Home for Christmas (Willow Park #5) Read online

  Home for Christmas

  Willow Park, Book Five

  Noelle Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Noelle Adams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Content Editing: Kristin Anders, The Romantic Editor

  Proofreading: PREMA Romance

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Listed

  About Noelle Adams

  One

  Sophie Davenport, who had been using her maiden name of Miller for the last two years, was shelving hundreds of used paperbacks the bookstore had just gotten in, when she saw Flirty Guy walk into the shop.

  He’d been coming in for the last few weeks, ostensibly to find more books to read. Most of the time, however, he spent trying to chat her up.

  She ducked her head and pushed the cart to the far corner of the store, hoping he wouldn’t see her.

  She was in the religious section now, so she leaned over to the bottom shelf of her cart to reach the books she’d organized for this part of the store.

  Maybe, if the guy didn’t see her, he would just leave.

  She was staring at a shelf of inspirational romances, marveling that so many of them were about the Amish, when she heard the unwanted voice behind her. “There you are! I was looking for you.”

  Hiding a sigh, she pasted on a fake smile and turned around. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

  Sophie usually had a warm, friendly manner with patrons of the bookstore. Running an independent bookstore in a small town like Willow Park was an uphill battle, and she knew great customer service was absolutely essential. But, with this particular guy, she’d gravitated toward extra-professional and slightly cool, since she didn’t want to encourage him to keep hanging around.

  Her strategy didn’t appear to be working.

  Flirty Guy was nice-looking, well dressed, and intelligent. She was pretty sure he must be working somewhere nearby and was dropping by on his lunch breaks, since he always wore good trousers and a dress shirt. If she’d been single, she might even be interested in him.

  Sophie wasn’t single. She just hadn’t seen her husband in two and a half years.

  “I was hoping you might help me find another good book to read. I really liked the last one you suggested.” The guy was grinning, as he always did, and he clearly wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

  “Oh. I’m a little busy right now.” She gestured down at her cart of books.

  “I’m sure the books currently on that shelf can hold the fort for a little while longer, before you get the other ones up there.”

  She stared down at the neatly organized paperbacks in the stack, trying to figure out what to do. She didn’t want to be rude, but she’d flashed her engagement and wedding rings at him as often and as obviously as she could.

  Surely he could see that she was married. Surely he would understand that meant she was unavailable. She occasionally had random guys come on to her—she was small, slender, dark-haired, and pretty enough—but few had been as committed as this guy.

  “What kind of book were you looking for?” she asked at last.

  “I don’t know. Something exciting.”

  Great. That told her absolutely nothing. She was going to be here forever, trying to find him a book that he didn’t really want.

  “What about espionage? My husband really like those.” There. He couldn’t possibly mistake that.

  He didn’t mistake it, but he didn’t react the way she’d been hoping. He leaned forward, bracing himself against her cart. “Are you really married?”

  “Yes.” She stiffened her shoulders. “What kind of question is that?”

  “I don’t know.” He still looked casual, laidback, definitely flirtatious. “Someone told me that you live alone, so I figured maybe you were separated.”

  Sophie was separated from her husband, but not in the way this guy meant. She felt rattled and slightly emotional, and she didn’t like the feeling. She didn’t like this guy at all, for making her feel that way. “I’m married for real,” she said coolly.

  He sighed and straightened up. “So where is your husband?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but that’s not really your business.”

  “So there’s no chance for me, then?” He looked disappointed, which might have been flattering—instead, it was a huge relief, since it meant he was finally getting the picture.

  “No. I’m happily married.”

  That was a lie, but there was no reason to explain it to a stranger.

  Sophie loved her husband, Mark, as much as she ever had, but nothing about their marriage was happy right now. It was looking less and less likely that he would ever come home.

  Before Flirty Guy could respond, another voice came from the aisle. “Sophie! There you are. How are you doing?”

  Sophie blinked in surprise. She recognized the voice and the pretty, pregnant blonde who was approaching, but Abigail Morgan wasn’t in the habit of being so loud and in-your-face cheerful.

  Flirty Guy used the distraction to make a quick escape.

  Sophie sighed in relief as he slipped away, hoping she’d seen him for the last time.

  Abigail frowned. “Are you okay? Was he bothering you?”

  “He was just coming on to me. Nothing too bad.” Sophie smiled at her friend. She’d only known the other woman for six months, but Abigail was one of the few women in Willow Park with whom Sophie had really gotten close since moving here.

  “You looked upset.” Abigail was still glowering toward the front of the store, where the guy had disappeared.

  “Not really about him,” Sophie explained, lowering her voice. There was no one else in the shop right now except her grandfather, who owned the store and was presently dozing behind the cashier’s desk. “He was just asking about my husband, and it…it upset me for some reason.”

  “Of course, it would upset you.”

