One, two, three….
Just enough eggs for the chocolate cake, Abby realizes, but she'll be short for breakfast tomorrow morning if she allows herself this indulgence. The fact that tonight is Christmas Eve suddenly seems more of an excuse rather than a valid reason to squander resources such as eggs, especially when her aging hens aren't laying as quickly as she'd like. She supposes she could take in an additional tenant to help make ends meet, but that would mean moving Clarke out of her bedroom and into hers, thus disrupting the one last piece of normalcy both she and her daughter still enjoy since Jacob Griffin's death three and half years ago.
Surviving this depression without a husband or a father is hard enough. Taking one more thing away from her child is too much for Abby to contemplate at the moment, no matter how badly she needs the income.
It would be logical for her to advertise an additional vacancy, but the possibility of allowing a new person-perhaps two more if the new tenant is married or has a child, brings with it its own set of stresses.
Besides, she likes her current tenants, more than likes one of them, if she's being honest with herself, and the thought of bringing new people into her home and disrupting the comfortable rhythm she and her boarders have managed to established makes her stomach cinch uncomfortably.
"Making something special?"
She turns, wiping her hands on her apron, suddenly very self-conscious of the fact that there's probably flour on her face.
"Debating, actually," she admits, trying to swallow down the dryness in her throat that always accompanies Marcus Kane's arrival. Her long-term border raises his brow just a fraction as he plucks an angel biscuit from a plate. "Clarke's favorite chocolate cake-I make it every Christmas."
"Ah," he says, taking a step in her direction. "That sounds lovely. Why would making that be up for debate? It sounds like a tradition to be honored."
Abby sucks in a breath, her eyes dropping to the floor before they can betray her. She makes it a point not to share her financial struggles with anyone, especially her boarders, most of whom face financial straights equally as stringent as her own. But the gentleness she sees staring back at her from brown eyes she could get lost in tempts her to break her own rules,rules getting harder to keep with every day that passes and every night Marcus Kane spends under her roof.
Besides-she sees him as a friend, not simply a boarder. At least that's what she tells herself.
"Because I'm trying to ration the eggs," she states. "To make sure I have enough for everyone's breakfast tomorrow."
He shakes his head at this, tossing her a smile through his dark beard that makes her stomach flutter.
"Charlotte, Rose and Frances being stubborn?" he questions, casting a glimpse out the kitchen window towards her chicken coop.
"They're just getting older," she sighs, acutely aware of the grays peeking out on her own head.
"Aren't we all?" he says, running fingers through his own black mop, agreeably bedecked with occasional streaks of silver. Why Marcus Kane has never married is an utter mystery to her. She can't fathom how a man so polite and well-read could remain unattached for forty years, especially when he has eyes that could melt an iceberg, a voice that could soothe the most savage beast, and lips she's certain would taste like heaven. "Perhaps a little more feed might do the trick?"
"I honestly don't know if the problem is with the girls or with Rollo," she returns, trying to salvage what remains of her composure. "That rooster will be the death of me."
"Too much of a cocky attitude and not enough attention to the ladies, you mean?" he asks, the slight upturn of his mouth warming her insides.
"Something like that," she manages, feeling her cheeks heat instantaneously.
"Then he's a fool," Marcus states. "A man should never take a good woman for granted, much less three of them."
He's standing closer somehow, so close it would take nothing for one of them to cross the distance between them and move in for a kiss. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out-no clever retorts, no words of wisdom. The rather intimate turn in their conversation has her flummoxed.
"Mrs. Griffin," he begins when she finally remembers to close her mouth. "I don't think anyone will begrudge you a morning without eggs so you can make your daughter's favorite chocolate cake for Christmas, a cake many of them will enjoy, as well. And if they do, well, then they're a Scrooge of the worst variety."
"Mrs. Green might mind," she mutters, looking over his shoulder to make sure the nosy widow isn't lurking behind the door frame. "I don't think she actually likes me very much, and I'm fairly certain she curses me in Japanese everytime I tell her the rent is due."
He chuckles at this, the slight vibration of his body in such close proximity to her own a dangerous distraction.
"Mrs. Green should be helping you with the chickens rather than sitting around on the sofa all day, if you ask me," he returns. "For someone who claims to have a strong work ethic, she does far less than her fair share around here. At least her son tries to clean up after himself."
"Monty's a good boy," Abby states. "Even if his gadgets sometimes do more harm than good." She shakes her head, remembering the stilts he'd crafted so he could help her wash the windows only to end up with a broken arm. Of course, his mother had blamed Clarke for the incident, claiming that Abby's strong-willed daughter had put dangerous notion's in her son's head. The problem is that Abby isn't entirely sure that Clarke hadn't done so.
"He'll be a scientist one day," Marcus adds. "Mark my words. That young man has keen mind."
"And a good heart," Abby adds. Monty is Clarke's sole playmate these days, the treehouse Marcus constructed for the children over the summer their castle and retreat. There are times Abby is tempted to climb up there herself for a few moments of blessed escape. Rations, worry and loneliness wear on her more than she'll ever let on to her daughter.
