The Sweetest September (Home in Magnolia Bend) (19 page)

Rebecca’s stocking had made her want to cry.

An angel.

After Carla had rammed her cart into Shelby’s at Schwartz’s a few weeks ago, Shelby had set Rebecca’s journal on the top shelf next to the porcelain china doll. Every time she opened the closet to find something to wear, her eyes went up to where it sat.

An angel...but was that who Rebecca truly was?

Shelby’s perception of John’s late wife was based on everyone else’s grief, but she didn’t know who the woman had been. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to know the woman John had loved. But the fact she could know more if she opened the journal tempted her. All she had to do was lift her arm and grab the story of Rebecca.

John folded the flaps of the box, interrupting her thoughts. “Guess I should expect a lump of coal, huh?”

“Well, you can use coal for a lot of things. To keep warm and draw. You can even make a diamond out of coal.” Shelby took the box and set it atop the ones John would return to storage. They’d finished decorating the house, and the living room looked different with the holly, greenery and red velvet bows. The trappings of Christmas had brought life to the room, making it feel like a home.

“I’m glad we did this,” he said, standing back and folding his arms. The gesture made his shoulders broader, his jaw harder. Well, it actually didn’t, but to Shelby, he seemed more masculine than seconds before.

“I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree before,” she said. “My parents had decorators put up our holiday decorations. In Spain I just hung a wreath.”

The look he gave her said enough.

“Yeah, I’m pitiful.”

“No, you’re beautiful, and I’m glad you stayed here.”

Shelby looked back at the sparkling world spread before her. “I’m glad I stayed, too.”

Later, Shelby went up to her room the way she did each night. Using the stairs. And very much alone.

Until an hour ago, John had refused to move into any other realm than friendship. During the past few weeks, they’d been decent roommates, agreeable pals, mutual fans of
The Walking Dead
—who wasn’t?—and that was all. Well, John wanted her physically, of course. Shelby hadn’t climbed off the boat yesterday and knew that much.

So why when he finally moved toward something more intimate than “pass the salt” had she pulled back?

Perhaps because ticking off all the shitty decisions she’d made over the guys in her past reminded her she couldn’t trust her heart. Wanting John and something more than a platonic relationship scared her, because now she couldn’t walk away and never see him again. Their child would link them forever.

So wouldn’t it be better to ignore the unspoken attraction between them and settle for friendship rather than risk their hearts? Probably.

But then again, when had Shelby ever done what she was supposed to do?

Only on the fourth of never.

“You can’t be so irresponsible anymore, chickadee,” she said to herself as she closed the door and switched on the bedside lamp. Rubbing the stomach that had finally started getting poochy, she pulled her Oregon State sweatshirt over her head. With a yawn, she went to the closet and hung it up, glancing at the journal on the top shelf the way she did every day.

No one wanted the journal...it was forgotten.

Shelby had tried to give it to John, and then Carla hadn’t even given her a chance to tell her about her daughter’s journal. So maybe fate or whatever one wanted to call it had left Rebecca’s journal to Shelby.

What had John said earlier? Meant to be? Maybe this was the same thing. Maybe Shelby was meant to read Rebecca’s journal for whatever reason, which was definitely a higher purpose than Shelby being nosy.

Sliding a glance at the unlocked door as if she were about to sneak a copy of
Playgirl,
she pulled the journal off the shelf.

Don’t be silly, Shelby. He’s not coming in to catch you reading his dead wife’s journal.

She tossed Rebecca’s journal on her pillow and quickly pulled on her gown, scrubbed her face and brushed her teeth. When she settled into bed, piling up the goose-down pillows behind her, the alarm clock read 9:47 p.m.

When she finished reading the entries constituting Rebecca’s first year of marriage with John, the clock read 12:13 a.m.

Switching off the lamp, Shelby stared up at the shadows, her head full of too much. She now knew Rebecca had dreamed about being a photojournalist, had sex for the first time with someone other than John and grew tired of the way John made decisions for her without consulting her. She also knew that despite hating the way John snored, the constant talk of sugarcane and the way her husband always agreed with her father, Rebecca had loved John.

The picture sitting in the bathroom had been taken at Destin on their first wedding anniversary. Rebecca had bought John a funny Hawaiian shirt and some Ray-Ban aviator glasses. He’d bought her a diamond tennis bracelet. They’d had sex on the beach...not the drink and John had cut his butt on a shell.

