One Last Christmas by Joyce Livingston

Author:Joyce Livingston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Barbour Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2013-02-08T00:00:00+00:00

Eight

He backed away from her, holding his palms up between them. “I—I don’t think so.”

She stepped toward him, determined to make her plans work out as she had envisioned them. “We do have a king-sized bed. There’s plenty of room for both of us. I’ll sleep on my side. You sleep on yours.”

When he did not respond with more than a doubtful grunt, she added, trying to keep her voice sweet and on an even keel, “You do plan to keep your part of the bargain, don’t you?”

He gave a defeated shrug and headed for the stairs without answering. As soon as he reached their room, he unzipped his suitcase and pulled out what looked to be a brand new pair of pajamas, still bearing the creases from their packaging. Sylvia muffled a laugh. Although she’d bought him a number of pairs of nice men’s pajamas during the years they’d been married, he’d always refused to wear them, opting for a T-shirt and boxers, saying only old men in hospitals or care homes wore pajamas.

She waited patiently, sitting on her side of the bed while he showered, using the time to read her Bible. Minutes later he emerged, his curly hair damp, and wearing the new pajamas. “Shower feel good?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ve always loved that big showerhead. Makes a guy feel really clean.”

Is that a faint tinge of aftershave I smell? Did he put that on just for me? “I like that showerhead, too, especially when I rinse my hair,” she added, closing her Bible. “I put a glass of water on your nightstand.”

He glanced toward the glass. “Thanks.”

“I’m not going to bite, Randy,” she told him, giving him a raise of her brow.

“I—I know, I just feel—awkward, that’s all, now that things are—different—between us.”

“I still love you,” she reminded him gently, not wanting to add to his discomfort.

He took a swig of the water, set the glass back in the coaster, and lowered himself onto his side of the bed, keeping his back toward her.

Sylvia quickly scooted across the bed on her knees and cupped her hands on his shoulders. Although he flinched and gave her a what-are-you-doing look, he did not move away. “You’ve been working too hard. Let me rub your shoulders.”

“You don’t have—”

“I know I don’t have to—I want to. Now sit still.” She began gently kneading his deltoid muscles, letting her fingers perform their magic.

“Umm, that feels so good.”

“You’re way too tense, Randy. Come on, relax.”

“I don’t want you to tire yourself.”

“I’ll quit when I get tired. Now let me work those neck muscles.”

He bowed his head low and, oohing and aahing with each stroke, he let her fingertips press into his strong neck.

“I used to do this when we were first married, when you came home from your classes, remember?” she asked, leaning against him.

He nodded. “Yeah, I remember. Knowing you’d be waiting for me at the end of a hard day at college, ready to massage my weariness away, was what kept me going those last few hours.

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