a/n: Whaddup, an update in under a week? You guys were so encouraging, and it really helped with the general inspiration, so here you go! I hope you enjoy it, and as always, please do let me know what you think.
Thanks a million to my lovely reviewers: Abismith41, SMACkedHuddy, .58, Robby Swan, tlh45, CSIflea, smuffly, Guest, and cornish pasties, and everybody who's read this so far. You all are awesome.
chapter eleven
There was no denying that it was Christmas in New York. From the lights everywhere and Santas on every corner, it was a beautiful time of year.
Mac could only wish his home life was as beautiful. The night he'd spent with Stella in Central Park had been magical. Just the image of her running through Heckscher Fields, snowflakes in her hair, cheeks flushed with laughter, was enough to bring a smile to his face. Since then, they'd been a little awkward, more from the almost-kiss than from the time they'd spent playing in the snow.
It wasn't that he hadn't wanted to. He had wanted to, and he could tell she felt the same from the way she looked up at him, eyes glittering, not wanting to make the first move but begging him to. His pride got in the way, like it always did. His reluctance stemmed from not wanting to make a mistake. He didn't want to embarrass himself, and he couldn't remember what it was like to kiss anyone. Obviously, he and Claire had, but he had no memory of what her lips had felt like on his.
Tapping his fingers along the side of his coffee cup, Mac stared down into its depths, trying to figure out what to do for the day. Stella had already left for the lab, and he was alone in the apartment. He finished his bagel and headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
Winding his warmest scarf around his neck, Mac slid into his coat, pulled a toque down over his ears, and grabbed his gloves. He collected his spare key and wallet, and left the apartment building.
It was colder out than it had been in a while, but the crisp air was refreshing, and helped to clear his head. The streets were already busy, and unlike the last few days, where he'd sort of wandered aimlessly, Mac had an idea of where he was going and what he was doing. He was buying Stella a Christmas present. Now, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to get her, but it had to be special. He vaguely remembered a small antique shop about ten blocks down from her apartment, and it seemed like a good place to start.
Lingering outside the store, Mac stared through the glass, trying to screw up the courage to go in. He felt a little guilty for not telling Stella about his trip to the bank yesterday, but the entire point of this excursion was to get her a present, and if that meant a little secrecy, so be it. He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. He inhaled deeply, savouring the heady combination of potpourri, metal, and vintage fabrics.
He browsed the store, fingering velvet and silk, before he made it over to the counter that held the jewellery. He ran his fingers over the smooth glass, staring down at the array of precious metals glittering enticingly beneath his fingers. Some were gaudy, some weren't, but they were all lovely. Nothing stood out from the rest, so he bent over, all but pressing his nose to the glass.
There it was. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it, but there it was, circled by various pieces that were far more ostentatious.
"Can I help you with anything?"
Mac startled, jerking upright. He cleared his throat, covering his surprise as best he could. "Oh. Yes, I'd like to see that one right there." He tapped the glass above it, watching as the shopkeeper slid the display open and gently pulled out the pendant in question.
"Vintage Tiffany's. Good eye," the older man smiled, passing it gingerly to Mac. It coiled in his palm, cool as ice.
"It's lovely," Mac said, holding it up to the light and admiring the way the light hit the metal and jewels. It swung slowly, and he watched it spin, mesmerized. It was just perfect for Stella: a slim sterling silver chain with a single, simple charm in the shape of a snowflake suspended from it. Six tiny, pale blue aquamarines adorned each tip. Normally, he would have pegged her as more the gold type, but excitement thrummed through him as he closed his fingers around it, sealing it close to his palm. He opened his hand, and smiled widely as he passed it back to the shopkeeper. "I'll take it. How much?"
"For you, $250," the shopkeeper said, taking the delicate necklace and slipping it into a box.
Mac opened his wallet, flicking through the neat row of bills. He mostly had the currency thing down, but he had to pause and think about it. Fingers trembling with the fear of not knowing if he was counting right, he peeled off the correct amount, and passed it to the shopkeeper, who counted it and handed the tiny blue velvet box to Mac.
"Thank you," he said, pocketing the box, and pulling his toque on again. He barely felt the cold as he emerged into the chilly winter day, walking back towards Stella's apartment, smiling to himself.
Once he'd locked the door firmly behind him, shed his coat, toque, scarf, and gloves, Mac headed to the kitchen to boil some water for a cup of tea. While he waited, he retreated to his bedroom, cupping the box in his hands like it was a precious baby bird.
The bed dipped beneath his weight as he settled himself on the duvet, and flicked open the box, pulling the necklace out gently just to admire it. It was just as beautiful as he'd remembered, even though he'd only bought it 45 minutes ago. He flipped the snowflake over, running his fingers over the delicately engraved script on the back that read 'Tiffany & Co.' He pressed it into his palm, feeling the six points dig into the fleshy heel of his palm. Then, he held them it up to the light, which refracted stunningly off the aquamarines. It reminded him of something, but he wasn't sure exactly what.
It was a gorgeously sunny Christmas morning in New York. The entire Taylor-Conrad apartment smelled like a delicious mix of fir tree, eggnog, coffee and gingerbread cookies.
Claire and Mac were nestled together on the couch, arms around each other. A small pile of presents had accumulated on the coffee table, bright wrapping paper strewn across the floor. Most of them had been opened, all except one in a small box.
Mac reached past Claire to scoop it up, and passed it to her. "I got this for you. It's not much, but just promise me you'll think of me whenever you wear it, okay?" he said softly, placing a gentle hand on her arm.
