Mistletoe Baby

She’d looked disarming and maddeningly adorable, all bundled up. Her eyes had been bright, almost silvery, and spots of color had livened a face that had been far too pale for far too long. This morning she’d reminded him of the woman he’d married, not the much quieter, pinched version she’d become. Seeing the improvement one night had made, he was forced to conclude that she’d been right—she was better off without him. A groan of enraged despair rumbled in his throat.

“David?” His mother’s voice, lilting in question, startled him. He’d thought he was alone in the employees-only hallway behind the store.

“Mom.” His arms dropped quickly to his sides, as if she’d caught him reaching for forbidden cookies. “I didn’t know you were in this morning.”

“Brought over some more ornaments for Ari to display. You do a great job running the store, just like your father always has, but neither of you excel when it comes to decorating for the customers.”

Decorating. He thought about his house, which was completely devoid of holiday cheer. Their first year of marriage, Rachel had barely waited for Thanksgiving before she started asking if it was too soon to put up Christmas lights. She’d seemed so happy then, as he’d promised her she’d be if she moved here to Mistletoe, enthusiastic to build their life together.

Susan brought him back to the present. “Why were you growling in the hallway?”

“I, uh, can’t reach the coffee.”

She skewered him with a raised eyebrow, then turned to open the janitorial closet behind her, revealing a small step stool that he’d known perfectly well was there. “God knows I love your brother and how spirited he is, but he was the one more likely to stubbornly pursue the impossible with no real plan on how to achieve it. You were the solution-finder.”

Really? Because David was fresh out of solutions. Feeling foolish, he picked up the stool and retrieved the coffee. “Lack of caffeine makes me grouchy. And stupid.”

Susan Waide’s gaze was steady, all-knowing in that way mothers have. “Want to tell me what’s really wrong?”

“Thanks, Mom, but it’s nothing that can be fixed with a step stool.”

“You and Rachel?”

His pulse pounded. How much of the truth had she guessed? “Is it that obvious that we’ve…hit a rough patch?”

“Oh, darling.” She ruffled his hair, even though she practically had to stand on tiptoe to do it. “I can’t imagine how difficult it was for her to lose that baby, but she’s been withdrawn for months. And you’ve been tense, short-fused. Not at all the boy I know.”

He missed the man he’d been, the one who had never questioned his wife’s love and their ability to work through any problem.

“Every couple has difficulties,” Susan continued. “Lord knows your father and I have. It’s healthy even. Once you work through to the other side, you’ll be stronger for it.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His biggest fear was that for him and Rachel, there was no other side. I shouldn’t have let her go. He could have convinced her to at least sleep on it or maybe see a counselor together. Would fighting for her now be the right thing to do or merely the selfish?

“Mom.” He hugged his mother, his voice ragged. It was nearly impossible to spit out the question. “What if—what if I can’t fix this?”

“Nonsense. You’re my son. Besides—” she smiled up at him “—you’re forgetting that it’s Christmas. The season of miracles.”

“HEREYA GO, Chloe.” Rachel passed the box of business cards over the counter. “Why don’t you take a peek at the first few and make sure they’re to your satisfaction?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary.” Chloe Malcolm glanced at the sample card stapled to the outside of the box. “You always do a great job.”

Once, Rachel had helped create regional ad campaigns for a major company. Now, it was an exciting day if she got to help someone lay out business cards—except that Chloe, who ran her own small company as a Web designer, rarely needed help. She’d brought in her file on CD, all ready to be printed. There was nothing at work challenging enough to distract Rachel from her embarrassing encounter with David earlier. Of course, there was the special project she should be working on for Lilah and Tanner’s rehearsal dinner, but she doubted that would improve her mood.

Rachel shook her head. “You couldn’t even have left a formatting error I could resolve?”

“Pardon?” The brunette blinked at her.

“Don’t mind me. Midday blahs,” she told Chloe. “I’m waiting for May to come back so I can take my lunch break. To tell you the truth, the day so far has been pretty monotonous.”

“Not too much action going on in Mistletoe, huh?” Chloe sounded wistful, which was surprising. Gifted with computers, the young woman was also incredibly introverted; she’d always given the impression she might panic at the first sign of “action.”

They both glanced reflexively toward the door when it opened, and Rachel’s co-worker May Gideon swept inside, accompanied by a winter-edged breeze. The pungent odor of a fried fish sandwich wafted from May’s white paper bag, and Rachel’s gut clenched. Her hand shot to her mouth.

“Whoa.” Chloe was blinking again. “You look really pale.”

“I, uh…I—” Terrified that she was about to humiliate herself far worse than she had that morning with the runaway puppy, Rachel bolted for the employee restroom. After splashing some cold water on her face and taking a couple of deep breaths, she managed to quell the intense nausea. It was gone almost as suddenly as it had come. Still, she waited a few minutes to make sure.

When she returned to the front of the print shop, she saw that May had completed Chloe’s transaction and was now arguing with Mrs. Nugent, who wanted them to make a personalized photo calendar as a Christmas present for her mother, but refused to accept that they weren’t allowed to reproduce copyrighted pictures of her kids.

“After what that studio charged me for the darn things, I should be able to wallpaper my whole house with them if I want to!”

May’s patient expression didn’t waver. “So long as you understand that we can’t print the wallpaper for you.”

This seemed like as good a time as any for Rachel to take her lunch hour. With a guilty half wave in May’s direction, she crept toward the door, not wanting to get caught up in Mrs. Nugent’s righteous indignation over the “highway robbery” of professional photography. Once Rachel was outside and contemplating where to go for lunch, she admitted to herself that food was the last thing she wanted.

Finally, something good about stress—it had her stomach so upset it was killing her appetite. Maybe she’d fit into that bridesmaid’s dress after all.

A niggling voice in the back of her head pointed out she’d been stressed all morning, yet hadn’t been in danger of tossing her cookies until that fish smell hit. It was similar to last spring, when…She stopped dead on the sidewalk. What a ridiculous thought. Still, now that she considered it, when had her last period been? Rachel bit her lip, not sure. For the first time in nearly two years, she wasn’t obsessively tracking her cycle, trying hard to let go and reach a healthier emotional state.

Oh, yeah, I’m a picture of mental health. She gave a quick shake of her head. Now that she was off the medications that had regulated her cycles, it wasn’t surprising that she might skip a period—or two?—as her body adjusted. In fact, her bursting into tears at the drop of a hat lately and her sensory overreaction to odors was probably just PMS. She’d start her period any day and feel silly about this.

Yep. An-n-ny day now.

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