gift for your sister?”
“Yeah, but I can get another one made for her,” Beth said.
“Is this because you now believe I’m Cody’s father?” he asked.
“Do you believe it?” she countered.
He looked at the little guy now sitting between his outstretched legs.
Did he believe it?
Were his residual doubts simply a manifestation of his reluctance to take on the responsibilities of fatherhood?
Responsibilities that he wouldn’t be able to duck if and when he was confirmed to be the baby’s father.
Not that he’d had much success ducking anything since the baby had appeared on the doorstep and his father had made his own determination about paternity.
But doubts aside, the more time he spent with Cody, the less terrifying he found the idea of being his father.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, obviously having given up on waiting for an answer. “If it turns out you’re not his dad, you can give the picture back to me.”
“For now, I’m going to put it right here,” he said, propping the frame up on the side table.
Beth looked at the picture there and smiled. “Good choice.”
Then she stood up and began gathering the discarded wrapping.
“Somebody lost a sock,” Wilder noted, tickling the baby’s bare toes as he reached to pick up the giraffe.
Cody giggled.
Beth gasped and spun around, clutching an armload of crumpled paper against her chest. “What did you do?” she asked Wilder.
“Me?” Had he done something wrong? “I just tickled his toes.” Then he did it again, to demonstrate for her.
Cody responded with more giggles.
“Oh.” The word was barely a whisper from her lips as her eyes filled with tears. “That’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh.”
“Really?” Wilder asked, surprised.
She nodded.
Wilder brushed his fingertips over the bottom of the baby’s foot, to see if he was ticklish there. The baby answered with another giggle.
Beth sighed. “Is there anything as sweet as that sound?”
Though she probably wasn’t expecting an answer to her question, he heard himself responding, “It’s pretty great.”
“It makes me happy to know he’s happy,” she said.
“Of course, he’s four months old, so his biggest concerns are a hungry belly or wet diaper,” Wilder pointed out.
“And sore gums,” she reminded him.
“Still, he’s not lying awake at night worrying about the market price of beef,” he said, as he worked the sock onto the baby’s foot, stroking his fingertip along his sole and sending the little guy into a fresh wave of giggles.
Beth laughed, too, and their gazes met and held for a long moment of shared understanding and unexpected connection.
Then Cody kicked his feet again, shaking the rattles, and the moment was broken.