Shelby felt dirty for having read the journal. She’d had no right, and now she knew things she wasn’t supposed to know. But even as guilt assuaged her, she knew one thing had changed.

Rebecca was real to her...and she liked the woman despite the fact she didn’t want to, despite the fact she was jealous as hell of her.

Closing her eyes, Shelby murmured a small prayer. “Please don’t let this be so wrong. Please don’t let me make a terrible mistake.”

When she opened her eyes again, nothing had changed. The ceiling fan still turned, the shadows still swayed against the pale walls and Rebecca’s journal still sat beside her, fat and guilty, holding the key to loving John or hurting him more.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

C
HRISTMAS
E
VE
HAD
always been a big deal for John’s family. After the Christmas Eve service ended, the entire clan went back to the big house on Front Street to drink wassail, eat Aunt Fran’s sour cream pound cake and hear John’s father read
The Night Before Christmas.
In between, there was plenty of merriment, and if Matt felt like it, he set up karaoke in the living room and everyone took turns singing. Uncle Carlton usually got as toasted as any Christmas chestnut and did his version of “It’s Raining Men,” which explained without him having to extend a toe out of the closet why he’d never married.

Even last year in the midst of despair over losing Rebecca, John had relished the sacredness of the Christmas candlelight service in the church where he’d once ridden his tricycle down the aisle. The soft glow combined with the smell of evergreen and wax comforted him, and finally after three weeks of begging off of attending church, Shelby sat beside him on the pew. He’d noticed her black dress looked a little snug at her waist, the first sign of the impending bump that would soon emerge. She wore those black boots that had made an appearance in a couple of the fantasies he’d allowed to play out in his mind each night, and even dressed somberly, she looked chic and festive with a red velvet bow holding her hair back. She shifted on the pew. “Everyone’s looking at me.”

“Well, you look beautiful. I like the red ribbon.”

“I need a haircut. This was the best I could do.”

He smiled and winked at Birdie who, for once, looked less sulky and more amiable. His sister, Abigail, wore a sweater dress that really didn’t flatter her thin frame. She needed to stop worrying about him and Birdie and the fact their mother’s mammogram looked off. Abigail took on the world every day and it showed on her.

“I can ask Abigail who she uses.”

“I already got a name from your Aunt Hilda. Where is she, by the way?”

“She’ll be here later. She spends part of the evening with her late husband’s family in New Orleans.”

The service began with traditional hymns and girls in white lighting candles. His father preached a short sermon on the true gift of Christmas and then small individual candles were passed out, each neighbor lighting the candle of the other while “Silent Night” made the rounds.

“I’m glad you came,” he whispered to Shelby as she lit his candle with hers.

“I am, too. Lots of firsts for me at Christmas, but sharing your family traditions is important.”

For the baby.

The words were unspoken, and right then and there, he didn’t want it to be about the baby. He wanted it to be about him. This revelation startled him. He’d told himself for the past month that everything he’d done had been for his unborn child. He’d convinced himself the only thing he and Shelby could have between them was the child they’d made. He’d tried to ignore his burgeoning feelings for her, telling himself he wanted her the way any man would want a beautiful, sexy woman. He’d lied to himself because every day he grew closer and closer to something more with Shelby and further and further away from the man he’d been.

He tilted his candle to his brother Jake’s. Jake had showed up looking like sin, claiming the church would fall in on him. Of course, even though Jake could raise hell, he got still and solemn when he sank onto a church pew.

“Shelby looks good,” Jake said, leaning slightly forward. “If you’re not going to do anything with that, I’m going to make a move—”

“To the graveyard if you think about laying a finger on her luscious body,” John finished.

“Luscious body?” Jake whispered before giving John a grin. “That’s what I’m talking about, bro.”

John scowled at Jake, even as inside he acknowledged his brother was right. He needed to show Shelby he wanted something more than what they now had. If he didn’t, the interest he suspected she had in him would wane. That’s the way things went with attraction. A woman would only wait for so long, and Shelby had been extraordinarily patient with him. Hesitation equaled lost opportunity.

Or masturbation.

Eh, both.

