tell us anything. We didn’t know you had a new boyfriend.”
Megan closed her eyes. “He isn’t coming here.”
“He is. He’s stopping around after Thanksgiving.”
“I’m going to slash my wrists.”
“I think he’s still interested in you. He mentioned something about reconsidering.”
“What?” Megan yelled. “That toad. That slime ball. I’ll reconsider him to the moon.”
She sat back with a sigh. In all honesty, she didn’t know why she was so mad. David had done her a favor. She’d never truly been in love with him. She realized that now. When the chips were down, he’d been the one with the guts. She’d stood quaking in her fancy shoes, afraid to admit she’d made a horrible mistake, and David had been the one to say “no.” At the time it hadn’t seemed like a kindness. At the time it had been damned embarrassing.
“How come I never get to dump on anyone?” she mumbled. “How come I’m always the dumpee?”
Her mother smiled. “Maybe this is your chance, Megan. Maybe you’ll get to dump on David. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Megan threw her head back and laughed out loud. Her mother might be a little pushy when it came to marriage, but she was a lesson in flexibility and finding the silver lining.
Chapter 7
Megan awoke before the alarm. She threw back the covers and dashed from her warm bed to see the sun rise through the frosty windowpane. It was Thanksgiving, and she couldn’t have been more excited if it were Christmas and she were seven years old.
She stuffed her feet into a pair of warm socks and pulled on her jeans and sweat shirt. She’d planned to spend a few hours working in her studio that morning as a special treat to herself. She was going to make Christmas presents. A teapot for Pat and a bowl for Timmy.
She quietly closed the front door and crept across the frozen lawn, her breath making clouds in the crisp air. She switched the lights on in her studio and started the electric heater. Then she stood for a moment, warming her hands on the mug of hot coffee she’d brought from the kitchen, watching the steam rise from the black liquid, filling her head with the smell of morning.
She couldn’t ever remember feeling more loved. She’d had a wonderful childhood, but she’d come to realize there were many kinds of love. The love one felt for parents, the love a woman shared with a man, the love a mother felt for her child. She had to smile at herself. She felt swollen… no, downright bloated with happiness.
She slipped a mud – spattered lab coat on and prepared her clay, whistling as she worked, focusing her attention on her craft. By nine thirty she had her projects drying on a board and was ready for another cup of coffee.
Pat met her halfway to the house. “I’m done with my rounds at the hospital and need a kiss,” he said. He swept her into his arms and kissed her long and hard. “I’ve been feeling deprived since all these relatives descended on us. I miss waking up next to you.”
“If my mother has her way, you’ll wake up next to me for the rest of your life.”
He nibbled on her neck. “Yum.Sounds nice.”
“Hmmm.” If it sounded so nice, Megan thought, why hadn’t he asked her to marry him? Pat had taken all the talk of engagement and marriage in stride. He looked and sounded like a fiance. But he had never seriously proposed, and the vagueness of their relationship nagged at her.
She didn’t want to confront him with it, though. She wasn’t sure what her answer would be if he asked. There was still a small corner of her that harbored misgivings about marriage. It wasn’t so much
Pat held her at arm’s length and studied her face. It was unreadable. As unreadable as her “hmmm.” He always sensed some reserve in Megan. It seemed alien to her character, but there it was. Always a “hmmm.” He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, or may be just a device to deter the natural progression of a conversation. “What does ‘hmmm’ mean?”
“ ‘Hmmm’ is like a sigh that you say out loud. Instead of going, ‘sigh’… you go, ‘hmmm.’ ”
“Megan Murphy, that’s an evasive answer.”
“Hah! Talk about evasive.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think about it.”
He slung his arm around her shoulders and propelled her toward the house. He didn’t have to think about it. He knew exactly what Megan was referring to. They were lovers and friends, and they flirted with the idea of being engaged. They even went so far as to pretend they were engaged, but they weren’t engaged. He’d never asked, and she’d never answered, and there’d never been an exchange of commitments.
For the first time in his life he found his supply of easy confidence rapidly dwindling. Med school had been hard, and internship even harder. Now he was on his own with a fledgling practice and a fistful of debts. He wasn’t sure he could afford the responsibility of a wife and child. Even if he could afford a family, he wondered if he’d have the time to be a good father and husband. In a year or two he might be able to take on a partner. Until then his case load would become more and more demanding. And as if that weren’t enough, he was genuinely worried about the “hmmm.”
They looked sideways at each other, silently questioning, debating, the wisdom of their involvement.
Pat was the first to turn away. “How about some coffee?”
At two o’clock Megan and her parents arrived at Pat’s cottage. Megan had dressed casually, in soft brown leather boots, a long, full camel skirt, and a crisp white shirt, accented by an outrageously expensive russet – and – black print scarf. She brushed imaginary lint from her black coat while they waited for Pat to answer the door. She was nervous. She wanted everything to be perfect and she didn’t have a clue as to how to preside over a turkey dinner.
She almost swooned when she entered the cottage. The aroma of roast turkey, savory dressing, and baking sweet potatoes mingled with the rich, smoky smell of the fire crackling in the fireplace. The autumn sky was gunmetal gray, but inside, the little house glowed with the patina of polished pewter chandeliers and copper kettles.
A folding table had been taken from its storage spot in the shed. Now it stretched almost the entire length of the living area, covered with a freshly ironed white linen tablecloth, periodically interspersed with candlesticks and clusters of yellow mums.
Pat took her coat and handed her a cup of eggnog. “It’s traditional in my family that Thanksgiving heralds in the eggnog season. It’s my mom’s special recipe.”
Fresh – ground nutmeg floated on top of the creamy drink, and its spicy smell reminded Megan that Christmas was just a month away. She gazed around the restored cottage fairly bursting with happy people and had a vision of what this house would be like at Christmas, decorated with fresh holly and red velvet bows.
It would be the perfect place to be married, she thought. She didn’t want to walk down a long church aisle in an extravagant gown. She wanted to stand in front of the huge fireplace, wearing a romantic lacy dress, surrounded by family, and exchange vows. She wanted to be married in a house that smelled like turkey and dressing, and she wanted her private marriage ceremony to be followed by a terrific party.
