Mistletoe and Magic (23 page)

“No.”

An icy claw gripped his chest. “No? You don’t even want to think about it?”

“No. If I think too much, I might give in.”

“Oh, well, sure, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Acid filled his tone but he couldn’t hold back his shock. Or his disappointment. This was not what he’d anticipated. He’d made no backup plan for her denial.

“I’m sorry, Rhys. I like you. A lot. Agata thinks I might even be falling in love with you, and I can’t argue the possibility.”

He released a tense breath. She loved him. This was good. So why wouldn’t she stay with him? The reason burst into his head like fireworks. “You think I’m pressuring you? Okay, I get that. So stay with the Nowaks, and let’s see where this like-might-be-love attraction goes.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t? Why not?” He hammered the questions, needing an answer that would make sense. “What’s waiting for you at home? Where
is
home anyway?”

“Right now? Texas. But I don’t plan to stay there.”

“Where do you intend to go?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“And you can’t stay here with me because…?” He left the question open, hoping she’d fill in the blanks for him.

All he got in return was another sigh. “I’m not sure I can explain it.”

“Try,” he bit out. His patience hung on a dandelion puff, one whiff from flying off into the stratosphere.

“Okay. The truth?” After a deep breath, she leveled a steely gaze his way. “I hated my mother. There. Now you know. I’m not the good girl Agata thinks I am.”

Relief flooded him. Was that all? A speed bump. They could maneuver this easily. “I think you’re overreacting. You might have resented your mother, but I doubt you really hated her.”

Fire flashed from her eyes when she slammed a fist on the leather car seat. “Wrong. I resented her when I was ten and had to become the adult in our family, when I never celebrated a birthday or rode a bus to school, or when I never got new shoes that didn’t pinch my feet because Mom needed the money for cigarettes and beer. Resentment turned to hate when eighteen years later, I still didn’t have a birthday and still wore shoes that didn’t fit properly.” Her fist slammed the top of the boot she wore on her right foot, the mate to the culprit that had sprained her left ankle.

Silence reigned between them, and her heavy breathing suggested she fought back tears.

He wanted to speak, to comfort her, but he couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t imagine what her life had been like, but he sensed she would refuse sympathy or pity, even if he tried.

At last, with a shuddering breath, her voice ragged, she murmured, “It’s because I like— and might be falling in love with—you that I can’t stay here with you. I’m twenty-eight years old, and I’ve never held a job. Not a real one, anyway. I couldn’t even attend college because my mother…” She curled her fingers into quotation marks. “‘…needed’ me.” The tears erupted, and she wept openly.

“Easy, sweetheart. I get it.”

“No,” she retorted with an angry swipe across her eyes. “I don’t think you can understand. I didn’t come to Krakow to find love. I didn’t even come here willingly. Mom just had to pull my strings one last time. After Christmas, I’m free. I can finally start living my own life. I’ve waited a long time to be on my own, to do things most people start doing in their teenage years. If I go straight from living with my mother to living with you, I’m cheating myself, but I’m also cheating you. Because I’m only half a person. You deserve a whole woman.”

At last, he really did understand. Hadn’t he left his home in England to find himself, to get out from under the thumb of his family onus? He’d had ten years abroad to come to terms with his two sides: the independent ex-pat and the man tethered to parents and siblings in England. He had to allow her the opportunity to do the same. “Okay, then. So I’ll wait for you to get whole.” He quirked a brow at her, hoping to lighten the mood. “About how long do you think it’ll take?”

She snorted, the shadow of a smile playing on her lips. “I have no idea.”

Kissing her forehead, he set her free. “Go. Find yourself. But keep me in the loop, okay?”

“How?”

He patted her hand and stood. “We’ll figure something out.”

Chapter 8

Polina didn’t sleep much Tuesday night. Her conversation with Rhys ran over and over in her head: forward, reverse, forward, and at one point, she could’ve sworn they spoke the dialogue in pig Latin. She’d done the right thing by turning him down—she knew that. It didn’t mean making the decision didn’t hurt like a white-hot knife to the heart.

