Mistletoe and Magic (22 page)

Aha. That explained why Agata became Mother Hen. “She told you she read it?”

“Yes. Said she knew I was a good girl even before she read my mother’s letter.”

“Try not to take it personally. She really cares about you, and I’m guessing whatever she found out only confirmed how she was already feeling about you.” There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

He settled her on the couch, then gingerly set her left leg on the pile of pillows while she fussed in her backpack for her mother’s list. No wonder Agata insisted she stay off her feet another day. Between the swelling and the ring of purple bruising, her ankle didn’t look ready to hold weight any time soon.

When he looked up at her, she seemed riveted by the open laptop on the coffee table. “Is that a computer?”

He nodded. “My laptop.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed a perfect o. “It’s so pretty. I can’t believe people actually have them.”

“You’ve never used one?”

She shook her head. “I’ve seen them in stores and on television, but...” She didn’t finish the statement, but she really didn’t have to. From what he’d pieced together about her life with her mother, she wouldn’t have stayed in one place long enough to acquire any of the possessions most people claimed as necessities. No personal computer, no cell phone, hell, she probably never had a library card. Which brought up another question: where had she gone to school?

No. Not yet. She was still upset over Agata’s prying. He wouldn’t press her for more information now. “Here.” He set the machine on her lap and ran his index finger over the mouse pad, bringing the screen to life. “Go ahead. Try something.”

She hesitated, and confusion puckered her brow. “I don’t know how.”

“Skootch over, and I’ll show you.” Perching half his butt on the couch beside her, he leaned over to show her the search engine. The scent of Christmas spice wafted from the warmth of her skin. Once again, the visions assailed him: a future holiday where Polina reclined on another couch, with their newborn child at her breast. God, if he reached out, he could almost touch the scene. Instead, he directed her to the search bar. “What’s the name of the cemetery?”

Picking up her mother’s letter, she scanned the words. “Salwator.”

“Type the name.”

As she pecked at the letters on the keyboard and the words appeared on the screen’s search tab, she squealed her delight. “Ohmigod, this is
awesome
!” The list popped up, and she looked up at him. “Now what?”

He showed her how to choose the website they wanted, and when she clicked on the link, photos of beautiful crypts and graves in floral gardens, or lighted by hundreds of candles at night, filled the screen.

“This is it?” She pointed at a photo of a copper-colored stone crypt surrounded by pink and white blooms. “This is the cemetery where my grandparents are?”

“I guess so.”

Her finger traced the flowers. “It’s so pretty, so peaceful.”

And it was. He scrolled down past the photos until he found a search tab. “And look here. You can actually type a name into the database and find the exact location of that person’s grave. Or you can send a message to the caretakers. That might not be a bad idea. You can ask them how you would go about having your mother’s ashes interred in her parents’ crypt.”

“But how will they answer me?”

“Well, we could set you up with an email account or they could reply to mine, if you’re okay with that.”

“That’s probably better,” she replied. “I don’t have a computer so even if you set me up with an email account, I wouldn’t have any way to read their response.”

“Okay, then. Do you want to type your request or should I?”

“Me. Please?”

How could he resist the eagerness on her face, the way her eyes shone and she bit her lip while waiting for his permission? “Go for it.”

They finished the message, added his email address to the contact info, and sent it on its way.

“They’ll really get this message right away?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s in their inbox already, but we’ll have to wait until they open it, read it, and respond, which could take a few days.”

“Amazing,” she exclaimed. “What else can you do with this?”

He shrugged. “Just about anything, I guess. It depends on what you want to do.”

For the next several hours, he showed her how to handle various tasks via the Internet. He even set up an email account for her, then sent her a goofy message from his Blackberry so she could see how quickly the message arrived.

And when she looked up at him, the wonder and delight shining in her eyes became his undoing. “If I try to kiss you,” he crooned, drawing a finger down her cheek toward her lower lip, “are you going to run away again?”

Her smile was the sweetest surrender he’d ever received. “Only one way to find out.”