"Are you alright?" he questions, his gaze creased in concern. She is, but she isn't, and she inhales deeply, swallowing down an odd mix of emotions as best she can.
"Things are tight, Mr. Kane," she confesses, unable to meet his gaze. "What savings my husband left behind…well,they're gone now, been gone for months." She pauses, clearing her throat, willing her hands not to shake. "I know there are many people who have it far worse than Clarke and I, and I'm not complaining. It's just…"
He moves to the table and sets his biscuit back down on the plate before stepping back into her space. His hands are around hers then, warm and calloused, large and strong, not exactly the hands she expected from a history professor. But they're his, they're perfect, and they hold her together somehow, even as her world feels as if it's coming apart from the inside out.
"You're a mother," he interjects. "A widow who shows more courage on a daily basis than I've been required to demonstrate over an entire lifetime."
"That's not true," she argues. "I know you fought in the war, and you survived."
His face darkens, his shoulders drooping slightly.
"My survival had more to do with luck than skill or courage, Mrs. Griffin," he whispers. "Far better men than I fell on the fields of France."
He's retreating into himself, even as his grip on her hands strengthens.
"Abby," she corrects, her tone somewhat unsteady. "I think we're past and Mr. Kane by now, don't you?""
She bites her lower lip, smiling softly as her words draw him back to the present. She knows he still has nightmares about the war, has heard him cry out in the night, has stood outside his bedroom door, afraid of intruding but needing to make certain he's alright.
"Abby, then," he says, his tone almost a caress. "And you're absolutely right. We should be past such formalities after living in the same house for almost a year. "
She shouldn't love the way her name sounds when he says it, shouldn't feel as giddy as a girl when he moves in a bit too close, shouldn't think inappropriate thoughts at his innocent mention of them living under the same roof. She's too old for such nonsense, but her reasoning crumbles into dust when she catches a whiff of fresh soap on his skin.
"Marcus," she breathes, feeling pressure grow behind her cheekbones. "It's a good name."
"My mother thought so, at least," he shrugs, and she laughs for the first time in what feels like weeks. "It could be far worse. My cousin got stuck with Amos Zechariah."
She laughs then, and he joins her, warming her body and soul in more ways than one.
"Make the cake, Abby," he breathes. He's still holding her hands, and she shivers as she nods, suddenly very aware of just how messy her hair must be. "I think we would all appreciate such a treat for Christmas."
"And Hanukkah," she murmurs. "I've seen your menorah when I've come into clean."
His grin is disarming.
"My mother was Jewish," he says, his thumbs now drawing circles inside her palms. "Her family immigrated to the U.S. from Prague when she was three years old, and she was determined that we would never forget our people and the beliefs passed down from one generation to the next." He pauses, his gaze dropping. "As I've no children, I try to make certain I observe what she taught me faithfully, in honor of her memory and out of respect for our people."
He swallows audibly, prompting her to squeeze his hands.
"Your life is far from over, Marcus," she murmurs, still getting used to speaking his first name out loud. "Having children isn't out of the question for you."
He studies her carefully, his gaze so intimate she feels her body react, her breath quickening, her nipples hardening to peaks.
"Perhaps not," he concedes with a small shrug, his gaze moving to their still joined hands. "But it's not exactly an ideal time to bring a child into the world, Abby."
"I'm not certain there ever is an ideal time," she returns. "Our world may be in a sad state at the moment, and children are always hard work. God knows they come with their own set of worries." She pauses, thinking of her daughter, of the purpose motherhood had given her when grief had threatened to swallow her alive. "But they're worth it. I'll never stop believing that."
"You have a gift, you know," he states. "Of finding hope even in the darkest of times. It's one thing I…" He pauses, clearing his throat as his neck flushes. "One thing I admire about you."
Heat rushes everywhere at once.
"I'm not so admirable," she argues, making him shake his head.
"But you are," he insists. "In more ways than you realize."
Silence settles around them, one charged with something that makes her toes tingle. Blood thrums in her ears, silencing the world around them, making her warm, half-dizzy, and at a complete loss of words.
"So you have family in Czechoslovakia?" she finally manages, swallowing hard as he nods.
"Not in the Sudetenland, thank God," he states. "Most of them are still in Prague, except for my Aunt Ana who is a professor at Oxford. She's quite a character-the two of you would probably get along famously." He pauses, smiling through worry, swallowing hard. "But it's not an ideal time to be a Jew in Europe these days, no matter where you reside."
His expression darkens again, and it tugs on her, pulls her into him until her hands draw away from his and slowly move towards his face, touching his beard, luring her lips towards his skin until they brush his cheek. He's both coarse and soft, tasting of sandalwood, salt and pine, an elixir she thinks she could get used to all too easily.
She draws back slowly, half-terrified of what his reaction will be.
"What was that?" he asks. There is no discomfort in his eyes, no accusation, nor does he make any moves to pull away from her. There is only warmth and surprise, tinged with a longing she instantly recognizes and meets with her own.
