Maggie Monroe reached into the packing box and blindly felt
around, seeking the next in a dwindling pile of
tissue-wrapped links to her husband and daughter. Precious
keepsakes that had been lovingly packed away less than a
year earlier, when her life was everything it would never be
again.
Swiping the back of her free hand across her
eyes, Maggie pulled the telltale mound from the box. For
nearly an hour she'd been searching for this particular
ornament, panicked at the thought it may have been lost. Yet
now that she was sure she'd found it, she couldn't bear to
unwrap it, to see the name engraved in cursive across the
sterling-silver cradle.
Natalie
Renee.
She closed her eyes against the memory that
seeped into her heart, tears streaming down her face once
again. Every moment of their first Christmas together was
etched in her mind—from Natalie's cherubic face in the glow
of the colorful lights, to the way Maggie and Jack had
deliberately saved a spot in the middle of the tree for
their daughter's first ornament. Maggie could still hear his
happy sigh when she'd pulled her hand back and smiled
triumphantly over her shoulder at the camera, a moment in
their too-short life together captured by its
lens.
But the sigh she heard in her mind wasn't real.
It was simply one of a long line of memories that assailed
her day and night, gathering the various pieces of her heart
in hope, then shattering them with the dawn of
reality….
Jack was gone.
And so was
Natalie.
The only thing that remained was the pain of
each new day Maggie had to live without them.
Holding
the still-wrapped ornament to her chest, she looked up at
the bare tree, her vision hampered by tears.
You
can do this, Maggie.
"No, I can't," she whispered
fiercely before regret hushed her. It was one thing to
grieve, quite another to roll over and quit. And while she'd
always considered herself strong, fate was showing her
otherwise.
She shook her head and focused on the
ornaments laid across the floor. So many of them were tied
to special moments in her life. Did she really want them
packed away in a box?
"You can do this, Maggie," she
murmured, willing her heart to heed the words. "You can do
this."
A knock at the door caught her by surprise and
she turned her clouded gaze toward the sound. For a moment
she considered ignoring it and waiting for whoever was on
the other side to simply give up and leave her alone, as so
many others had in the months following the
accident.
But she'd prevailed upon her uncle to give
her a room in his inn so she could move forward. Answering
the door would be another step.
After swiping at her
eyes one last time, Maggie pushed herself off the hardwood
and wandered to the door to open it.
"Can I help you?"
She knew her voice was raspy, her words broken, but it was
the best she could do at the moment. Habits born in sorrow
were hard to break overnight.
"Ms.
Monroe?"
"Mrs.," she corrected around the
sudden lump that sprang up in her throat. Slowly, Maggie
began to focus, sucking in a breath at the sight of the
handsome man standing in front of her.
A good two
inches taller than Jack, the stranger towered over her
five-foot-five frame as he raked a strong thick hand through
his endearingly disheveled crop of dark brown hair. Unlike
her husband, who had seemed at home in button-down shirts
and ties, the man standing in front of her wore his pale
gray sweatshirt and whitewashed denim jeans as if they were
a second skin—a skin that pulled taut across his muscled
chest and hugged his lower half.
Maggie stepped back,
a pang of guilt ripping through her as she hugged Natalie's
ornament to her chest, her heart and mind engaged in
full-fledged battle. Yes, the man in front of her was
handsome; she'd have to be blind not to see that. But the
moistening of her hands and the skip of her heartbeat the
moment their eyes met was nothing but a figment of her
imagination.
"Oh, I'm sorry. Your uncle said you'd be
living here alone. So I just assumed you were
sing—"
"You know my uncle? " she interrupted, in an
effort to keep him from finishing his sentence. This
familiarity was too much, too soon. She needed baby steps
first.
"Of course." The man thrust out his hand. "I'm
Rory O'Brien."
Rory?
The name rang a bell
but she was at a loss. A whoosh of white noise filled her
ears as she stared at his outstretched hand waiting for
hers….
"I'm sorry, should I know you?"
A hearty
laugh bubbled up from somewhere inside the man's soul, a
sound that first intrigued and then sickened her. "I'm the
carpenter your uncle hired to restore the inn in his
absence."
