Tara Taylor Quinn - The Holiday Visitor

How could a man who exuded such heat ever be cold? And how could she, knowing that he was married, that he belonged to someone else, still feel so compelled to be near him?

As their gazes met, held, as she couldn’t look away because she wanted so badly to know every single thought behind the searching she found there, Marybeth blurted, “What about your wife? What was her name? Jenny?”

His blinked, and it was as if he left one world for another, but he still looked her straight in the eye. “What do you want to know about her?”

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And everything.

And nothing again. He was a guest—albeit one who’d seemingly changed who she was. All these years of waiting to find a man who sparked magic—who sparked some kind of reaction in her—and he comes along married.

“Jenny and I…that’s not something I can readily explain.”

“I understand,” she said, reaching for the coffeepot as she stood. She had to stop feeling things around him.

Craig’s hand on the handle of the pot stopped her.

“Please, I’d like to tell you about her, if you don’t mind. If for no other reason than because I purposely took off my wedding ring yesterday when I got here.”

Danger, Will Robinson. A line from a drama space show she used to watch popped into her brain. A TV show from long, long ago. Pre-twelve years of age. Marybeth could see the robot’s arms flailing all over the place, as though a precursor to what would come if she stayed in that room right then.

His wedding ring, wherever he kept it, had nothing to do with her.

“I don’t think…”

“I want it very clear that I have no intention of behaving with anything but complete appropriateness while I’m away from my wife. I have never, not once, been unfaithful to her. Nor will I be.”

The tone of his voice, so filled with emotion, as much as his words put her butt right back in the chair.

He had to be feeling it, too—this…whatever had overtaken her the minute she’d seen him standing in the foyer of her home. Apparently he felt it, and was trying to be responsible to it.

“I’m listening.”

“I…Jenny and I are friends. Great friends. We hung out together in art school and were buddies for a couple of years before we ever talked about becoming something more.”

Buddies with this man? Marybeth couldn’t see it.

“We’re good together. Good for each other. We understand each other.”

At least he hadn’t given her the classic my wife doesn’t understand me line.

“There’s mutual respect and trust because of that understanding. Most importantly, there are no false expectations. When both of us are free at the same time, we enjoy each other’s company. But there’s no hurt feelings, or longing to be together when we’re apart.”

“Then why did you get married?” God, he looked good to her. Even now she was hanging on his every word. Wanted to know everything about him.

“It was her idea,” Craig said slowly, as though from someplace far away. “Neither of us had a lifestyle conducive to a traditional marriage. Neither of us wanted one. We’re both the type of people who need emotional distance. Yet, we seemed to gravitate toward each other. Taking the next step seemed natural. Right. She was certain that we could make it work.”

“What about you? Were you certain, too?”

“I wanted to believe her.” He shook his head, seemed to come back to the present as he once again looked right at her.

“I did believe her,” he amended. “I wanted it to work.” Past tense? “And now?”

“I still want it to work.” Craig toyed with the edge of his napkin, watching the shape he was forming as though it was some form of art. “I’ve never been in this situation before,” he said, glancing up, then down again. His fingers were beautiful, art in themselves, as he worked on the soft paper between them.

“What situation?”

“Being in the presence of another woman…and wanting to stay.”

Marybeth tried not to make more of his remark than was there. She wasn’t for him. Wasn’t ever going to be his woman.

“Whose idea was it to spend the holidays apart?”

“Mine, mostly.” Craig continued to toy with his napkin, rolling, folding, forming something, all with just the two fingers. “Jenny’s the daughter of French aristocracy. She was raised in a castle about a hundred miles outside of Paris.”

Great, Marybeth was competing with a princess. But not really. She’d already lost. Before she’d ever had a chance.

But then, she’d learned a long time ago about the curves life threw.

“Her parents are stereotypically French. As far as they’re concerned Americans are second-rate citizens. Most certainly not good enough to marry their precious only daughter. She doesn’t pay much attention to their attitudes, never has, but she does love them.”

His grin was laconic. “About as much as they don’t love me.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“I know it’s not personal. They hatedmebefore we ever met.”

“So you have met?”

He nodded. “Our first Christmas together. Jenny goes home every December. They insisted on it as part of the deal they made with her before they allowed her to come to the States. Her entire family—aunts, uncles, cousins—shows up that week, no matter where they might be living. The holiday get-together is kind of a sacred thing with all of them.”

It sounded lovely to her.

“That first year, I went with her. And decided never to repeat the experience.”

“Why?”

“Because I hated to see Jenny so torn. She loves her family very much, and yet she sees what they are, too. The entire week, her parents acted as though she was alone. They never once looked at me. If they spoke directly to me, which wasn’t often, they looked past me as if I wasn’t there. I didn’t much care…it left me a lot of time to explore France. I came home with more inspiration than I knew what to do with. But the week took a toll on Jenny. She felt terrible for the way I was treated. And yet she was pulled because that week is her only time with them and she wanted to be with them.”

“Did she try to talk to them about it?”

“Of course. Jenny’s not one to take things sitting down. But her parents think they know best, that their added years of experience have taught them things she has yet to learn. They keep hoping she’ll come to her senses.”

“So this isn’t the first Christmas you’ve spent apart.” She felt better. Less like a sinner. Sort of.

“No. And yes. After that first year, we decided to spend future Christmases with our respective parents. I hated leaving my mother alone and Jenny hated that the seven days she had with her folks had been spent in constant bickering over me.”

Between his fingers an animal was taking shape. A body. Four legs and a blob where a head should be. A blob with points. A reindeer.

“She offered to stay home this year,” he was saying, “because of my mom passing, but I know she misses her family, and they her. And who knows how long she’ll have them?”

They both knew the hard truth within the rhetorical question.

“So,” she had to ask, “do you love her?”

“Sure I do.” This time when he looked up, it was as though he was searching for something from her. As though he needed her to understand more than he was saying. “As much as I love, period.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve just…I’m not a real emotional guy.”

She didn’t believe that. Couldn’t believe it. Not with the charge he’d brought into her home with him. The man seeped from the inside out.

“How can you say you’re in love and think yourself unemotional at the same time?”