"Let's call it hope," she says, daring to stroke her thumb over his cheekbone as their breaths intertwine. His forehead touches down on hers, meeting her halfway, and they stand there, breathing, touching, feeling things that half terrify her even as she refuses to pull away.
"Abby," he whispers, setting off firecrackers under her skin. She clutches him even tighter, wishing she could absorb him into herself, wondering if she'll ever get her fill of this this man.
An infant's cry from upstairs rudely breaks the spell, and Marcus steps back from her, just far enough so he can look into her eyes. Something has shifted between them, something fundamental and terribly personal, and she shivers reflexively, meeting his gaze head on. He then reaches into his pocket and withdraws an envelope before placing it in her palm, closing her hand around it as he does so.
"That's for Miss Reyes," he states, continuing to clasp her hand within his.
"Marcus, there's no need…"
"I know you refuse to charge her rent," he interrupts. "And I admire that-truly. God only knows where she and her baby would be if you hadn't taken them in, Abby. But you just said it yourself-money is tight, so take this. Please. Consider it a Christmas gift."
She stares at the envelope, wondering just how much money he's placed inside of it.
"I thought the Christmas tree was my gift," she returns. His cheeks darken, and she smiles, his discomfort only increasing her attraction.
"For the children," he shrugs, doing his best to appear nonchalant. Taking both Clarke and Monty to search for just the perfect tree had been a highlight of the season for both children, and had meant the world to a young boy and a little girl forced to grow up without fathers. "This is for you. Believe me, it's far less than you deserve, and you'll go through it quickly with a new baby in the house. Just take it, please."
She nods, deeply touched by his thoughtfulness, and more than a little grateful for the money. She'd spotted Miss Reyes in town one day, heavily pregnant and sorting through the trash bin behind the market for food. Abby had brought her home, had given her the room she and Jake had planned to make into a nursery until he'd passed away and she'd miscarried their second child. Marcus had helped her fashion a bed for the unmarried expectant mother out of a spare mattress and cheap lumber, and they'd all welcomed her baby boy a few weeks later, a tiny, black-headed infant with a robust set of lungs his mother had named Flynn.
"After his papa," Raven had confided one evening. "May he rest in peace."
Abby isn't certain how much respect she has for the man who had impregnated the young woman then shot himself when he lost his second job within three months. What in God's name had he been thinking, leaving Raven alone in a country not her own with both a language barrier and the stigma of bearing a child out of wedlock on shoulders that shouldn't have to bear so much. A young life purposely wasted is something she has a hard time comprehending.
"On one condition," Abby states, clearing her throat. "You have to bring your menorah downstairs tonight and let all of us observe the seventh night of Hanukkah with you. Consider us your family. Teach us what your mother taught you."
Gratitude fills his expression, his eyes creasing with emotion.
"You drive a hard bargain," he teases, squeezing her hand once more. "But it would be my sincerest honor to share Hanukkah with you." He brings her hand to his lips, placing a kiss upon her skin that shoots sparks everywhere at once. His mouth lingers on her hand, his breath consecrating what he has just marked as his own. "I'll see you later, Abby."
"Later," she mutters, unable to tear her eyes from him as he turns and exits. The hand he kissed trembles, and she brings it to her cheek, pressing it against heated skin as she wonders what all of this means.
I'll see you later, Abby.
Later will be at approximately 4:00 pm today, for she knows his teaching schedule by heart, knows exactly what time to serve dinner so that none of her boarders will miss it, and she sighs as she turns back to her counter, pausing to study the plate of biscuits.
There are only three left.
This can't be right-she'd made fourteen this morning-had counted them herself as she set them out for breakfast. She and Clarke had each eaten one, as had Mrs. Green. Monty had nabbed two, and Marcus had swiped his second just now on his way out the door. There should be seven left, but no matter which way she looks at it, the truth is staring her in the face. Only three biscuits remain.
What in God's name has happened to the other four?
At least she has enough left for Raven to eat, but she'd planned on serving the remaining ones with last night's leftover ham for lunch. Someone must have been hungrier than she'd realized, and she reasons it was Clarke or Monty. Was one of the children experiencing a growth spurt, or had the two of them found another stray dog they'd taken to feeding from her kitchen? She'll speak with them later, knowing from experience that it's not difficult to wheedle the truth out of Monty Green.
There's no use in agonizing over it, she reasons, so she moves to the refrigerator to assemble the ingredients for the chocolate cake she looks forward to serving now for more reasons than one.
Make the cake, Abby.
She'll prepare it for Marcus as well as for Clarke, will celebrate old traditions as new relationships seek to put down roots. Her stomach flutters as she remembers the feel of scruff against her hand, her lips, her fingers, and she inhales deeply, knowing that she needs to put such fanciful notions out of her head and get to work on preparations for Christmas Eve Dinner. She reaches into the refrigerator, stopping as her hands tell her what her eyes are still trying to take in.
A full bottle of milk is missing. It would seem a thief is afoot.