I'll Be Home for Christmas (17 page)

“I'm leaving in the morning, Mom. I have some things I need to…take care of.”

“I understand.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”



Mo set out the following morning with a full gas tank, an extra set of warm clothes on the front seat, a brand new flashlight with six new batteries, a real shovel, foot warmers, a basket lunch that would feed her for a week, two pairs of mittens, a pair of fleece-lined boots, and the firm resolve never to take a trip without preparing for it. In the cargo area there were five shopping bags of presents that she would be returning to Wanamaker's over the weekend.

She kissed and hugged her parents, accepted change from her father for the tolls, honked her horn, and was off. Her plan was to stop in Cherry Hill. Why, she didn't know. Probably to make a fool out of herself again. Just the thought of seeing Marcus and Murphy made her blood sing.

She had a speech all worked out in her head, words she'd probably never say. She'd say,
Hi, I was on my way home and thought I'd stop for coffee.
After all, she'd just sent a dozen different kinds. She could help cook a steak for Murphy. Maybe Marcus would kiss her hello. Maybe he'd ask her to stay.

It wasn't until she was almost to the Cherry Hill exit that she realized Marcus hadn't asked if Keith had shown up. That had to mean he wasn't interested in her.
It was what it was.
She passed the exit sign with tears in her eyes.



She tormented herself all of January and February. She picked up the phone a thousand times, and always put it back down. Phones worked two ways. He could call her. All she'd gotten from him was a scrawled note thanking her for the coffee and steaks. He did say Murphy was burying the bones under the pillows and that he'd become a coffee addict. The last sentence was personal.
I hope your delayed Christmas was everything you wanted it to be.
A large scrawled “M.” finished off the note.

She must have written five hundred letters in response to that little note. None of which she mailed.

She was in love. Really in love. For the first time in her life.

And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it. Unless she wanted to make a fool of herself again, which she had no intention of doing.

She threw herself into all the details it took to open a new business. She had the storefront, she'd ordered the vertical blinds, helped her father lay the carpet and tile. Her father had made three easels and three desks, in case she wanted to expand and hire help. Her mother wallpapered the kitchen, scrubbed the ancient appliances, and decorated the bathroom while she went out on foot and solicited business. Her grand opening was scheduled for April first.

She had two new clients and the promise of two more. If she was lucky, she might be able to repay her father's loan in three years instead of five.



On the other side of the bridge, Marcus Bishop wheeled his chair out onto his patio, Murphy alongside him. On the pull-out tray were two beers and the portable phone. He was restless, irritable. In just two weeks he was heading back to the hospital. The do-or-die operation he'd been living for, yet dreading. There were no guarantees, but the surgeon had said he was confident he'd be walking in six months. With extensive, intensive therapy. Well, he could handle that. Pain was his middle name. Maybe then…maybe then, he'd get up the nerve to call Morgan Ames and…and chat. He wondered if he dared intrude on her life with Keith. Still, there was nothing wrong with calling her, chatting about Murphy. He'd be careful not to mention Christmas night and their lovemaking. “The best sex I ever had, Murph. You know me—too much too little too late or whatever that saying is. What'd she see in that jerk? He is a jerk, she as much as said so. You're a good listener, Murph. Hell, let's call her and say…we'll say…what we'll do is…
hello
is good. Her birthday is coming up—so is mine. Maybe I should wait till then and send a card. Or, I could send flowers or a present. The thing is, I want to talk to her now. Here comes the mailman, Murph. Get the bag!”

Murphy ran to the doggie door and was back in a minute with a small burlap sack the mailman put the mail in. Murphy then dragged it to Marcus on the deck. He loved racing to the mailman, who always had dog biscuits as well as Mace in his pockets.

