THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART FORTY-EIGHT:

Mike left the fireplace and came, squatting in front of Marshall, lifting his free hand to take his pulse. "I expect Hersholtz warned him Christmas at the inn might be a bit too much for him?"

"He warned me, actually," Eden said. "I noticed he was beginning to flag during dinner. He probably should have gone straight to bed after that but he was determined not to miss...well, let's just say this evening is a lot different than what he did last Christmas Eve." Her eyes met Martha's across the room.

"Marshall?" Eden said softly, her lips close to his head.

"Mmmm?" he murmured, not moving.

"I think it's time to go upstairs, ok?"

"Mmmmm," he sighed, still not moving.

"Ryan," Martha said, "why don't you and Mike help him up the stairs? I don't think he'd make it right now."

"S'ok," Marshall breathed. "I'm fine."

Eden just rolled her eyes, moving so Mike could get on that side of Marshall. As Marshall straightened and then attempted to rise, Mike slipped one of his arms around his shoulder, while Ryan took the other side. "For Pete's sake," Marshall protested, though rather mildly, "I'm not...."

"We know, Marshall," Ryan smiled, "we're just here to be outriggers on your canoe. Keep you upright in the water."

"Where's water?" He was still groggy from the deep sleep he'd been in.

"No water," Ryan added, "just a long staircase."

"Oh, yeah," Marshall remembered. "Steps."

"Un huh, steps," Mike supplied. "Lots of steps."

"Ok, then," Marshall agreed, not really sure at all if he could make it up the flight on his own.

Wadsworth didn't particularly like Marshall being rather hauled off like that and kept blocking the way. Eden finally snapped his leash on and took him outside. She was the only one he'd permit to do so. Marshall sagged more and more as they went up the stairs. "Damn!" he said under his breath.

"What?" Ryan asked.

"Didn't want to mess up Christmas Eve."

"You haven't messed up a thing, Marshall," Ryan said. "Everybody else is doing just fine. I expect they'll be singing again any second now. You just tend to what you need for now, ok?"

"Eden?"

"She had to take Wadsworth out, Marshall," Mike explained. "I think he thought we were taking you away from him again."

They got him into the room and set him on the side of the bed. He hadn't opened his eyes the entire time. Ryan studied him a moment. "Duds are too fine for sleepin' in," he said. "You want a bit of help with the p j's?

Marshall nodded. "Second drawer."

Mike went to get them, unable not to notice how Eden's things were mingled atop the dresser with Marshall's. It all made a quiet, but comprehensive, statement about their togetherness.

Ryan had gotten off Marshall's jacket and cravat and was unbuttoning his shirt. He whistled slightly at the sight of  the chest beneath. Though they were mostly yellow now with just traces

of purple, Marshall's chest was still covered in large bruises. Ryan had noticed the remnants of his facial bruising, but hadn't any idea of the extent of them.

Mike, the pajamas in his hand, paused and looked, too. Ryan turned his eyes up to his friend. "He looks...beaten," he whispered.

"Rest of him is like that, too," Mike replied.

Marshall was starting to sag tiredly toward the pillows, so Ryan got his pajama top on quickly and eased him down. They'd just finished with the pajamas and Ryan was pulling the covers up when Eden and Wadsworth came in the door. "Oh! You've got him all settled."

"He didn't look like he'd last until you got back," Mike explained.

Wadsworth went to the bed, finding Marshall's hand and licking it. Marshall was sleeping again and didn't acknowledge it, but the dog seemed satisfied just to find him there in the bed where he belonged.

Ryan went out the door but Mike paused, his hand on the knob. "Look, Eden, I know it's Christmas and all, but he can't do everything he thinks he can. Hersholtz probably wanted to keep him in the hospital till after the holidays. He needs rest right now, more'n he's getting. He's got a lot to heal from...a whole lot...and you may have to tie him down a bit, ok, to see that he doesn't get himself in trouble."

She nodded, thinking about the huge Christmas dinner at Stuart and Joan's tomorrow afternoon. How much did he want to go to that?

"Thanks," she said, "thank you both."

In the hallway, Mike blew out a breath. "Think you can run me home now, Ryan? I'm about Christmas Eved out."

"Sure. Let me tell Con...er...the gang that I'll be right back."

Mike didn't say anything for the first half mile as Ryan drove him to the cabin. Without turning his gaze from the windshield, Ryan asked, "Must be pretty hard, huh, being in love with a woman who's in love with such a nice guy?"

"You noticed?"

"Like a bulletin board, Mike. You've got it tacked up there in plain view."

"Oh, damn! I didn't think...."

"I don't think everybody's noticed. Mom has. Probably Elizabeth."  He paused. "Eden hasn't."

"You're sure?"

"Pretty sure, Mike. I started looking for it and it wasn't there."

Mike sighed. "Good."

"You don't want her to know, do you?"

"Nope. Better that way. Better for everybody."

"Better for you?"

