The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(64)

“It’s Christmas,” Abigail moaned.

“I know,” he sighed, “But, what can I do?”

“I’ve already started dinner.”

“Could you maybe invite some friends over?”

“On Christmas Eve?” she sniffled.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said, “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Abigail heard the contrition in his voice and ached to feel his arms around her no matter the cost. “I’ll come to Philadelphia,” she offered.

“Oh no,” he answered almost a little too quickly, “I couldn’t let you do that. I’m out at the site all day, every day. It’s terrible. Muddy. Cold. Dangerous even.”

“Dangerous?”

“These are industrial buildings, steel scaffolding and such. Way too dangerous for a woman to walk around.” As Abigail sat there crying into the telephone, he went on to say he missed her just as much as she missed him and that he’d see her as soon as he could finish up and get to Richmond. Then he hung up.

Abigail threw herself across the bed and cried for three hours, completely forgetting about the roast beef in the oven until a curl of black smoke wafted through the apartment. She didn’t eat at all Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day she ate a bologna and cheese sandwich.

John did not get back to Richmond until the third of January, by which time Abigail had decided that she was going to return the pipe and slippers to Blumgarten’s and ask for her money back.

“I don’t care much for roses,” she grumbled when he came through the library door carrying a bouquet the size of an oak tree.

“You’ve always liked them before,” he answered.

“That was before –”

“Before what? Before I disappointed you? Before I ruined Christmas?”

Abigail mumbled, “Yes.” She looked down at an overdue notice she’d already stamped seven times and didn’t let her eyes meet his.

“Don’t you think I was disappointed too?”

She shrugged and whacked the overdue stamp.

“Damn you,” he shouted, “Look at me!” He reached across the counter and tilted her face to his. “I love you, Abigail! Can’t you understand that I was just as disappointed as you?”

Abigail was going to tell him that such a thing wasn’t possible, but before she could push the words from her mouth, a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Yell at me, scream at me,” John pleaded, “but, please don’t cry.” With that he leaped across the circulation desk and took her in his arms.

Before that happened, Abigail was set on saying she wasn’t interested in a boyfriend who bounced around like a rubber ball, but once he started smothering her face with kisses, whatever resolve she had was forgotten. Right there, in full view of library patrons, she slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. The kissing continued for a full five minutes and may have lasted through the afternoon, were it not for the fact that Gertrude Fishman asked for a book on tropical rain forests.



That night John took Abigail to dinner in a French restaurant, a romantic place with lights so low, you couldn’t know for sure what you were eating. He ordered a bottle of champagne tucked inside a silver bucket, and every time she took a sip, he quickly refilled her glass. He sat alongside of her, close enough that she could feel the pulse of blood in his veins. He whispered how missing her had driven him wild with desire, then slid his hand over her thigh and drew her closer still. Abigail knew that even if the building suddenly burst into flames, or the sky came tumbling down, she would be helpless to pull herself away.

Later that evening, at her apartment, they celebrated their own Christmas, despite the fact that Abigail had already taken down the small pine tree in the parlor and ripped the Santa Claus paper from John’s presents. “I’m sorry this isn’t wrapped,” she murmured handing him the shoe box. He claimed it didn’t matter, then removed his shoes and slid his feet into the slippers.

John opened the suitcase he’d carted up to the apartment and pulled out a small box wrapped in silver paper. “This is for you,” he told Abigail.

When Abigail peeled back the paper she found a solid gold watch sprinkled with diamonds, a watch so delicate a person would have to squint to actually see the time on the face, a watch so perfect, it could only come from a man in love. “It’s beautiful,” she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck so enthusiastically that they both toppled over. She then leaned into his chest and covered John’s face with kisses.

When he was finally able to catch his breath, he handed her a second box – pearl earrings. After that it was a bottle of lavender bath salts. The last gift was a large box from Macy’s Herald Square. “This came all the way from New York?” she asked.

He nodded.

Abigail knew she’d been wrong about John not caring. Obviously, he was every bit as much in love with her as she was with him.

Inside of the box was a pink satin nightgown with thin straps tied at the shoulder, beneath the nightgown was a matching robe – the most beautiful lingerie set she’d ever seen, elegant enough perhaps to be considered an evening gown, something that a movie star or debutante would wear, something that could only come from New York City or maybe, Paris, France.