Snaking an arm around her shoulder, he trapped her against him—just in case she attempted to flee. But she didn’t. She gave herself wholly to him, her lips soft and sweet as she yielded.

Chapter 7

Over the next several days, Polina fell into a pleasant routine with the Nowacks. Each morning, they shared breakfast together before Stefan went off to work. Agata would then get Cyryl dressed and ready for school. By eight o’clock, Agata would kiss Polina’s cheek, remind her to stay off her foot but to make herself at home otherwise, then put Cyryl on his bus before heading to her job at the hospital. From then until about two in the afternoon, Polina was alone.

Having six hours in the Nowak home by herself every day, she now understood Agata’s need to be certain she was a “good girl” before agreeing to let her stay. The solo hours were the hardest part of the day for her. On Monday, she tried reading, but all the family’s books were in Polish. Television had never really interested her. On Tuesday, she did some writing in her journal, but how many times could she write about her growing fondness for Rhys, for Stefan and Agata and adorable little Cyryl? She needed something more to keep busy.

By mid-afternoon each day, Rhys would come to visit. On Tuesday, he came into the Nowack house, his handheld phone in his grip as he bounced the device near her face while she sat on the couch. “Saturday afternoon,” he sing-songed.

“What? What’s Saturday afternoon?”

He kissed her lightly on the lips before replying, “Your mother’s internment. The cemetery emailed me this morning. They’ve even agreed to allow you a small ceremony before they place her ashes in the crypt.”

“Really?” Excitement sparkled in her veins. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a hard, full-on kiss that zinged a thrill down her spine. “Thank you!”

“You keep kissing me like that, and I’ll go out and slay a few dragons for you while I’m at it.” He stood, then turned his attention to her feet. “How’s the ankle today?”

“Better,” she said and lifted her leg off the pillows for his perusal.

“Nice. It’s green now,” he remarked. “I guess that’s better than purple.”

“More Christmasy, right?” she quipped. “That’s how I look at it.”

“Oh, definitely.” He took the pillows out from under her feet, moved them to the oblong table across from her, then rotated her so her legs were propped there. Then he sat beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders.

She snuggled into him, a perfect fit. Somewhere inside her, a low voice said she’d already let him get too close, but she drowned out the warning with a loud sigh. “You think I can get off the couch today?”

His fingers toyed with a lock of her hair. “Doubtful. But every day gets you closer.”

Planting a kiss on his cheek, she murmured, “I missed you.”

He craned his neck to look at her, an indulgent smile on his lips. “Really? Did you miss me, in particular, or just someone to talk to besides Hunter?” She pretended to think about it a mite too long, and he muttered, “Gee, thanks very much.”

Giggling, she said, “
You
, Rhys. I missed you. Hunter’s not a terrific conversationalist. And his kisses leave a lot to be desired.”

“Let’s see if I can remedy that.” He pressed his lips to her, and any doubts she still harbored scattered.

***

As expected, Agata and Cyryl returned home by four, Stefan at five, and family dinner began promptly at six. Polina, who’d never experienced an average family lifestyle, found comfort in the ritual as the days melded one into the other. Dinner hour became her favorite part of the day, once she was allowed to join the family in the dining room. She loved how the Nowaks reviewed the day’s events, shared a meal with her and Rhys, and reconnected after hours spent apart.

After dinner that evening, the conversation turned to the upcoming Christmas Eve celebration,
Wigilia
.

“You like fish, yes?” Agata asked her.

“Yes.” She’d never eaten much fish except for the occasional fried clams or shrimp at fairs, but how bad could it be?

“Good.” Agata nodded. “No meat at
Wigilia
. You are our very special unexpected guest, and it is my responsibility to make sure you are happy. We’ll eat and sing and share gifts, eh?”

Gifts. Polina’s mind raced. Of course there would be gifts. She’d totally forgotten that aspect of Christmas. At home, Uncle Leo would sometimes speak about holidays he’d celebrated as a child and detail the gifts of warm clothing and shoes and fruit and candy left by Saint Nicholas. But from what Polina glimpsed in her time here, the Nowaks had plenty of clothing and sweets. What on earth could she give to these generous people that would show how fond she’d grown of them? And Cyryl? Did he still believe in the magic of St. Nicholas?

