Sarah's expression grew introspective, still not sur-rendering to the battle. "But you have so much going for you. With the perfect man—"
"You've already taken the perfect man. Steve is the best." Natalie laughed, trying to make light of everything. Then in all seriousness, she added, "I'm happy, Sarah. Truly. I've worked hard to get where I am. This is the best time of my life and I don't want to miss any of it because I'm blinded by love—or blind by what I think is love."
"I understand that, Natalie, and I agree. Hat and Garden is going to be fabulous. I'm proud of you." Gazing at the snowman in her arms, she added with a sparkle . in her eyes, "He's cute, but he'd be even cuter with a Mrs. Snowman."
Natalie shook her head. "She's too busy making snowballs to throw at a certain sister. Besides, she got tired of him leaving the toilet seat up."
"I did not. I made sure I put the dang thing down," their dad grumbled, coming toward them carrying a string of holly berries.
Smiling, Natalie assured, "Not you, Dad."
"Oh." His expression relaxed. "Where did you say you wanted these hung?"
"Over the front door. Weave them through the pine boughs."
"They'd look better on the counter."
"I have more for that."
"Where'd you get these? I hope like hell not at that big 'W' store. Target has the best selection and quality. I could run up and buy some extras."
"I don't need any more."
Fred Miller grew silent, a sullen look spreading across his face. He was a handsome man for his age with silver-gray hair, and a full head of it. He kept it cut in a half pompadour, half crew, combed back from his high forehead. Thin age lines bracketed the corners of his eyes, his nose straight and slightly wide, his mouth generous. The upper lip was thinner than the lower, his teeth a nice neat row, thanks to dentures—something he was not happy about—but they had never looked artificial to Natalie. Of course, she was biased, but she thought her dad quite distinguished.
"Well," he said at length, "if you do, they've got plenty."
Sarah went back to work and her dad headed for the front door. As Natalie walked through the shop, she knew in the back of her mind that she had to do something, but with so much going on, she couldn't think what it was.
Hands on hips, she stopped to ponder, then walked into the living room.
BreeAnn and Sydney, Sarah's daughters, who were ages eleven and thirteen, assembled the train set that ran on a track between the two fir trees displayed in the front window.
"How's it coming?" she asked.
Sydney looked up. "Good, Aunt Natalie."
Since she was unable to remember what she'd intended to do next from her list of a hundred different things, Natalie gravitated toward her office.
In what used to be a parlor in the old house, Natalie entered the room and slipped behind her desk. Stacks of papers, invoices and envelopes spread out before her. Paperwork wasn't her strong suit, but she did have a method to keeping track of everything.
She sat down, gazed at her surroundings and allowed herself to reminisce—a moment when she dared to dredge up memories—if only to analyze the whys and the hows. To tell herself that she really meant what she had said to Sarah about being single.
In thinking back on her marriage to Greg and to her brief encounter with Michael, Natalie told herself that she would much rather be alone than with either man.
In the beginning, Michael had been wonderful. They were so alike. Both had had marriages that had failed for similar reasons, and both had daughters the same ages. It was the girls' junior years in high school and Michael had suggested they take them to Hawaii for spring break. Natalie thought the trip would be great, ran the idea past Cassie who had no objections. In fact, she was looking forward to surfing and shopping on Waikiki with Brook, Michael's daughter.
But on the vacation, something went wrong. Natalie felt it in Hawaii, and sensed it when they returned home. In the following weeks, Michael distanced himself emotionally. In hindsight, she realized he'd never really made himself available. She was too open, too trusting, and she'd allowed herself to be vulnerable.
She wore her heart on her shirtsleeve and it had cost her.
Michael would have continued the relationship if she hadn't started a discussion about it one evening, at his place, just before he was about to go out of town on business. She asked him point-blank if he wanted to be in the relationship or not. He got this stupid smirk on his face that spoke volumes: "Ah, you caught me." Then he said he never had any time to himself. She thought this strange since he was always inviting her to be with him—a family reunion, outdoor activities, dinners in his home and weekends spent together. He said he felt pressured to be "a couple." Then he'd rambled on about the women in his life—the way they'd mistreated him. She had listened, then quietly commented that he was penalizing her because she was a woman—and once a woman had done him wrong, none were to be trusted.
He reassured her that that wasn't the case and said he'd call her when he came back to town, and they'd talk about things further. He told her not to worry.
Numb, she went home that night, lay in bed reliving all the things she had done or said, wondering what had happened and how they could work to resolve the issues between them.
But she never heard from him again.
It was a rude awakening into the dating world, one that rocked her off her axis and left her in a
