plates with booties printed on them instead of pale gold plates with interlocking rings?
She just didn’t know. If David really thought she was a crazy quitter who got overemotional and didn’t appreciate what a good thing he’d had … well, then, no wonder he hadn’t fought to save their marriage.
Chapter Seven
Just going for a run, nothing more. Definitely not stalking. The rationalization had seemed more convincing in the foyer of his own house as David laced up his running shoes Monday morning. After all, he went jogging at least three times a week. No ulterior motives there. Of course, he didn’t normally go in an endless loop up and down Winnie’s street, hoping for a glimpse of his wife.
Was she still sleeping, like most of the neighborhood, or had the dogs already awakened her? Was she experiencing nausea? Rachel hated to throw up. He supposed everyone did, but she’d fought it during the flu and one bout of food poisoning when he’d reminded her she’d feel better if she just got it over with. He wished he could bring her a cold cloth or glass of water or something.
David hated feeling useless, helpless. The way he’d felt for nearly a year.
It had been so frustrating watching his wife slip away, becoming practically a stranger. Once upon a time, they’d tackled problems together. Since the miscarriage, everything had changed. If he could have suffered it for her or shielded her from that loss … But there’d been nothing he could do. She’d seemed so unreachable, and he’d felt angry and impotent. Eventually she’d suggested they try again, she’d started smiling on a daily basis and, although most people assumed she was all right, she hadn’t been the same. After being so frustrated at being shut out, neither had he.
David had wondered if what they were doing—the medical appointments, the physical side effects of the treatment, the emotional and financial cost—was worth it. He and Rachel had a lot of love to give and it seemed as if adoption would be so much easier. When he’d told her that, she’d distanced herself even more. Her emotional rebuffs had infuriated him, reducing him to a glorified sperm donor. She couldn’t talk to him, couldn’t lean on him anymore, but she could expect him to jump into her bed when the ovulation kits said it was time?
Pride. Was he really going to throw away a life with the woman he loved just because she’d hurt his feelings?
He’d handled this all wrong. When she’d told him their marriage was faltering, that she didn’t think she could do this anymore, he’d honestly thought some distance might be good for both of them. Deep down, though, he’d never accepted it as the end. He’d believed—just thinking it made him feel petty, but Rachel’s absence was forcing some hard truths—he’d believed she would see how much she needed him, that she’d blamed him for things that weren’t his fault and would come home. He would forgive her, wait a respectable period of time, then try to persuade her to pursue the reasonable course of adoption.
Her walking out had hurt his male ego, stunting his emotional response. Other than snapping at her once or twice, he’d barely had a response. How much time did he have to repair his mistakes—nine months? Less.
There was a light on in Winnie’s house now, and he stared at it, hoping no one mistook him for a prowler. What if he didn’t have until the baby was born but only a matter of weeks? Would Rachel follow through on her plan to leave after the wedding? What if she didn’t intend to have the baby in Mistletoe?
David’s heart raced, and it had nothing to do with his so-called run. Pure, unadulterated panic coursed through his veins. I have to get them back. She’d fallen in love with a take-charge guy who’d taken one look at her and set about wooing her. He was still that man.
And he refused to lose his wife.
“WHOA.” May let out a low whistle as she glanced from the front door to Rachel, who was installing a new ink cartridge in one of their printers. “Since I haven’t had a hot date in months, I’m guessing those are for you.”
“Guessing what are for me?” Rachel asked cautiously.
“Half of Natalie’s shop, by the looks of it.”
Former Mistletoe High cheerleader Natalie Young was the majority owner of the local flower shop and in charge of floral arrangements for Tanner and Lilah’s wedding. Someone had sent flowers? Rachel left the printer and joined her co-worker at the counter. Whoa didn’t begin to cover it.
“Delivery for Rachel Waide.” The cheerful delivery boy was barely visible behind the profusion of pink roses, white tulips and smaller graceful yellow flowers, all arranged with greenery in a crystal vase that probably weighed a ton.
May was practically vibrating with excitement. “That’s her! She’s Rachel.”
While Rachel stood frozen in shock, the other two settled the flowers atop the counter. May nudged her.
“I think you’re supposed to sign for them.”
David. A guy didn’t send his estranged wife flowers, did he?
Then again, maybe she was reading too much into this. Maybe he was simply excited over their news. She’d been so awestruck that, even though she’d felt bone-tired, she hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d spent the night awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how many months before she could feel the baby move, daydreaming about nursery themes and a little girl with David’s blue eyes or a little boy with his smile.
Her doctor’s appointment was tomorrow afternoon; she’d e-mailed David with the time and suggested they meet there. This bouquet was probably a platonic expression of joy. She plucked the card from the plastic holder in the center of the flowers. He’d written the note himself; she knew his handwriting as well as she knew her own.
Congratulations! I’m sorry I couldn’t find flowers as beautiful as you are, but I hope this paltry offering will still demonstrate how happy I am.
(I’d be even happier if you came home.)
Love, Your Husband
“Do I get to read it?” May asked, unrepentantly nosy.
“It’s personal.” And inappropriate. It was impossible to let David off on the platonic-joy defense if he was going to sling around words like beautiful and your husband.
“Okay, I get that it’s personal,” May conceded. “But we’re friends. You could tell me anything in confidence. You know that, right?”
“Like what?” Rachel was a little taken aback by the intense, meaningful glances her boss was giving her. Since no one knew about the separation, her husband sending flowers wasn’t that notable. He’d done so once or twice on special occasions. “I’m not having a steamy affair with Paolo or anything.”
May’s eyebrows shot upward. “Who’s Paolo?”
“Nothing, nobody. Imaginary male stripper.” She needed to call Arianne back about the bachelorette party. “I just meant, the flowers are from David.”
“To celebrate a happy event, maybe? Or a happy future event you’re expecting?”
How does she know? Rachel’s bewilderment and her tacit
