Her stomach somersaulted, not with nausea this time but jitters. A confusing combination of dread and excitement reminiscent of a teenage crush. Zachariah Waide moved in for his hello, interrupting the visual contact.
Rachel regained her composure enough to smile up at him. “Your wife sent me to remind you about the table.”
He grunted in acknowledgment. “Knew I forgot to do something. Come on, Tanner. You can help me while Rachel and David start opening boxes.”
The tree stood in the corner. Someone had brought down four large containers, two cardboard and two clear plastic, of Christmas paraphernalia from the attic. After dinner, they would all help decorate. She thought of the Our New Home ornament she’d put in David’s stocking their first year of marriage. It had fallen off the tree once, knocking off the chimney and cracking the roof on the little house, but he’d glued it back on, insisting the ornament was as good as new.
“Hey.” He spoke first, not looking nearly as nervous as she felt.
After a moment, she realized she was studying him a bit too intently. He hitched an eyebrow questioningly.
“So.” Boxes, Rachel told herself. Much safer to divert her attention to the boxes. “Where should we start?”
He glanced down, considering. “The lights. Might as well check to make sure they’re all working before we go to the trouble of putting them on the tree.”
Rachel read Susan’s neat handwriting and meticulous labels. Assuming everything had been put away correctly, the lights should be in the cardboard box closest to her. She bent at the waist and unfolded the flaps.
Rachel straightened, saying over her shoulder, “Here they— What are you doing?” she demanded as David hurriedly raised his gaze.
“Hmm?” he asked, not meeting her eyes.
Rachel frowned, the tingles shivering through her making her self-conscious. Was she crazy or had he actually been ogling her butt? “Were you …”
“Just standing here. Waiting for you to hand me one end of the lights so we can plug them in.” But she wasn’t the only one who was bad at subterfuge. Even with his head ducked, she recognized the glint in his eyes—she’d been his lover for five years.
She couldn’t help grinning at how unconvincing he was. “You lie.”
“Oh, really?” He did look up then, his answering smile a challenge. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”
They both knew the answer to that, but she wasn’t quite gutsy enough to vocalize it. She’d felt David pulling away physically, had thought for a while that he didn’t find her attractive anymore. So, on the one hand, it was validating to catch him staring, made her feel feminine in a way she hadn’t for a long time. On the other hand, they’d split up, even if they were the only ones here who knew that. Why confuse the issue with flirtatious conversation?
“Never mind,” she backpedaled. “I was mistaken.”
He moved toward her, reaching for the lights. “No, you weren’t.”
Please don’t. She didn’t want to be seduced by the mischievous note in his voice, reminded of everything good they’d shared—sure, the journey had had some high points, but that didn’t change her unhappiness with where they’d arrived. And if he hadn’t been just as miserable, David Waide would have fought for her.
When she’d finally dredged up the nerve to confess she didn’t think their marriage was working, that it had long since become a marriage based on technicalities rather than intimacy, she’d braced herself for argument. He’d always been a man who refused to brook defeat. He’d once planted a tree that didn’t successfully take root in the soil, but he’d come back with some kind of specialized fertilizer and continued watering it for weeks, not ready to acknowledge that it was dead. Rachel had anticipated that he’d tell her she was being melodramatic—whenever she’d tried during the past year to broach the difficult conversation of their not being happy, he’d turned into Mr. Optimism, automatically downplaying her fears and telling her he loved her. That they could do anything together (except possibly have a child). She wanted to appreciate his positive thinking, but it became more difficult over time in the wake of her growing frustration that he was not hearing her. After Thanksgiving, she’d been determined to make him finally listen, but she hadn’t expected him to capitulate so readily. She’d anticipated his saying that things would look better in the morning, his once again proposing immediate solutions before she’d had a chance to fully articulate what she saw as the problems.
Instead, he’d practically shrugged in agreement. He’d expended more effort on the damn tree.
“Why now?” she muttered under her breath.
David paused. “What do you mean?”
She rolled her shoulders, trying to alleviate some of the growing tension.
Not even the small motion got by him. “You need one of my famous back rubs.”
“I don’t think so.” If the mere brush of his fingers this morning had caused a zing, what would happen with her muscles warm under his touch? Annoyed by how tempting the offer sounded, she glared. “Don’t flirt with me. Not now, not after months of …”
“What, not touching you?” He was even closer now, his voice lowered to give them privacy. “You pushed me away, Rach. You made it clear you didn’t want me looking at your body. Unless it was for procreation.”
She flinched. During the hormone treatments, she’d tried to explain to him how the side effects sometimes made her feel like a stranger in her own skin. But David, for all that he paid lip service to “being there” for her, could grow impatient with discussions that didn’t have easy answers. If she tried to tell him that she didn’t feel like herself, didn’t feel sexy, he’d roll his eyes and tell her that she was being neurotic, that she looked just fine to him. Somehow, being called neurotic wasn’t a big turn-on for her.
“If I seemed uninterested,” he continued, “I was just trying to respect your wishes. I wanted to take care of you.”
“I know, David. But that’s not what I wanted.” They were supposed to take care of each other, except that he’d never seemed to need her.
“You don’t consider that part of a husband’s job?” He was looking distinctly irritated now. “Taking care of his wife?”
“It’s a nice sentiment, but you got more and more …” Paternal? That would not sit well with him and wasn’t exactly what she meant anyway. “We don’t have to talk about this.”
“You mean you don’t want to talk about it.”
Her hands trembled as she uncoiled lights. “We’re supposed to be having a fun, festive family evening. Why ruin it with accusations that won’t change anything that’s happened?”
“You’re right.” He took his end of the lights toward the outlet, the electric string stretched out between them. A second later, the entire strand began twinkling white in a cheery rhythm.
Rachel sat back on her heels. “Looks like they all work.”
“Yeah. Guess there’s nothing here
