1225 Christmas Tree Lane. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ if they’d been the kind of people who yelled and stomped around the house, everything might have gone differently. Instead, once the subject of divorce had been broached, they’d been so darned polite. Attorneys said there was no such thing as a “friendly” divorce, but that hadn’t been Beth’s experience. Theirs had been not only friendly but accommodating and fair. But maybe that was just on the surface. Maybe going ahead with the divorce was unfair—to both of them.

      She’d gotten busy at the college and Kent had his engineering company. They’d been like those ships in the old cliché, passing in the night, each drifting in a different direction. She had her life and he had his.

      Kent claimed he found her friends stuffy and boring, and stopped attending social functions with her. Beth decided his friends were snobs. He didn’t seem to mind that she stayed home when he had an event, and after a while she wondered if he’d met someone else. It wouldn’t have surprised her. Although he’d never admitted it … They were so remote at that point, spending almost no time together. Oh, they slept in the same bed but rarely touched, rarely communicated about anything other than routine or functional things. Like who was picking up milk or paying the electricity bill.

      She was the one who’d suggested divorce. At first Kent had seemed shocked. But he’d recovered quickly enough. He’d simply said that if she wanted a divorce, he wouldn’t stop her … and he hadn’t.

      They’d divided everything as equitably as possible, sold the house and parted ways. It’d all been so civilized, so straightforward, as if twenty-three years as husband and wife meant nothing.

      When the final decree came through, Beth decided to leave the academic world. She’d been seeking a geographical cure, she supposed, considering it now. The Christmas tree farm had been the solution she’d been looking for. She had her dogs and a menagerie of other pets, including two canaries, a guinea pig and now the puppies. Eight puppies. She also fed a number of feral cats. And she’d made new friends and found new purpose….

      Kent—and, yes, it was Kent, as she’d expected—parked the car and turned off the engine. Beth pretended she was busy. Too busy to even glance in his direction. But despite herself, she was excited. Happy.

      All she’d ever wanted from him was some indication that he still loved her, that he still cared. His insistence on spending Christmas with her and the girls, no matter how it had come about, was the first time either of them had made a move toward the other. Could this be the start of a reconciliation?

      Her heart rate accelerated and she brushed her hair behind both ears. She wished now that she’d worn something other than her ever-present jeans. Dressing up a bit would’ve been a subtle way of letting Kent know how pleased she was that he’d extended an olive branch. She had on a long-sleeved shirt beneath her red V-neck sweater, which would have gone nicely with her black wool pants. Oh, how she wished she’d put on her black wool pants.

      The car door closed, and Kent stood there, looking at her.

      “Hello,” she said, surprised by how shaky her voice sounded. “Welcome to Christmas Tree Lane—and Cedar Cove Tree Farm.”

      He zipped up his jacket and grinned. “The house is fabulous. The girls were right.”

      “Thank you.” The porch railing was covered with swags of evergreen and twinkling white lights. More lights hung from the roofline, glittering brightly in the dull gray winter morning.

      The passenger car door opened and Beth saw that Kent hadn’t come alone. A lovely, young—much younger than Beth—woman climbed out. She was tall, lithe and stylishly dressed in a full-length black coat and long, high-heeled black boots. She towered an inch or two above Kent, who stood at nearly six feet. Her blond, shoulder-length hair was perfect…. Actually, everything about her seemed perfect in an urban, sophisticated way that contrasted painfully with Beth’s farm clothes, disheveled hair and work-roughened hands.

      Beth blinked and her heart almost stopped as reality hit her. Kent had brought another woman. They were together. A couple. He was seeing someone else now. This little fantasy she’d built around a reconciliation was only that—wishful thinking.

      It took her a moment to recover and realize that every assumption she’d made was completely and totally off-base. Kent hadn’t come to spend Christmas with her and the girls. His sole purpose was to show off this … this model.

      Nothing had changed. Nothing ever would.

      “Hello.” Beth greeted the other woman with a forced smile and an extended hand. “I’m Beth Morehouse. The ex-wife.”

      “I know,” the woman said in a sultry voice that was sweet enough to caramelize sugar. “I’m Danielle.”

      Just Danielle? No last name? Like Cher or Madonna or Beyoncé?

      “Welcome to my Christmas tree farm,” she said, placing emphasis on her ownership.

      The screen door flew open and Bailey raced onto the porch. “Dad!”

      Sophie was directly behind her sister. They darted down the stairs like young fawns in their rush to hug Kent.

      Her ex-husband opened his arms, and his daughters launched themselves into his wide embrace.

      “How are my girls?” he asked, his voice warm with affection.

      “Missing you, Daddy,” Sophie murmured.

      “Who’s that?” Bailey asked starkly, frowning at Danielle. Apparently, she was as shocked as Beth.

      “This is Danielle Martin,” he said, sliding his arms around each of their waists.

      Oh, so there was a last name.

      “What’s she doing here?” Sophie demanded.

      “Sophie,” Beth snapped, appalled at her daughter’s lack of manners.

      “Danielle’s a friend from work who traveled with me,” he said by way of introduction.

      “Why don’t we all step inside, out of the cold,” Beth suggested, and marched into the house, assuming everyone else would follow.

      The girls had obviously been playing with the puppies when Kent arrived because the second the door opened they swarmed onto the porch, eager as jailbirds to make an escape. Four were already out the door and racing down the porch steps.

      “Don’t just stand there,” Beth cried to her daughters. “Help me.”

      Laughing, Sophie and Bailey hurried in one direction while Beth went in the other. Even Kent got involved in the chase. The only one who didn’t move was Danielle. With her arms crossed, she remained immobile, as if moving a single inch would have dire consequences.

      Once the puppies were all inside the house, Beth brought Kent and Danielle in. Danielle perched on the arm of a recliner with her feet off the carpet. She seemed to fear that all the puppies would rush toward her at one time.

      Beth called out instructions. “Get the puppies into the laundry room,” she told the girls. “I’ll give them some treats.” This was not the way she’d planned to greet Kent, with puppies creating havoc.

      In the momentary quiet of the laundry СКАЧАТЬ