"Carpenter? Oh. Oh, yes, I'm sorry." Shaking
her head against the ludicrous notion she'd felt something
for this stranger, Maggie placed her hand in his. "Uncle
Doug told me about you. He said if anyone could restore Lake
Shire Inn to the way it was in my childhood it would be
you."
"You came here when you were a kid?"
"Oh,
yes…" She leaned against the door frame as she traveled to a
place she'd sought many times over the past eleven months—a
place where she'd felt happy and strong. She hoped
desperately to find those feelings once again. "It was
nothing short of magical."
"Magical, huh?"
"To
me it was." She met his eyes for the first time and was
rewarded by the appearance of dimples, carved into his
cheeks. "Do you really think you can restore this place to
what it once was?"
"That's my intention."
"All
fifteen rooms?"
"Well, I don't think your uncle would
take kindly to me only doing fourteen of them, do
you?"
"I guess not."
Rory grinned. "Don't mind
me. That was my attempt at being funny."
The heat that
shot through every nook and cranny of Maggie's body reminded
her that their hands were still joined. She yanked hers back
as a wave of nausea racked her. "I'm sorry, I don't feel
very well today. I need to go."
"Wait!" Thrusting his
work boot against the base of the closing door, Rory waved a
small wrapped box in the air. "Your uncle asked me to give
this to you. He told me to make sure I got it to you
today. He wanted you to have it while you were
dec—"
Rory's eyes left her face and went to the
unwrapped ornaments spread beneath the stark, naked tree
she'd promised herself she'd decorate.
"My mom used to
do that. You know, set all the ornaments out first and then
hang them."
But how could she decorate it? Then
she'd be making new memories….
Rory's voice
broke through her thoughts. "My friends all did it one at a
time—you know, not so organized. They'd unwrap one and then
hang it. Unwrap one and hang it. Uh, Mrs. Monroe? Are you
okay?"
Forcing her attention on the here and now,
Maggie shrugged. "I'm not sure what okay is anymore. It's
certainly nothing like it used to be." As he once more
looked into her face, she forced the corners of her mouth
upward in an effort to chase the worry from his sky-blue
eyes, which seemed as if they should sparkle, not fret.
"Could you just call me Maggie? I think that would be best.
Part of that first step and all."
"First step? " When
she didn't respond, he moved on. "Maggie, huh? That's a
beautiful name. Suits you real well." Rory looked down at
the carefully wrapped gift box and held it out to her. "Your
uncle has been really good to me. In fact, if it weren't for
him giving me this position, I'd probably be looking through
the classifieds for another desk job. So please, take
this."
Squaring her shoulders, she reached out, took
the box.
"He said you were to open it right
away."
"Why?"
"I don't know. My guess is it has
something to do with your decorating."
She glanced
down at the gift. "It's something new for the tree, isn't
it?"
Rory's shoulders hitched upward, only to fall
back down once again. "I don't know. But new is good, isn't
it?"
She shrugged. "I—I just can't hang it right
now."
"Do you need hooks? I can run home and get some.
It won't take but a minute or two."
"No!" Realizing
her voice was sharper than she'd intended, she offered a
quick apology. "I have hooks. Plenty of them."
Rory
gestured toward the pile of brightly colored objects on the
floor. "Afraid you have too many?"
She shook her head,
loosening her grip on the ornament still clasped to her
chest. "No, it's not that. It's just—well, it's just that
I'm trying, I really am, but it's hard. Harder than I
thought it would be."
Silence blanketed the cozy,
wood-paneled suite as she focused on the tissue-wrapped
mound in her left hand and the brightly wrapped package in
her right. She knew he was watching her, but it didn't
matter. She was at a loss over what to say or do at that
moment, not to mention the rest of her life.
Finally
he spoke, his deep voice surprisingly soft. "Maybe there's a
reason your uncle wanted you to have this package today.
Maybe he knew it was going to be hard. Maybe whatever's in
this box is meant to help somehow."
"I'm not sure how
it can. How anything ever can," she mumbled, her words
barely audible to her own ears. "I'm trying every day, but
it's not working."
"Maybe I could help." Reaching out,
Rory touched the mound in her left hand. "Why don't you let
me hold that so you can open your present?"