  “Yeah. Of course. I just mean, I’m used to it now, and it doesn’t usually get me so emotional.”

  Abigail had gone through her share of marital troubles—having been separated from her husband, Thomas, for a long time until earlier this year—and her face was sympathetic and understanding. “I guess sometimes it just hits you randomly like that.”

  “Yeah.” Sophie sniffed and fought back the swell of emotion. “It does sometimes. But I don’t like to be weepy all the time. Mark always hated it when I cried, so it feels like I’m failing him if I turn into a weepy mess. He was kidnapped thirty months ago. I should be used to it by now.”

  Mark had been working as a journalist for a cable news channel, embedded in the Middle East, when he was taken hostage by Syrian rebels two and a half years ago. He and Sophie had been living in D.C. at the time, and they’d still been ensconced in newlywed bliss, having been married for only six months.

  Sophie had been working at a public relations firm, but it was just too hard to stay in D.C. and continue her normal life. After all the news coverage about the rebels capturing him and the two other members of his crew, everyone knew who she was. No one thought of her in any way except as the wife of the captured journalist. People were
always trying to interview her, hear her side of the story, hear what it felt like to be Mark Davenport’s wife, ask if there were any new developments on negotiations for his return.

  It felt like hell, and so she’d finally just given up on her old life.

  Her grandfather had been struggling with this Willow Park bookstore, so she’d moved to the small town in the mountains of North Carolina where her father had been raised. She’d gone back to using her maiden name, so she wouldn’t be so easy to identify. She’d taken the little apartment above the bookstore, and she’d tried to get involved in the church and community.

  It sometimes felt like she was playing a role, but it was better than it had been before.

  “I don’t think that’s something you ever get used to,” Abigail said softly, rubbing her rounded belly as if it gave her comfort.

  Sophie wondered, if she and Mark had had children, whether they would have been a comfort to her in his absence. They almost certainly would have been, but she and Mark had never been given the chance.

  She pushed the thought away, since it would just make her feel sorry for herself, and she tried very hard not to do that.

  She cleared her throat. “Anyway, let’s not talk about it. How are things with you? Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yes. I’m fine. I mean, my back hurts all the time and I pee in my pants every time I sneeze, but otherwise, I’m wonderful.” Abigail evidently understood that Sophie wanted to move on, and her mouth quirked in dry humor.

  Sophie laughed appreciatively. “Just two more months, right?”

  “Yes. He’s due December 20th. Maybe he’ll be a Christmas baby. Thomas keeps coming up with ridiculous names for him. His latest is Jack Frost Morgan.” Abigail’s face was warm with affection as she chuckled at the thought of her husband.

  Sophie laughed again and fought against the slight tingle of jealousy.

  When she’d first met Abigail, the other woman had been struggling in her marriage, and so it felt like they’d had a common bond. But Abigail and Thomas had reconciled at Easter—getting pregnant shortly afterwards—and they’d gotten closer and closer, happier and happier, as the year progressed. Sophie was delighted for them. She really was. But it was hard to see such a fulfilling marriage when hers had been broken so cruelly.

  She prayed silently, and it felt like God heard her, like God was with her, so she felt a little better. She’d been raised a Christian, but she’d never prayed as much or as intensely in her whole life as she had in the last couple of years.

  “Anyway,” Abigail said, “We’re having a few people over to do pumpkin carving this Saturday, so I was hoping you would come to join us.”

  “Sure.” Sophie smiled, as if she were pleased by the invitation. “I’d love to. Thanks for inviting me.”

  She didn’t actually like to go to social events, since people always made a point of being kind and friendly toward her, which only highlighted that she was a figure of sympathy to the community. But she made herself participate, instead of staying at home alone.

  She tried to stay busy as many hours in the day as she possibly could, since she thought about Mark most when she was alone.

  ***

  Since the bookstore had a couple of part-time employees who handled the evening hours, Sophie usually left work around six.

  That evening, she walked down the block to the grocery store, as she almost always did, and picked out a chicken breast and some produce to make a salad for dinner.

  When she walked back to her apartment, she turned on the television to a station that played old sitcoms back-to-back. She left it on as she fixed her dinner.

  Then she called her parents. Her father had retired early from his business as an accountant, and he and her mother had moved to Florida last year.

  Then she called her sister, who was married to an officer in the Navy who was stationed in Alaska.

  Then she turned the television back on and paid some bills.

  Then she cleaned her kitchen, although she’d cleaned it last night too so it didn’t really need cleaning.

  Then she got on her treadmill and power walked for forty-five minutes.

  Then she drank a bottle of water and did the reading and questions for the Bible study she attended on Wednesday evenings.

  Then she looked the clock and saw it was almost ten—finally late enough for her to go to bed.

