A Virgin River Christmas (Virgin River #4)(57)

Then came the most recent letter, written last year, telling him that Bobby had passed, sweetly and quietly, and as divine luck would have it, she had been there. Since she was only there for a couple of hours a day and took some days off on occasion, she considered this a small miracle. She was cradling his head in her arm, reading, when she realized he hadn’t moved his head or eyes or mouth in a long while. She felt for a pulse, put her face against his to see if he was breathing. “‘And I knew right away…. Not from the absence of pulse or breath really…It was as if I felt his spirit leave him. I don’t know if you’ll understand this—it was a great relief to know that all this time his spirit had been there while we all loved him so well. I had always thought it possible that his spirit had gone home long before his body would release its hold—but I swear to you, I had a fullness in my heart as though he’d passed through me as he departed. And I said, “Goodbye, darling Bobby. We’ll all miss you.” And I was so happy for him.’”

It was quite late when she’d finished reading that last letter to him. The level in the bottle was considerably lower, but they hadn’t killed it. She plunked the last envelope down on the stack and they were quiet. Ian sniffed quietly once or twice, then wiped impatiently at his eyes.

Finally Marcie said, “I might need an escort to the loo. I’m a little drunk.”

It broke through his sadness, changing his mood yet again. “You think?” he asked, smiling.

“Well, I don’t exactly have your height and girth. And I’m a small drinker—couple of beers or wines or fruity things. Truth is, I’m worried about standing up….”

He laughed at her. “No one held you down and poured it down your neck.”

“It’s awful reading letters you’ve written. All the bad sentences, terrible spelling, stupid remarks…I bet when you go to hell, they just read every letter you ever wrote out loud.”

He chuckled and stood. He said, “Come on, lightweight, I’ll take you out.” But what he thought was, they were beautiful letters. If he’d actually read them, they might have helped him get his head straight a little quicker. The one thing he’d been missing in his life—someone who cared about him—she’d offered him a long time ago.

He walked her to the outhouse, stood outside while she took her turn, then escorted her back to the cabin before making his run. She flopped on the couch and rolled over on her side without taking her boots off, without pulling up the quilt. He shook his head at her. “You’re going to sleep good.” Then he pulled her boots off and covered her.

“Hmm. That’s the last time you get me drunk, Buchanan.”

“Like I said, I didn’t hold you down.”

“I sense a problem. I got real used to the taste.” And then she hiccupped.

“I’ll be gone when you come out of it,” he reminded her. “I’ve got some wood to deliver in the morning.”

“Right. Yeah, I know that. Do I still have my library books?”

“You think I could get to the library in the hour you were gone today?”

“Oh, never mind. Good night, my sweet bear.”

Oh, God, how that made his heart swell and lurch. Before he could stop himself, he bent his lips to her temple and placed a soft kiss there. Her hand came up, stroked his hairy face, and she hummed. “The only problem with this is that I can hardly tell when you smile. I so love it when you smile.”

“Good night, lightweight.”

While Marcie slept the sleep of the drunk, Ian paged through the album of baseball cards. He imagined Bobby’s fingers on every one. Tears ran out of his eyes, washing the remorse and pain out of his soul. She might never know how much this simple gift meant.





Twelve



W hen Marcie finally opened her eyes, there was a marching band on parade in her head—a dull thumping that seemed to have a beat. Whoa. She’d sipped her way through twelve or fourteen letters. Bad idea. But she knew where Ian kept the aspirin.

She sat up carefully. The room was in order, as Ian always left it. Even the letters were tucked away; the baseball card album still on the table where she’d left it. The coffeepot rested on the woodstove, which needed a couple of logs. She fed the stove first, then put on her boots and took a trip out back, and when she returned she just about chugged the thick, black coffee even though it wasn’t quite hot enough. A glance at her watch told her that Ian wouldn’t be back for a while, and having now learned the ways of stoves, she decided to take advantage of his absence to freshen up. She heated the water for her hair first, then the tub. Then she went through the tedious process of emptying the tub, which was more trouble than filling it. By the time she was done with all that, she was actually tired, which had more to do with staying up late and drinking than the flu. In fact, she had hardly coughed at all. After washing her hair and bathing, she took her manicure scissors to her damaged bangs and managed to snip away the charred ends, combing it into some order. Her small makeup mirror showed she had a slight, healthy glow; the burn was healed, or nearly so. She applied a little makeup, something she hadn’t bothered with since arriving. But she’d forced her presence on Ian over and over again—it wouldn’t hurt to be presentable. She gave some attention to her eyes, lined her lips. She opened one of those cans of stew, ate about half, then she settled on the couch with her book, a new woman.