She jumped
back, grasping Natalie's first Christmas ornament in a death
grip.
He retracted his arm in a flash and raised his
hands, palms outward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything. I
was just trying to help. Look…I can see this is a bad time."
He took a step toward the door. "I'm sorry I barged in. I
didn't mean to cause you any trouble. I'll leave you alone
now."
Alone. Again.
"Wait," she
whispered, her voice shaking along with her hands. "Please.
Don't go."
Had she not repeated her plea, he would
have chalked it up to his mind playing tricks—wishing for
something that simply wasn't going to happen.
But she
had.
Turning around, Rory studied the woman who looked
at him with red-rimmed eyes. Maggie Monroe was beautiful by
anyone's standards. Her soft brown hair cascaded across her
shoulders and halfway down her back in natural waves that
emphasized her high cheekbones and plump, kissable lips. Her
eyelashes, wet with tears, framed dark brown eyes that
vacillated between looking at the floor and peering up at
him. The vulnerability and deep-rooted sadness they
displayed tugged at his heart.
He looked from her face
to her body, noting how the off-white cowl-neck sweater and
baggy jeans nearly swallowed her whole.
"Could you
stay? For just a little while?"
"Are you sure? I don't
want to impose." And he didn't. Yet there was something
about this woman that spoke to him on a level he'd never
experienced before. Maybe it was simply the carpenter in him
coming out—some inbred desire to fix things that were
obviously broken. Maybe it was the fact that this woman's
uncle had come along at a low point in Rory's life and made
an offer that had given him the kick he needed. Or maybe it
was the overwhelming desire to kiss away her
tears….
Maggie thrust the small square package back
into his hand. "Could you open it for me?"
He stared
down at the box, then at her. "You want me to open it?
Why?"
Her shoulders rose and fell beneath her
cavernous sweater. "I don't know. I just think taking half a
step is better than no step right now."
Cautiously, he
met her eyes, his curiosity rising. Whatever was wrong with
this woman, it was obviously something major. Too many
questions might be more than she could handle, so he settled
on one.
"You sure?" he asked. "Sometimes opening a
gift makes you feel good."
"Not today." Maggie
gestured toward the navy blue couch that sat at an angle to
the stone fireplace. Despite the below-freezing temperatures
of the winds blowing off Lake Shire, the wood he'd stacked
in preparation for her arrival sat untouched.
"I can
light a fire for you if you'd like. Winters around here are
mighty rough."
"They certainly are. In fact, I
remember a few winters when the fireplace was the only thing
that kept me from turning into a human ice cube." A hint of
longing sprang into her eyes, only to disappear just as
quickly. "I couldn't ask you to make a fire. Really,
I'm—"
Setting her uncle's package on the end table
beside the couch, Rory pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt
up his arms. "You didn't ask. I offered."
"But
I—"
"No arguments. Your uncle would have my hide if I
sensed you were cold and I didn't do something to
help."
A tiny laugh escaped Maggie's throat, a welcome
sound that grabbed hold of his heart.
"I can see you
know my uncle well." After nodding toward the kitchenette on
the other side of the wall, she cocked her head. "I haven't
stopped at the market yet, but I could get you a glass of
water."
"That would be great, thanks." He watched as
she set the tissue-wrapped mound on the table beside her
uncle's gift, his throat constricting at the sadness in her
face. "I promise I'll have this fire going before you get
back."
Without a word, Maggie Monroe headed toward the
kitchen, her petite frame disappearing around the corner as
he glanced toward the tissue paper and shifted from foot to
foot.
He knew it was none of his business. Knew he
should just do what he'd promised. But his curiosity was
kicking into overdrive. Doug Rigsby's niece was hurting deep
inside her soul. One had only to look at her eyes to unearth
that fact.
Her reaction to his initial greeting was
simply icing on the cake.
But if she was married, as
she'd implied, where was the guy? And why had Doug made a
point of saying his niece would be living there
alone?
Rory heard a cabinet door open and knew his
window of opportunity was rapidly closing. The key to Maggie
Monroe's sadness was inside that tissue paper. He was sure
of it.