Don’t think about it, she told herself as she climbed into her new “ride,” the dreaded wheelchair, and rolled into the kitchen.

“
Dobry rano
, Polina,” Agata greeted her. “How you sleep?”

“Fine,” she lied.

“You slept late today. I make you breakfast now before I go to work.”

Polina wheeled herself in front of the refrigerator. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll take care of myself.”

“You no do good job taking care of yourself.” Agata clucked her tongue and gripped Polina’s shoulder in her meaty hand. “You too skinny for Polish girl.”

Surrendering on a sigh, Polina rolled toward the dining room. “Thank you—not only for breakfast this morning, but also for the wheelchair so I could see the
smoke
last night.”

“You like the
szopki
?” Agata called after her.

She paused in the foyer between the two rooms and turned back to Agata. “Goodness, yes! I couldn’t believe the intricate detail in some of them. They looked so delicate, like buildings out of some beautiful fairyland.”

“Mama,” Cyryl interjected from his seat at the dining room table. “Why don’t we have a
szopka
here?”

“Maybe someday, we will.” She waved him off. “Go. Get your books. We leave soon.”

The boy rose. “Yes, Mama.” With a quick wave at Polina, he sped down the hall toward his bedroom.

That little exchange inspired Polina, and after the house emptied out, she spent several hours drawing out her plan, sketching designs, and creating a list of items she’d need. In the afternoon, when Rhys showed up, she handed him a list, along with plenty of Polish currency.

Still in his overcoat and hovering in the doorway, he looked at the items in his hand, then back down at Polina, trapped in the stupid wheelchair. “What’s this?”

“A shopping list. Is that enough money to get everything I have on there?”

He scanned the list and counted out the
zlotys
. “Yes, of course. More than enough.”

“Good. Can you pick up that stuff for me?” When he didn’t immediately move, she added, “Now?”

“What for?” He glanced at the list and read off several of the items. “Wood, cardboard, colored foil? Is this part of your list of tasks for your mother? Or are you building a mirror to help find yourself?” He leaned toward her, his lips a breath from the crook of her neck. “Want to let me in on what you’ve got planned?”

Delicious shivers raced down her back, but she silently lectured herself to stay strong.
Don’t melt. Remember the old carny saying. Eyes on the prize
. “Not yet,” she told him, then placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed. “Now go buy those things for me. I need to get started if I want to finish on time.”

“On time for what?”

She flashed him a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll see.”

Once he left on her errand, she struggled out of the chair, and hopped on her good leg toward the door she knew led to the basement. If anyone caught her, she’d probably wind up tied to the bed for the remainder of her stay, but she needed a place to work
and
hide her project while in progress.

Hobbling down one step at a time, hands white-knuckling the bannister, she managed to reach the bottom. Dampness weighted the air, and mildew stung her nostrils. There was no natural light, due mostly to the snow piled higher than the ground level windows. Boxes lined the walls, along with a vertical stack of folding chairs. A spider web the size of Kansas, its fuzzy gray occupant loitering in the center, hung from one corner of the room. Not exactly ideal working conditions, but she’d dealt with plenty of worse situations over the years.

She found a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, and when she flipped the switch, the bulb gave off plenty of light. Yes, this would do fine. She created a makeshift workbench from a sheet of plywood and two sawhorses. After laying out her sketches, she found a bunch of old clothespins to keep them in place, then hobbled back upstairs and into her chair before Rhys returned.

Rhys. He wasn’t going to be as easy to figure out. Especially since the one gift they both wanted—for her to stay with him—she couldn’t give him. So what
could
she give him?

She still didn’t have an idea when he came back with two bags of supplies. “Where do you want these?”

Oops. Well, now, here was a dilemma. She couldn’t exactly tell him to bring them to the basement. “My bedroom, I guess.” She’d hide them under the bed ‘til tomorrow. With Rhys already here, and the family due home soon, she wouldn’t get a chance to start work tonight anyway.

“On the bed okay?” He started walking down the hall.

“
Under
the bed would be better.”

