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

“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?” “I’m good. Feeling back to normal. Are you going to sell firewood? Isn’t it late for you?”

“Something else this morning. But I’ll be back early.”

“Ian, where are you going?” she asked, sitting up.

He glanced away for just a second and then, coming closer to the couch, he said, “I’m going to church. I do that once in a while. I’ll be back—”

“You belong to a church?” she asked, straightening in surprise.

“No. No, no. I just drop in sometimes. Different ones. It doesn’t matter which one, not really.”

She was at full attention. “What denomination are you?” she asked.

“None. Really. I wasn’t even raised in a church—we weren’t religious. It’s just a little thing I do. Not regularly. I’ll be back in—”

“Please, can I go with you?” she asked.

“Marcie,” he groaned, drawing it out almost painfully. “Let’s not do that…”

But she jumped off the couch, nearly knocking him over as she grabbed up a pair of jeans from the top of her duffel. “I don’t have any really nice clothes…Just jeans and boots, but last time I went to church, it was pretty casual. Not many people dress up anymore.”

“You should stay home—”

“I won’t be any trouble at all.”

“Listen, can I be straight with you here?”