Eagerly, she ripped through the red, green, and gold wrapping paper, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it lightly onto the floor. "Oh, Mac…" she breathed, fingers fumbling for the clasp on the distinctive robin's egg blue box. "You shouldn't have."
"I wanted to," he said, eyes lighting up as she opened it, pulling out a delicate necklace.
Giggling excitedly, she looked over the necklace. It was gold, with a thin chain and two interlocking rings that were similar to the wedding bands she and Mac wore. "It's beautiful!" she squealed, fingering the chain gently, as though she were afraid to break it. She held it out to him, and he opened the clasp. She swept her hair out of the way, and he fastened it behind her neck.
"What do you think?" Claire asked, as she released her long, dark auburn hair, and spun to face him.
"It's perfect." He ran a finger over the two rings, then whisper-soft, his fingers drifted over her collarbone, before he tilted his head in, and brushed his lips against hers. "You're perfect," he said happily, when they parted. "And I am so lucky to have you."
Her grip tightened around his waist, and she pulled him close, nestling her head against his shoulder. "Merry Christmas, Mac. Thank you so much, for everything."
"You're welcome. Merry Christmas, Claire," he replied, kissing the top of her head, and snuggling closer to her, inhaling her intoxicating scent of cinnamon and vanilla.
Mac snapped back to reality with a jolt, finding himself shifting the necklace between his cupped palms, enjoying the feel of the chain running between his fingers, smooth and cool as water. He felt a stab of guilt; was it fair to get Stella something that triggered memories of Christmas with Claire? This wasn't a flashback he was going to share with her.
Unable to look at the object between his hands, he slipped it hurriedly back into its box and shoved it into the back of his closet, and fell back onto the bed. His head was spinning as he tried to process what he'd just remembered. He knew what Claire looked like, what she felt like, even what she smelled like. If he focused hard enough, he could almost catch a whiff that blend of cinnamon and vanilla, spicy yet calming. He breathed in deeply, and was disappointed to find only the lingering subtle smell of Stella's woodsy sandalwood perfume.
There was a sudden, surprising warmth on his cheeks, and when he reached up, he stared at the wetness on his fingers in incomprehension. Was he crying? Swiping the dampness away, Mac cleared his throat a few times to get rid of the lump sitting solidly at the back of his throat, and shuffled to the kitchen, recalling Stella's penchant for tea when she was upset. He had no idea how a hot cup of said beverage would help, but it was worth a shot.
The kettle was whistling, and he turned the heat beneath it off, as he rummaged through the cupboards for the drawer his best friend had dedicated to tea. Mac selected the vanilla black tea she always went for when she needed to relax, and popped a sachet into his favourite mug. He watched in fascination as the liquid darkened as he poured steaming water over tea bag, releasing a tantalizing faint vanilla scent. Wrapping his hands around the cup, he let the warmth bleed into his palms, and was a little taken aback by how comforting it was. He stirred it absently as he settled into the most comfortable chair, drawing his legs up underneath him.
Mac took small sips of the piping hot liquid, and stared off into space. He had a lot to think about, and a lot to figure out before Stella came home. His emotions were whirling, and he felt himself grieving for the wife he only knew through flashbacks. He supposed he had felt happy with Claire, but he had no tangible memories, just that one flashback that was fading already, the smell of Claire pushed away by Stella's perfume. He needed to inhale Claire's blend, not the familiar smell of sandalwood.
Running his hands over his close-cropped hair, Mac jumped up and ran to the windows, unlocking them, and pushing them open. He sucked in lungfuls of the sharply cold air, letting the fresh outdoorsy smell wash away any traces of Stella. He needed Claire. He needed her. Maybe if the apartment didn't smell of Stella, he could get Claire back, just for a second. He clung to that hope like a drowning man to a life preserver, and settled himself back on the couch, head tipped back, just trying to smell cinnamon and vanilla. He tried and tried, as the temperature in the apartment dropped lower and lower, and his muscles seized in convulsive shivers.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that. Darkness fell, and he stayed still, tea virtually untouched. It was only when the door opened and Stella dropped her bag with a thud that he relaxed a little.
"Jesus, Mac, it's cold in here!" she exclaimed, bursting into a small flurry of activity somewhere behind him, kicking off her boots, hanging up her coat, folding her scarf. She emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, a thick navy blue Patagonia fleece sweater over her emerald cap-sleeved blouse. She hugged him from behind, leaning over the sofa to wrap her arms around his shoulders. "Oh. All the windows are open."
He said nothing, forced himself not to recoil at the smell of not-Claire. He didn't move as her arms slipped away, as the wiry curls left his skin cool in their wake.
She headed for the windows, and began snapping them shut, rubbing at the goosebumps on her forearms. When she reached out to close the last one, Mac's shout of protest froze her in her tracks, and she spun around, a concerned frown on her face. "Are you okay, Mac?" she asked, worriedly.
"Fine." His tone was clipped, eyes not meeting hers. "I'm fine."
"If you're sure." She looked him over, gaze piercing, but didn't push it further. Chills ran over her body, and his entire body was dimpled with goosebumps, posture folded in on himself in an unconscious attempt to stay warm. She tossed him a blanket, and he tucked it around himself, numbly.
"Sorry, I zoned out."
"I can see that," she said, relaxing just a little as his shivering eased. "I'll heat up some soup for us, okay? You don't have to tell me what's going on if you don't want to, but I'm here if you want to."
Mac nodded his assent. Maybe someday he would tell her, but not right now. He couldn't right now.