He stopped, turned to look at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What’s going on? What are you up to now?”

Lips clamped tight, she shook her head.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

Again, she shook her head.

A smug smile twitched his lips, and he shrugged. “Then I’ll just have to call in sick and spend the next several days here to keep an eye on you.”

Oh, cripes. He’d do it, too.

Fine. She had no choice. She’d have to trust him to keep her secret until
Wigilia
. “It’s a special Christmas present for the Nowaks.”

He looked at the filled bags in his hands, then up into her face. “What are you making?”

“A
szopka
.”

His expression softened, and she could almost read his thoughts:
Aww, how cute! She thinks she can recreate magnificent works of art with a glue stick and aluminum foil
.

“You don’t have to do that, Polina.”

She opted to meet his doubts head-on. “You don’t think I can build one, do you?” Self-confidence lent her tone bravado. The idea had first struck her when Cyryl’s face lit up inside the museum. Once the thought bloomed, she’d begun making plans in her head. She studied the seams and lines, asked the right questions from everyone in attendance who looked like an expert. After all that scrutiny, she knew she could build a
szopka
with one hand tied behind her back.

His eyes widened, and his smile quirked up on one side. “In a week? Sorry, sweetheart, but no. Artisans in the city spend months working on their pieces.”

“Maybe, but I have an edge. I’m not building one for a competition. This is a gift of love, or I should probably call it a gift of
magic
to get you to understand.”

The smile disappeared, and he tilted his head to study her with a stern expression. “Magic, huh? So…what? You’ll snap your fingers, and a bunch of elves will appear to do the work while you sleep?”

“No. And don’t make fun. The Nowaks have been very good to me these last few days. I have to give them
something
for Christmas, or
Wigilia
, or whatever they call it.”

“Look,” he said on a heavy sigh, “if it’s an issue of money, why don’t I take you Christmas shopping this weekend? You can pick out anything you want and I’ll—”

“No! You will
not
pay for the gift I plan to give them. Even
I
know that’s cheating. Besides, gifts aren’t about money; they’re to show you’re thinking of the recipient. Since I’ve been staying here, I haven’t had to pay for my room and meals so I have some money squirreled away. I can do this on my own.”

“You’re starting the independent woman game already, huh? Okay, fine. I can accept that. But if you’re planning this gift as a surprise, where do you plan to work on it without Agata finding out?”

“Let me worry about the particulars,” she said with a dismissive wave.

He nodded, turned, and continued down the hallway toward her bedroom. Polina released a tense breath until he ruined the moment by tossing over his shoulder, “That’s probably best. This way, when Agata does find out and metes out your punishment, I can tell her under oath that I remained blissfully ignorant of your scheme.”

***

Sleet fell on Polina’s face as she stared at the crypt with the name, KOMINSKI, etched in perfect block lettering on the pristine rose marble. With the horrid weather, she was glad she’d declined the memorial service—Mom wasn’t much of a religious person anyway, especially since attending mass would have required her to get out of bed before the crack of noon on Sunday morning. Perish the thought.

Wanting this last time alone with her mother, she had asked Rhys and the Nowaks not to come with her today. But, of course, Rhys had insisted on bringing her. At least he’d had the grace to wheel her to the crypt, kiss her lightly, and hand her the umbrella. After reminding her to signal him when she was done, he strode out of earshot, but still in sight, beneath a canopied seating area.

“That’s Rhys,” she told the ashes already placed behind the stone door. “I like him a lot. I might even love him, but I want to be sure. I don’t know how you’d feel about him, Mom. I
am
sure about a few things, though. Unlike Travis, I can pretty much bet my life that Rhys would never crawl into bed with you because I turned him down.” Bitterness scorched her throat, and she shook her head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t go there. Not now.”

She inhaled a ragged breath and pushed away the ugly memories.

“What I really wanted to say is that I know you tried. And maybe Rhys is right, and I don’t hate you. I mean, I
did
love you, Mom. I hated the choices you made for both of us. And I wonder if things might have been different if you’d found a good man to love—someone like my Rhys.”