The man, who knew what he had to do, didn’t want to get near her. She was the last person Jack had expected. Proud and strong and self-contained, Sophie would never chase a man who’d rejected her.
So what was she doing here?
He went back to the E.R. and checked the board to see if she was listed as a patient. Oddly, in the computer age, Christmas Town’s hospital still used a whiteboard. It was large, easy to read, easy to update.
He found the palest outline of “Sop” where someone hadn’t completely erased her name after she was discharged. The pregnancy meant that Georgette Everly would have been her attending...unless Sophie had come to Maine to tell him she’d lost the baby.
She could have lost the baby in the accident.
Georgette opened the door of a treatment room almost directly across from where he stood at the nurses’ station. With her eyes on her tablet, she was already moving on to the next room.
Jack headed for the doctors’ lounge.
He showered and dressed in jeans and a blue button-down shirt, then grabbed his coat from his locker before heading for the E.R. exit.
Georgette was leaning on one elbow at the nurses’ station, making notes. She looked up with a smile. “I heard your surgery went well.”
In no small part because Sophie had treated the girl while she was still lying on the road.
“Tessie Blaylock’s fine.” Jack should walk on. He should make sure he knew nothing about Sophie or the child. He didn’t want to ask, but the words came out of his mouth. “How’s your patient?”
“She’s good. Eighteen weeks pregnant, and the baby has a strong heartbeat. Lots of movement. Lucky for Tessie, she hit an E.R. nurse with trauma experience.”
“Are you keeping her overnight?”
“She’s staying at Esther’s House. I called to have someone look in on her before bedtime, but I’ll phone her, too.”
Esther Underbrook was like Mrs. Claus, opening her home to tourists seeking a potent shot of holiday spirit. Sophie had made fun of his hometown, with its blatantly commercial name.
“No use confusing anyone about Christmas for sale,” she’d teased him.
He’d been so busy keeping his life with her in Boston apart from his real life that he’d never explained Christmas Town wasn’t like that. She’d had no need to know that he wasn’t the man he’d been in Christmas Town. He’d avoided mixing his two worlds and the people in them.
She had no need to be here at all.
Nothing would change between them. Nothing. He didn’t care what plan nurturing, dreamy-eyed, yet practical Sophie Palmer had made.
Jack drove through the softly falling snow. Already, the sun was heading downward and the blue-gray sky darkening. He parked at the square and walked a block north to the Federal-style family home Esther had managed to refurbish by taking in customers.
She’d started her business by turning her dining room and parlor into a restaurant frequented by foodies from all over the world, but a house built when George Washington might reasonably have been expected to stop for hay and victuals required a formidable amount of upkeep. Naturally, she’d turned the restaurant into an inn.
Esther was carrying linens between her two busy dining rooms when he opened the door, stomping snow off his boots. “Hello, Jack,” she said. “You should be at work or asleep.”
Usually, he teased back. She’d been a fixture of kindness since his childhood. Tonight, he had to finish the last conversation he and Sophie would ever have.
“Actually, I’m working. I thought I’d drop in to check on an accident victim who came to the E.R. today.”
“Isn’t that nice of you?” Esther was so pleased his conscience quivered, but he instantly shut it down. “Sophie’s in room eight. Let me give you a pitcher of cider for her.”
He waited. Esther brought a tray with hot cider, scones straight from the oven and two delicate cups and saucers that had never been intended for a man’s use. Nevertheless, he negotiated the stairs and knocked at Sophie’s door.
She opened it immediately. Her smile reminded him of the old days—days and nights they’d shared just a few months ago—when her smile had been for him, and he’d never imagined being without her.
“I thought for a minute you didn’t even recognize me,” she said.
He moved toward her, and she had to step back. “Why are you here?” he asked. “I made myself clear.”
“When you packed up everything you owned, quit your job and moved home because I was pregnant?”
Her tone, as sharp as a scalpel, sliced into him, but he and Sophie and her child would all fare better if he withstood the wounds. He set the tray on a table between two armchairs in front of the fireplace.
This might go more easily if she’d only shown up to extract a pound of flesh.
“Nothing’s changed,” he said. “What did you expect?”
She shut her eyes, and her face seemed to smooth as she breathed her stress away. He hardened his heart. He could not be around a child. Would not.
She opened blue eyes, more beautiful than he remembered. Two months, and seeing her made him as eager as a starving man contemplating a table groaning with abundance.
“I hoped to find the man I loved for nearly two years.” Her voice dragged his gaze from her eyes to her mouth. “The doctor who gives his all to save lives, the friend who never, ever walks away.”
“I walked.” He turned toward the door. “If that’s all...”
She followed, grabbing his arm. He would not shake her off. He wouldn’t risk hurting her.
“Sit down,” she said, her confusion a painful stumbling block. He was determined to stick to his decision, but he didn’t want to hurt her more than he had to. “For a few minutes, listen to me.”
Whatever she said wouldn’t change anything, but maybe, after he said no again, she’d go away.
Cold sweat raced down his spine.
SOPHIE POURED CIDER into both cups and took one, mostly to keep her hands occupied. “Let’s get this over with. I’m not even sure there’s a point in talking.”
Except she’d been nobody’s daughter all her life. Not even a name to peg her hopes or her resentment on.
“You’re finally hearing me,” Jack said.
She put one hand to her mouth, resting her index finger along her upper lip as her stomach heaved. She had yet to conquer morning sickness. Some women had it from conception to delivery. Hers seemed to be connected to stress. “You know that my mother kept my father’s name off my birth certificate?”
“I don’t want my name on the baby’s papers.”
Was he trying to make her despise him? It might work, if a small voice in her head would stop insisting he must have lost his mind. He had to have a reason.
“I came to tell you I won’t do that. It’s not best for my baby. I know nothing about my father or whatever family he might have had, except that clearly he was either ashamed or married or a coldhearted—”
“Those are the stories you’ve told yourself,” Jack said. “You can’t prove any of it.”
“Exactly. But when you’re the one who’s been rejected, it’s harder to pretend it doesn’t matter. If something happens to her