“Whoaoooo, would you look at this, Murph? It's a letter or a card from you know who. Jesus, here I am, thinking about her and suddenly I get mail from her. That must mean something. Here goes. Ah, she opened her own business. The big opening day is April first. No April Fool's joke, she says. She hopes I'm fine, hopes you're fine, and isn't this spring weather gorgeous? She has five clients now, but had to borrow money from her father. She's not holding her breath waiting for someone to ask her to design a bridge. If we're ever in Wilmington, we should stop and see her new office. That's it, Murph. What I could do is send her a tree. Everyone has a tree when they open a new office. Maybe some yellow roses. It's ten o'clock in the morning. They can have the stuff there by eleven. I can call at twelve and talk to her. That's it, that's what we'll do.” Murphy's tail swished back and forth in agreement.

Marcus ordered the ficus tree and a dozen yellow roses. He was assured delivery would be made by twelve-thirty. He passed the time by speaking with his office help, sipping coffee, and throwing a cut-off broom handle for Murphy to fetch. At precisely 12:30, his heart started to hammer in his chest.

“Morgan Ames. Can I help you?”

“Morgan, it's Marcus Bishop. I called to congratulate you. I got your card today.”

“Oh, Marcus, how nice of you to call. The tree is just what this office needed and the flowers are beautiful. That was so kind of you. How are you? How's Murphy?”

“We're fine. You must be delirious with all that's happening. How did Keith react to you opening your own business? For some reason I thought…assumed…that opening the business wasn't something you were planning on doing right away. Summer…or did I misunderstand?”

“No, you didn't misunderstand. I talked it over with my father and he couldn't find any reason why I shouldn't go for it now. I couldn't have done it without my parents' help. As for Keith…it didn't work out. He did show up. It was my decision. He just…wasn't the person I thought he was. I don't know if you'll believe or even understand this, but all I felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.”

“Really? If it's what you want, then I'm happy for you. You know what they say, if it's meant to be, it will be.” He felt dizzy from her news.

“So, when do you think you can take a spin down here to see my new digs?”

“Soon. Do you serve refreshments?”

“I can and will. We have birthdays coming up. I'd be more than happy to take you out to dinner by way of celebration. If you have the time.”

“I'll make the time. Let me clear my deck and get back to you. The only thing that will hinder me is my scheduled operation. There's every possibility it will be later this week.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Marcus. Whenever is good for you will be good for me. I wish you the best. If there's anything I can do…now, that's foolish, isn't it? Like I can really do something. Sometimes I get carried away. I meant…”

“I know what you meant, Morgan, and I appreciate it. Murphy is…he misses you.”

“I miss both of you. Thanks again for the tree and the flowers.”

“Enjoy them. We'll talk again, Morgan.”

The moment Marcus broke the connection his clenched fist shot in the air. “Yessss!” Murphy reacted to this strange display by leaping onto Marcus's lap. “She loves the tree and the flowers. She blew off what's-his-name. What that means to you and me, Murph, is maybe we still have a shot. If only this damn operation wasn't looming. I need to think, to plan. I'm gonna work this out. Maybe, just maybe we can turn things around. She invited me to dinner. Hell, she offered to pay for it. That has to mean something. I take it to mean she's interested. In
us,
because we're a package deal.” The retriever squirmed and wiggled, his long tail lolling happily.

“I feel good, Murph. Real good.”



Mo hung up the phone, her eyes starry. Sending the office announcement had been a good idea after all. She stared at the flowers and at the huge ficus tree sitting in the corner. They made all the difference in the world. He'd asked about Keith and she'd responded by telling him the truth. It had come out just right. She wished now that she had asked about the operation, asked why he was having it. Probably to alleviate the pain he always seemed to be in. At what point would referring to his condition, or his operation, be stepping over the line? She didn't know, didn't know anyone she could ask. Also, it was none of her business, just like Marcey wasn't any of her business. If he wanted her to know, if he wanted to talk about it, he would have said something, opened up the subject.

It didn't matter. He'd called and they sort of had a date planned. She was going to have to get a new outfit, get her hair and nails done. Ohhhhh, she was going to sleep so good tonight. Maybe she'd even dream about Marcus Bishop.

Her thoughts sustained her for the rest of the day and into the evening.

