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He shrugged.
“Don’t you believe in Christmas?”
“Sure. I guess.” For other people. Any religious beliefs he did or didn’t hold had nothing to do with a day that had no relevance to an event that took place more than two thousand years before. December twenty-fifth was just a day. A day that had as much to do with pagan festivals as Christian ones.
“You never buy a tree?”
“No.”
“Not ever?”
“No.”
She was standing beside him, and he could feel her looking at him, could tell from the direction of her voice that her face was turned toward him. He wondered if there was another tree close by that was perfect, waiting for her to buy it and get it out of there.
“When’s the last time you had a tree?”
Matt clamped his jaws shut. It was either that or say something he’d have to feel bad about.
“Never,” he said when he had his tension under sufficient control and could at least sound civil.
“I don’t mean since you’ve been on your own,” she said, moving so close to him that their arms touched as she adjusted her footing on the straw. “I mean ever.”
“I’ve never had a tree. Or presents, either.”
A family—mom, dad and three kids—came close enough to be within earshot. They were looking at one of the two trees Phyllis had been considering. She stood there in silence, apparently unconcerned that she was about to lose her Christmas tree, until they’d decided the tree was too expensive and moved on.
“Not even as a kid?” she asked softly as soon as the family was out of earshot.
“Nope.”
Her hand sliding into his shocked him into complete stillness. Not only because they didn’t touch. Ever. But because there was a completely unfamiliar comfort in having it there.
“I’m sorry.”
Had the words been filled with pity, Matt would have been able to disregard them. But they spoke of caring, of empathy, of genuine sorrow at a perceived injustice, and he could do nothing for a moment but stand there, her hand in his, and swallow the emotion that had risen to his throat.
THAT NIGHT Phyllis broke her own rules. She knew there was no place in her life for a man, that to stay emotionally healthy she had to keep her heart guarded. And to do that, she had to keep an emotional distance—and if necessary a physical one—from any man she started to like too much.
The plan worked. She had a couple of happy years behind her to attest to that.
But Matt Sheffield needed her. So she was going to be there for him. It was no wonder the man had no faith in himself, in the magic of unconditional love, of giving and receiving. He’d never had Christmas.
And the absence of Christmas—in his childhood, especially—was symbolic of so many other absences, other deprivations….
She had to change that.
“Could you put these near the top?” she asked, handing him four little glass angels that Christine had given her a few years before. She’d said they were because Phyllis was her own private angel.
Yet Christine had been the angel among them. And now, the angel watching over them?
Matt placed the angels wordlessly, just as he’d wrapped the lights around the tree and helped her with the unpacking of other ornaments. She’d tried to share their significance with him, but after the first couple she’d stopped. The stories seemed more painful to him than anything else. He didn’t even seem to see the work they were doing. The beauty they were creating.
&nb
sp; He was helping her, but he wasn’t there with her.
“If you don’t need anything else…” His words faded as he looked around. She had several boxes of ornaments left to hang, but the top of the tree was full. It was obvious she could do the rest with little effort.
