John presented her with a small, wrapped gift. Smiling,
she had to scramble from bed, hurrying with bare feet
on the cold floor, to get his from her suitcase.
They unwrapped simultaneously, John seeming
pleased with the selection of DVDs she’d bought, all
movies she loved and he hadn’t seen. Wrapped with
them was a pair of tickets to her local multiplex. He
stared down at them.
A little worried, she said, “For when you come to
see me.”
“Thank you.” He nodded. “Open the box.”
His gift was a pair of earrings, pretty ones with
central diamonds surrounded by tiny rubies, but she
was oddly disappointed. No, that was silly—how could
he know enough about her life to give her something
deeply meaningful?
What she wanted most from him, Fiona realized,
couldn’t have been wrapped and tied with a bow,
anyway. What she wanted was for him to tell her why
he was wounded so badly in spirit as well as body.
But, goodness—they were still tap dancing around
all kinds of intimate subjects! Trust came with time,
with knowledge of each other. In the meantime, Fiona
settled happily into the lodge life she remembered,
except now she got to sleep in John’s bed with him.
She waited on guests while he wrestled with a frozen
water pipe, coming back with raw knuckles on one
hand. She found she didn’t mind cleaning the bathrooms or changing bedding when one family left and another arrived and he was busy carrying out bags or
hauling in wood.
She remembered from that first time feeling astonished at the quantity of food her group of kids ate, the laundry they generated. But within a day she realized
there were more people in the lodge now, which meant
more food to prepare, more dishes to wash, more towels
to wash and dry and fold. And this was normal. Three
days of working beside him, and she should have been
exhausted. Instead she was content.
Mostly she loved being wherever John was. Watching him do the simplest task gave her pleasure. Being able to meet his eyes, even when the kitchen was
crowded, in a silent, intimate exchange filled her with
joy. The moments when he touched her in passing, his
hand possessive and knowing, were almost as good as
their kisses when they were alone.
He encouraged her to talk when they had time alone,
as if he were hungry to learn everything about her. She
found herself confessing to things she’d been dismayed
to learn about herself.
“Thanksgiving was weird,” she admitted, when they
took a walk down to the creek. Snow crunched under
their feet, and ahead moving water burbled in an otherwise silent landscape. The cabins, no doubt inviting in summer, looked cold and empty with unmarked snow
burying steps, no smoke coming from metal stovepipes,
and windows glinting blankly. Icicles hung from eaves.
“Do you know,” Fiona continued, as they followed
a path made by cross-country skies and showshoes, “I
think I was jealous? I told myself I was glad Mom is
dating, but then I secretly resented this man because I
had to share her with him. I’m so used to having her to
myself.” She shook her head at the memory and with
one gloved hand brushed snow from a bough that
sprang higher once released from the weight. “They
were really careful not to touch, and we were all so awkward. I’m embarrassed to remember.”
“Even if you’d felt comfortable, they might not
have.” John wore a fleece hat—something he rarely
did. It was so cold today.
“I’m sure. But they were awkward because of me.
Because I sat there wishing Mom hadn’t invited him.
I felt awful when she made a point of telling me
Christmas Eve would be just us. And—” this was the
most humiliating part “—even worse when I said I’d
be away for Christmas and I heard her voice lighten
when she told me not to worry, she wouldn’t have to
be alone.”
“You wanted her to be alone on Christmas Eve?” His
glance was quizzical, his voice gentle.
“No! Of course not!” Fiona laughed to hide her discomfiture. “I just wanted her to miss the time when it was enough for it just to be the two of us.”
John stopped. “Do you think she doesn’t?”