“Polina?”

Rhys’s prompt centered her puzzlement on him, this man who’d literally plucked her from the icy sidewalks of Krakow. She had to give the fortune teller credit. In following the dog on her first night here, she’d gained a true friend. No. More than a friend, someone she cared for deeply. If she had more time here, who knew where their friendship might go?

What kind of gift would communicate how much Rhys had come to mean to her? And not only because he was a helluva kisser. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she stared down at the tablecloth.

“Polina?” Rhys asked again. “Are you all right? Is your ankle hurting?”

“No, I’m fine.” She looked up into his concerned face, smiling to reassure him. “Really.”

“Good, because we have a surprise for you.”

“You do?”

“How would you like to go for a ride?”

Excitement bubbled inside her. “I can go outside? Really?”

“Really,” he replied and looked around the table at the Nowaks, receiving a curt nod from Agata. “
If
you’re up for it.”

She bounced crazily, clapping her hands. “I am. Believe me, I’m more than up for it.” She’d give up a kidney to get off the couch, even for a little while.

“Excuse me.” Agata rose from her seat and left the dining room.

Curious, Polina studied Rhys’s secretive smile. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see.”

Turning her attention to Stefan and Cyryl, she noted similar smirks on their faces. Still, no one enlightened her.

“Here we are.” Agata returned, pushing an empty wheelchair.

Polina turned a cryptic eye on Rhys. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. You want to see the
szopki
? This is your opportunity. I’ll take you—with Agata’s blessing—provided you stay in the chair. So? Will you agree?”

She flicked her gaze from Rhys to the wheelchair to Agata’s steely stare and pursed lips. Maybe she could talk him into ditching the rolling cage once they were alone? Definitely worth a shot. And more importantly, she’d get out of the house for a while! “Okay.”

“Good,” Agata said. “We’ll get our coats.”

Veering her attention back to Rhys, she caught his apologetic shrug and realized she’d been outmaneuvered again by the good wife, Agata.

***

The
szopki
had emerged from a tradition centuries earlier when artisans of the time would create elaborate Nativity scenes for the wealthy. Unlike the usual stable full of hay and animals seen in most crèches,
szopki
more closely resembled miniature Russian palaces. Each year, on the first Thursday in December, Krakow held a competition in the market square. Afterwards, all the entrants were moved inside the History Museum, but only those who’d won for their originality or magnificence received a permanent home on display there.

Rhys didn’t know which of them was more fascinated by the
szopki
. Cyryl, with the wonder and glee of a child, raced from one display to the next, oohing and aahing at the colorful foils that glamorized the spires. Polina, on the other hand, studied the structures the way a mechanical engineer might. She even asked Agata to find out what materials were used to make the artistic pieces.

Outside again, Stefan and Agata took Cyryl to a local café for hot chocolate, and Rhys wheeled Polina toward his car. “Now you get to check another item off your mother’s list.”

She mimed a giant checkmark in the air. “Thank God. I was really worried I wouldn’t get to finish everything before I go home.”

Unlocking the car, he opened the passenger door. “What’s left at this point?”

“The visit to the cemetery, my mother’s interment, and attending a traditional
Wigilia
feast, which includes a list of traditions I already reviewed with Agata. She does them all so once I celebrate Christmas, I’m good to go.”

He scooped her up, as he had a dozen times since that first night in the fast food place. “And then you return to the States?”

As she buckled her seatbelt, she sighed. “The day after Christmas.”

“What if I asked you to stay?”

Her gaze shot up from her lap. “Excuse me?”

Without caring about the slush or cold, he knelt on the sidewalk and reached for her hand. “Stay. Please. You could move in with me. Or if you’re not comfortable with that, you could continue to live with the Nowaks. I’m only in Krakow for another six months or so, and I have some great opportunities to choose from next—even one in the States, if that matters to you. We could travel the world—”