Over the past four weeks, he’d moved through many stages and gone through things he hadn’t been prepared to tackle so soon after Rebecca’s death. He thought it would take years before he could feel something in the caverns of his heart. But over the course of a month, he’d learned his life could be more...and it was okay to want another woman. But this wasn’t just about sex. No, he held a deep warmth for the woman who fed Bart when he forgot, who watered plants that were near death and double-checked the locks before trudging up to bed. Such a city girl, but a city girl he’d grown more and more fond of day after day. The thought of her ever leaving Magnolia Bend made his heart lurch against his ribs.

She wanted him, or at least he was almost certain she did, even if she’d pulled back a few nights ago when she’d told him about her past mistakes. He’d been thinking about the way she’d felt in his arms since that night in the park, and the night they decorated the Christmas tree, he’d wanted to kiss her. And not apologize for it.

“Why aren’t you singing?” she asked, turning her eyes to where the choir director robustly belted out the Christmas song.

“I’m a horrible singer.”

“So am I, but that choir guy is giving you the stink eye.”

John moved his lips, faking the chorus.

“Cheater pants,” she whispered.

Abigail shot John the same evil eye when John laughed. But he didn’t care how many people looked at him and Shelby. A couple of old bats who were Carla’s bosom buddies had stared coldly and whispered behind their programs, but he didn’t give a rip-roaring damn. God strike him dead in church, but he liked having Shelby beside him. Lately, he’d been thinking about what Rebecca would think about Shelby, and he knew she would have wanted him to move on and love again.

Wait...love?

He wasn’t ready for love yet. But he was ready to move away from grief and claim a future not as bleak as it had seemed months ago.

On impulse, he curved an arm around Shelby and pulled her to him, giving her a good squeeze, and then he belted out the last verse in a very off-key baritone. Jake winced, Abigail rolled her eyes and his father made a funny face from the pulpit.

But Shelby...Shelby smiled.

And then and there, John decided he had to find some dang mistletoe.

* * *

T
HE
B
EAUCHAMP
HOUSE
looked like a spread for
Good Housekeeping.
White lights lined the eaves and huge urns with evergreens anchored the front door. Inside a huge tree with large old-fashioned bulbs cast a festive glow over the crowded living room. Matt stood in the corner fussing with electrical cords and something that looked like—

Oh, no. Karaoke.

Shelby inched back toward the open front door, but John blocked her path. Oh, well, guess she’d hide in the kitchen if she had to. Happy chatter swelled around her as she slid off her black velvet jacket and turned to John.

“Please tell me you’re not going to sing,” she said.

His green eyes glinted. “Why? I killed that last verse of
Silent Night.
”

“Killed is right,” Abigail said, sliding in behind them.

Shelby grinned. “You know, the carol becomes a total oxymoron when you sing it.”

“
Moron
being the key word,” Abigail drawled, tempering her barb with a smile.

“This is what it’s like having her as a sister. It’s a wonder I have any self-esteem.”

“Ha,” Abigail said, stripping the little girl wool coat off Birdie, who bobbed her head to the song playing through her earbuds.

“God, Mom. I’m not a little kid. Stop,” Birdie said, jerking the coat from her mother and dumping it on the bench by the front door. Then she stomped off, obviously abandoning the little bit of joy she had shown earlier.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Abigail called after her before turning back to Shelby and John. “I swear I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. She tried to invite that art teacher tonight.”

“Leif?” Shelby asked.

“Yes. Ever since I walked her over to apologize for spying, she’s struck up an unhealthy friendship with him. He plays the bongos like that Matthew McConaughey. Strange fellow.”

“But he has an ass you could bounce a quarter off and dreamy blue eyes. You’re not blind, are you?” Shelby asked.

Abigail looked at Shelby like she’d squawked and laid an egg right in the foyer.

“Tight ass?” John repeated, a frown marring the handsome span of his brow. The two siblings looked appalled at her comment...obviously for two different reasons. Something sweet blanketed Shelby as she noted the jealous glint in John’s eyes.

“Oooh, jealousy?” Abigail purred, abandoning her puzzlement for torturing her brother.

“I’m getting a drink,” John said, hanging his corduroy blazer on the hooks anchored above the bench. “Shelby?”

“What?”

“You want something?”

“Nothing for me,” she said, wondering why he’d even asked. He knew she couldn’t imbibe.

“You don’t drink?” Abigail said, moving farther into the warmth of the house. “Odd for a city girl. I thought y’all loved cosmopolitans and gin tonics.”