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Two days later, Marcus Bishop grabbed the phone on the third ring. He announced himself in a sleepy voice, then waited. He jerked upright a second later. “Jesus, Stewart, what time is it? Five o'clock! You want me there at eleven? Yeah, yeah, sure. I just have to make arrangements for Murphy. No, no, I won't eat or drink anything. Don't tell me not to worry, Stewart. I'm already sweating. I guess I'll see you later.”

“C'mon, Murph, we're going to see your girlfriend. Morgan. We're going to see Morgan and ask her if she'll take care of you until I get on my feet or…we aren't going to think about…we're going to think positive. Get your leash, your brush, and all that other junk you take with you. Put it by the front door in the basket. Go on.”

He whistled. He sang. He would have danced a jig if it was possible. He didn't bother with a shower—they did that for him at the hospital. He did shave, though. After all, he was going to see Morgan. She might even give him a good luck kiss. One of those blow-your-socks-off kisses.

At the front door he stared at the array Murphy had stacked up. The plastic laundry basket was filled to overflowing. Curious, Marcus leaned over and poked among the contents. His leash, his brush, his bag of vitamins, his three favorite toys, his blanket, his pillow, one of his old slippers and one of Marcey's that he liked to sleep with, the mesh bag that contained his shampoo and flea powder.

“She's probably going to give us the boot when she sees all of this. You sure you want to take all this stuff?” Murphy backed up, barking the three short sounds that Marcus took for affirmation. He barked again and again, backing up, running forward, a sign that Marcus was supposed to follow him. In the laundry room, Murphy pawed the dryer door. Marcus opened it and watched as the dog dragged out the large yellow towel and took it to the front door.

“I'll be damned. Okay, just add it to the pile. I'm sure it will clinch the deal.”

Ten minutes later they were barreling down I-95. Forty minutes after that, with barely any traffic on the highway, Marcus located the apartment complex where Morgan lived. He used up another ten minutes finding the entrance to her building. Thank God for the handicapped ramp and door. Inside the lobby, his eyes scanned the row of mailboxes and buzzers. He pressed down on the button and held his finger steady. When he heard her voice through the speaker he grinned.

“I'm in your lobby and I need you to come down. Now! Don't worry about fixing up. Remember, I've seen you at your worst.”

“What's wrong?” she said, stepping from the elevator.

“Nothing. Everything. Can you keep Murphy for me? My surgeon called me an hour ago and he wants to do the operation this afternoon. The man scheduled for today came down with the flu. I have all Murphy's gear. I don't know what else to do. Can you do it?”

“Of course. Is this his stuff?”

“Believe it or not, he packed himself. He couldn't wait to get here. I can't thank you enough. The guy that usually keeps him is off in Peru on a job. I wouldn't dream of putting him in a kennel. I'd cancel my operation first.”

“It's not a problem. Good luck. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Say a prayer. Well, thanks again. He likes real food. When you go through his stuff you'll see he didn't pack any.”

“Okay.”

“What do you call that thing you're wearing?” Marcus asked curiously.

“It's my bathrobe. It used to be my grandfather's. It's old, soft as silk. It's like an old friend. But better yet, it's warm. These are slippers on my feet even though they look like fur muffs. Again, they keep my feet warm. These things in my hair are curlers. It's who I am,” Mo said huffily.

“I wasn't complaining. I was just curious. I bet you're a knockout when you're wearing makeup. Do you wear makeup?”

Mo's insecurities took over. She must look like she just got off the boat. She could feel a flush working its way up to her neck and face. She didn't mean to say it, didn't think she'd said it until she saw the look on Marcus's face. “Why, did Marcey wear lots of makeup? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I wear very little. I can't afford the pricey stuff she used. What you see is what you get. In other words, take it or leave it and don't ever again compare me to your wife or your girlfriend.” She turned on her heel, the laundry basket in her arms, Murphy behind her.

“Hold on! What wife? What girlfriend? What pricey makeup are you talking about? Marcey was my twin sister. I thought I told you that.”