"Maybe not better, but a damn sight easier."

"Doesn't look all that easy, Mike."

Mike smiled grimly. "It's not. She's the best thing I've seen in...well...in ever."

"What do you know about her cousin?"

"Connie? Well, Eden's said she's been divorced a long time. No kids. Don't really know much except that Eden regards her as a sister." He looked sideways at his friend. "You've been a bit

of a bulletin board yourself, you know."

Ryan grinned. "I know. But it's ok. I don't mind if she notices me looking at her. Especially when she looks back."

Eden stood in the bedroom, the sound of the family singing again coming faintly to her ears through the thick oak door. She looked at the bed then at the door. It was Christmas Eve.

Where did she want to be; what did she want to be doing? There was no decision involved. Slipping into a pale yellow satin nightgown, she got under the covers, cuddling up against Marshall, who, even in his sleep, curved his arm around her. "Merry Christmas, my darling one," she whispered, leaning her cheek against him so she could hear his heart beating, could feel the lift and fall of his chest. That was all it took, all she needed, just the being close to him.

On his way back to the inn, Ryan passed the farm of Mr. Smythe. When he was a teenager, Ryan had worked for Smythe in the summers, taking care of his horses, helping with the chores. Snow was falling in huge, individual flakes as Ryan turned up the drive to the Smythe farmhouse and knocked on the door. He spoke for a while with the older man, who was very glad to see him,
then walked out to the large barn with a big smile on his face.

Half an hour later he pulled up behind the inn. Martha heard him coming, glanced at Connie, and smiled to herself. Ryan came in the door with a swoosh of cold wind and a stomp of snowy feet. Staying on the entrance mat, he called into the parlor, "Connie! You got a warm coat?"

Connie, who admittedly had been wondering why it was taking him so long just to drive the short round trip to Mike's, smiled at the sound of her name and went toward the entrance.

"I live in Pittsburgh, Malone, of course I've got a warm coat."

"Want to get it on?"

"Do I?"

"Yep. You do."

She grinned more widely and got her coat off the rack.  "Hat and mittens, too," he added.

"Polar expedition?"

"Something like that."

She reached into her pocket. "No mittens. Gloves do?"

He took the gloves from her, and the simple act of his sliding one of them on her hand was somehow utterly intimate. Then he slipped his arm through hers and led her out the door and around the house.  She stopped, her lips parting slightly at what she saw. It was Christmas Eve...and it was absolutely perfect.

There was a sleigh there, and not just any sleigh, but a red one, with one black horse harnessed to the front. It was night and it was snowing huge, almost fuzzy flakes, and he'd come to get her in a one-horse open sleigh. He handed her up to the seat then went around, getting in himself, pulling up the large green wool blanket Smythe had given him. As they headed down the drive, Bess' nostrils blowing steam in the night air, Connie tipped her head back, watching the tracery of black branches passing above them, letting the flakes settle on her eyelashes.

"I come back to the inn nearly every Christmas," Ryan said, his voice low, near her ear, "but I've never come close to finding something like you under Mom's tree."

"I almost didn't come," she sighed, "but I missed Eden. We always have Christmas together."

They drove and talked a long time and she told him about Eden and how Miles had died, about the ending of her own marriage. He told her about growing up near the lake and how he'd thought he'd be a fireman someday but had gone to college and majored in social studies instead.
Then, when the only job he could get was as a teacher, he'd decided to see the world and gotten into the travel business as a means to that end.

Two hours later, just before they got to the turning to the Smythe farm, he pulled Bess to a stop. They were on a low rise overlooking the lake, which lay silver and soft as the snow sifted down over it. Connie's coat had a hood and he turned to her, sliding it back so the white flakes
landed on her deep red hair. He cocked his head, just watching as the flakes melted against the warmth of her, then his hand slid behind her head and his lips found hers. "Merry Christmas," he whispered and kissed her again.

Mike lit the fire he'd laid earlier and sat on his couch a long while, his gaze lost in the crackling flames. "Best face it," he said, "there's not going to be anybody up here for you. Not anybody like Eden."  Sighing, he went to the 'fridge and poured himself a large glass of eggnog. On the way back to the couch, he opened a cabinet and added a big slug of rum to it.

"Here's to you, Michael Johnson." He lifted his glass in a toast to the fireplace. An old log, left over from the day before, broke and crumbled under the newer wood just at that moment. "Embers and ashes. Very appropriate." 

He sat down with a flop on the couch again, some of the eggnog spilling over onto his jeans. Idly he watched the thick liquid just sit there on the denim, only beginning to absorb into the material after a long while. Perhaps he'd been up here in this place long enough? Perhaps there was somewhere else he should be? He couldn't think where, though.

The grandmother clock on the rough-hewn mantel struck midnight. He lifted his glass again, downing it in one long drink. "Merry Christmas," he said to himself then threw the coated glass into the fireplace.

ON TO PART 49

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE

BACK TO PART 47

BACK TO INDEX