“Oh, of course, and I attend every opening art show, shop sample sales and tell Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda all about my favorite sex positions.”

Abigail smiled. “Okay, okay. I shouldn’t stereotype. Are you a recovering alcoholic? You can tell me.”

Shelby snorted. She liked bitchy Abigail. “You’d be fun if you let yourself.”

“I’m fun. I’m a blast when I don’t have a mortgage the size of the
Titanic,
a daughter with a shitty attitude and no batteries for my vibrator. Thank you very much.”

Shelby didn’t have time to respond to those little nuggets because Fancy descended in the only way she seemed to know how—with a squeal and a hug.

“Merry Christmas, Shelby. And, Abigail, fetch me another brandy cocktail. We’ve got a little shindig to put on tonight.”

“Jesus, Mother.”

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Abi,” Fancy said, shooting her daughter the same look Abigail had employed earlier at the church. “Now, Shelby, Hilda just got here and wants you to come sit with her. She said she wants to talk bad about people, and you’re the only one who will do. She’s joking, of course. I think.”

For the next few hours, Shelby soaked in the zany, sometimes exasperating celebration in a way she never had—as a participant. John sang old Garth Brooks’ songs with his brothers, of which only Matt had a decent voice. Mary Jane was noticeably absent. Hilda said Matt’s wife had to spend the evening with her father, who was in hospice, but the two boys were there, teasing Birdie and being pretty much obnoxious the way boys were. Assorted aunts and uncles and Jake showed up much later with a date who looked to be playing the part of sexually frustrated librarian with a severe bun, studious glasses and barely restrained breasts. The party was almost as irreverent as the Candlelight ceremony was reverent. Shelby had never experienced such a Christmas Eve.

Afterward, she and John headed back to Breezy Hill. Moonlight lay across the half-cut cane fields, softening the ruts and tangles. Silent as the night, John kept his eyes on the road, hand slung across the wheel as the miles sped by.

Looking at him, she couldn’t help but think of Rebecca’s words scrawled in the journal. She knew so much more about him now—like how he’d cried when Fancy had been diagnosed with breast cancer and how he didn’t like sci-fi movies—all through the eyes of a woman who’d known his flaws, but loved him in spite of them.

Did that distort her own vision of John?

“So what did you think?” he asked.

His words jolted her, zapping her with guilt. She should tell him she’d read some of the journal. “About what?”

“Beauchamp Christmas Eve.”

Shelby smiled. “It was like being in a TV show. Nothing like what I’m accustomed to.”

“So can you handle it?”

“You mean as in from now on?”

He turned to her, his gaze intent, prying the lid off her emotions. His assumption she’d be a part of every family Christmas startled her, filled her with hope. And reservation. She didn’t want to stumble here, relying on holiday cheer to color her decision. “I know you’re feeling good after that rendition of ‘Friends in Low Places,’ but I’m not ready to make a big decision like staying in Magnolia Bend permanently. It’s only been a month.”

“But it’s been a good month,” he said, slowing the truck as they neared the entrance to Breezy Hill. “We get along and you like teaching here. Sure, people are still curious, but no one has turned a finger on you and screamed ‘harlot.’ So with that in mind—”

“Yikes,” she yelped, grabbing the door handle as he took the turn too fast, grateful for the interruption.

She didn’t want to have this conversation tonight. The service and party had given her what she’d always wanted as a girl—an old-fashioned TV-esque Christmas—and she didn’t want to destroy the fantasy by having John, who was high on eggnog, propose something he wished he hadn’t the next day.

John tapped the brakes. “Sorry.”

“John, what are you really asking me?” Okay, obviously she
did
want to have the conversation.

His face tightened. “I guess I’m asking you to stay in Magnolia Bend until the baby is born. Maybe even longer. I’m asking you if you’ll make this more official.”

“Make what official? My living with you? That’s pretty much official, uh, ’cause I am.”

“You said you’d stay for a while, but you never defined ‘a while.’ I’m trying to figure out how much more I need to do to—” He snapped his mouth shut and shook his head as the truck ground to a halt. John shifted into Park, and they sat there, truck idling, the headlights casting light onto the porch where the cat waited.

Shelby unbuckled her seat belt. “Need to what? Be nice to me? Give me just enough of yourself, just enough hope for something more so I’ll stay?”