  So she got ready for her bath. She took one almost every night. She was always too restless and anxious to sleep naturally, but she didn’t want to regularly take the sleeping pills she’d had prescribed to her, so she’d gotten in the habit of taking a bath before bed every night.

  This apartment was owned by Micah Duncan, a local contractor, a member of her church, and the brother of her pastor. He’d fixed it up really nice, with original hardwood, one exposed brick wall, granite in the kitchen, stainless steel appliances, and a beautifully tiled shower in the bathroom.

  It also had a lovely claw-foot tub.

  Sophie filled it with hot water, dumped in some lavender-scented bath salts that were supposed to help her relax, and then got in to soak.

  She kept the television on loudly.

  Everyone told her she’d sleep better without having the TV on all the time, but she was used to always hearing it now. Whenever she turned it off, the apartment was almost oppressively silent. Even music gave her too much time to think, too much time to be sad and lonely, too much time to worry about Mark. So she kept the television on all evening like a crutch.

  She was only half-listening as she soaked in the tub and tried to relax.

  When she started wondering what Mark was doing right now—whether he was being tortured, whether he was starving, whether he was even still alive—she forced the terrifying questions out of her mind. She’d been told that he wasn’t likely to be killed or tortured, since the small rebel group who had captured him were trying to use him and the others in negotiations to establish more of a standing in the region, but she didn’t know if people had just told her that to make her feel better.

  She wouldn’t let herself think about them. If she did, she would never get through this.

  Instead, she thought about Abigail and how happy her friend was now with Thomas, their daughter Mia, and their new baby who would be born in a couple of months.

  It was good. Sophie was happy for them. She’d never seen a couple who had worked so hard on their marriage as Abigail and Thomas. They deserved to have some happiness now.

  When they were together, Thomas could hardly keep his hands off of Abigail.

  Mark had always been like that with Sophie. She’d felt the same way about him.

  They’d met at a church function in D.C. and had immediately known they belonged together. They’d dated for only three months before they’d gotten engaged.

  Their engagement had been planned for six months. A little too long, as it happened. They’d been so into each other that they hadn’t been able to wait for the wedding, even though both of them believed in waiting for marriage before having sex. The first time they’d gotten carried away, they’d vowed not to do it again.

  But they’d kept losing control and falling into bed again and again—for the last two months of their engagement.

  Sophie still occasionally felt guilty about it, even though she knew in her head that God was all about forgiveness and she’d mostly worked through the guilt.

  The thought of Mark kissing her, touching her, made her restless, and she shifted uncomfortably in the tub. Knowing she needed to relax if she was ever going to sleep tonight, she reached over and picked up her little vibrating sponge.

  A friend had gotten it for her as a funny gift at one of her bridal showers. She and Mark had played around with it a little during their first couple of months of marriage. But Sophie had never expected to really need to use it the way she had for the last year.

  She’d been using it a lot.

  A memory came back to her of one evening four m
onths after she and Mark had gotten married. She’d always been kind of clueless in the kitchen back then. Since both of them worked, they’d mostly eaten takeout or gone out to restaurants. But one day she’d decided she was going to make a pot of homemade soup. She was tired of feeling helpless in front of the stove and was determined to teach herself to cook as well as her friends could. Mark came home to find her in the kitchen, surrounded by a complete mess of half-chopped vegetables, flour all over the floor, and a gash where she’d cut her thumb with the knife. She’d been upset and embarrassed that she couldn’t even manage the simplest of meals on her own. Mark had just laughed, bandaged up her thumb, and then taken her in his arms, telling her that he loved her exactly as she was and she never needed to change. He’d finished making the soup himself, and as it simmered, they’d made love on the couch. He’d always taken care of her. He’d always made her feel loved and treasured.

  Remembering their time together on the couch that evening, Sophie turned on the sponge and held it between her thighs, thinking about Mark until the sensations tightened pleasurably inside her. She let out a long breath as her body relaxed.

  She turned the sponge off afterwards, trying to feel satisfied and not lonely.

  When she finally climbed out of the tub, dried off, and put on her pajamas, she decided she felt better. She was tired and relaxed, and she left the television on as she turned off the lights in the apartment and got into bed.

  She’d made it through another day.

  It had been 912 days since Mark’s boss and a representative from the White House had shown up at her doorstep in D.C. to tell her that Mark had been captured.

  She’d spent two years, two Christmases, without him.

  She had no idea how many more it would be.

  If he was dead, she’d be heartbroken, but at least she could have tried to restart her life. There was no restarting her life now. Not like this. He wasn’t dead. He was just captured with no return date on the horizon. She was trapped in a limbo that might never end.

  If he ever came back, she was sure he’d be different. Maybe she wouldn’t know him anymore. Maybe he wouldn’t love her, need her anymore. Maybe they couldn’t be happy together, the way they’d been before. That thought was terrifying too.