A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(37)

“Let her be with her friends,” Marcie said quickly. “It can’t have been easy for her to come out like this so soon after…”

“Okay. Then excuse me,” Brie said. “I need to go give her a squeeze. I’ll be back.”

“Sure,” Marcie said. “Please, take your time.”

But the women in the room were consumed with Vanessa while Paul stood patiently near the door, never far away. After about twenty minutes, Vanessa returned to Paul with her collection of cookies and he slipped an arm around her waist as they exited the bar.

Leaving her own cookies on the bar, Marcie followed them out. They were just at the bottom of the porch steps when Marcie cleared her throat and said, softly, “Excuse me…Vanessa?”

They both turned and Marcie forced herself to step forward. “I’m…ah…so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling sweetly though her eyes were sad. Paul never let go of her. “I don’t know you, do I?”

“No. I’m just visiting. I’m also the widow of a marine,” she managed. “Happened about a year ago.”

“Oh!” Vanessa said, suddenly her emotions shifting from her own loss to Marcie’s. “I’m so sorry!”

“Thank you. My husband was critically wounded in Iraq four years ago and died last year. And when I heard…Vanessa, I remember when the grief was so fresh and painful. I wish I could say something that would help you now.”

She smiled so kindly, Marcie thought. Then Vanessa’s hand came out and touched Marcie’s red curls. “I think you just did. It was nice of you to say anything at all. I know you didn’t have to.”

“But I sure did have to,” Marcie said, feeling the sting of tears in her own eyes. “I remember so plainly how hard it is at first. I’m so glad for you, that you have good friends to help, that you have a baby coming.”

“No children?” Vanessa asked.

Marcie just shook her head. And then she heard the rough motor of Ian’s old truck pulling into town. She resisted the urge to look at her watch.

Vanessa opened her arms to Marcie and Marcie stepped into the embrace. Vanessa held her and Marcie felt her tears run. There were so many reasons—the woman had lost her young husband, she was pregnant, the husband’s best friend was there for her, and then—

Marcie laughed through tears. “I felt the baby kick,” she said.

“It’s a boy,” Vanessa said. “And he’s very active, thank God.”

Marcie pulled back and wiped her eyes. “There’s my ride,” she said. “Godspeed.”

“Thank you. What was your name?”

“Marcie Sullivan. I’m just here for a visit. I’ll be going home to Chico soon, to have the holidays with my brother and sister, with my husband’s family.”

“Well, enjoy your visit. And Merry Christmas. Thank you for your kindness.”

And then she watched as Paul helped Vanessa into the passenger seat of a big SUV.

Marcie held up a finger to Ian, indicating he should give her a minute. She ran back into the bar, gathered up her cookies and said a few quick goodbyes. Then she clambered into Ian’s truck. He was driving out of town before he asked, “Mission accomplished?”

“My sister was tied up, so I talked to my younger brother. He’ll pass on the word that everything is fine. And my timing was great—I stumbled into a Christmas cookie exchange. They insisted on making up a plate of samples to take home.”

“Mmph,” he answered. “I guess you made friends.”

“A few. Very nice people in this town—you should give them a chance sometime.”

“That woman?” he asked. “One of your new friends?”

“The one I was hugging?” Marcie asked, for clarification.

“She was the only one I saw besides you,” he answered.

“Vanessa. I didn’t get the last name. She lost her husband in Iraq a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t know her, but I gave my condolences anyway.”

“The man wasn’t her husband?”

“The man was…” Her late husband’s best friend, she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Just a good friend, as I understood it.”

Eight

O ne day tended to run into the next when you didn’t get up and go to work, or have a TV set that kept you oriented with the news and regular shows. Marcie never knew if it was Tuesday or Saturday, but it didn’t matter. Ian seemed to work seven days a week. Even though she felt completely over her flu—except for the cough that haunted her—she still tended to sleep late in the morning. The cabin stayed dark longer, given the shorter number of daylight hours, and Ian crept out silently. Sometimes she would hear the engine of his truck—an engine that could be grumpy as he was—and she’d just roll over and go back to sleep for a while. When she finally roused, Ian would be gone and she’d putter around, eat something, put a couple of logs in the stove, read one of his library books, which, frankly, often bored the enamel off her teeth. If she wanted to read a biography, it would more likely be of some remarkable woman.

But on this morning, the day after the Christmas cookie exchange, she rolled over to find Ian standing by the table, looking very different. He had on a navy-blue denim jacket rather than his old worn work jacket. He wore khakis and boots that weren’t beat to hell. The shirt beneath the jacket was white. “I’m going to be out for a while. You’ll be okay? You’re feeling all right?”