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substandard,
or that I did not do my level best to convince her to go to the hospital. She
simply would not go. I thought perhaps you could convince her, but then I could
not reach you…."
    "I don't
blame you for anything," Rafi said through a mouth that felt made of
broken glass. And it was no more than the truth. He blamed only himself.
    "Sometimes
these things happen," the doctor said, the wisdom and calm of years in his
voice. "She has been healthy since, and I'm sure you will have another
child, in time. This is but a hiccup. I have every faith, both medically and
personally."
    He had never
hated himself more, Rafi thought as he hung up the phone in a daze. He could
only stand there, alone with the shame of what he'd done to her.
    Lucy was not
lying. She never had been.
    Had he known
that all along, on some level? Had he wanted to believe that he'd never
had a child at all so that he would not have to deal with the crushing sense of
loss? Was he that small, that cowardly, that he would sacrifice Lucy to prevent
himself from feeling his own pain?
    But he knew
that he was. That he had.
    Rafi sank
down on the side of the great bed, buried his head in his hands and gave in,
finally, to the grief that he'd staved off for three long months.
     
    Chapter
Eight
    This time
when Lucy woke it was to find herself in Rafi's arms.
    For a moment,
she forgot. She simply breathed in the scent of him, winter and pine, and
exulted in the heat of his strong arms around her. But then she exhaled and it
all came rushing back.
    "Don't
do this!" she hissed at him, tilting her head away to look at him. His
dark brows were drawn over his gray eyes, and his mouth was in a flat line.
"Just let me go, Rafi."
    "If that
is what you want," he said in a low, gravelly voice, "I will. But
there's something I want to show you first."
    She couldn't
bear to meet his eyes—to let him see the effect his words had on her. It was
one thing to announce she was leaving, to demand a divorce, to want those things. It was something else again to have him accept it. She felt something
yawn open inside of her, black and lonely.
    Perhaps that
was why it took several long moments for her to recognize the change in her
surroundings after he'd settled her on the overstuffed chaise in the book-lined
library. She schooled her features as best she could and when she looked up…
    It was
Christmas.
    Lucy could
not help herself—she gasped.
    A small,
plump pine tree bristled in the corner, festooned with objects Lucy
recognized—the tiny china figures from the display in the blue salon, the small
ornamental picture frames that were usually scattered on the tables in the
formal sitting room. It was as if someone had gone through the house and picked
up whatever was small enough to be fastened to the branches and decorated the
tree that way.
    Lucy's hands
crept over her mouth as she took it in. She turned to stare at the man who had
moved to kneel before her, his gray eyes serious.
    "What
did you do?" she breathed, enchanted despite herself.
    "It's
Christmas, isn't it?" His voice was gruff.
    "You
hate Christmas," she pointed out, feeling lightheaded. Off balance.
"You think it's—"
    "Let me
tell you a story," he interrupted gently, running his hands over her legs,
gazing up at her. "Isn't that how this goes? Is this how your mother used
to do it?"
    Lucy was
overcome by the swell of an emotion she was afraid might tip her right over.
She could only nod, mutely. She could not seem to tear her eyes away from his.
    "I was
up most of the night," he said in a low voice, his eyes intent on hers,
though his were dark, agonized. "It was obvious to me that you were
telling the truth last night. Then I spoke with the family doctor, who
reiterated everything that you had said, what I should have accepted all along.
That you lost our baby, and I abandoned you in your pain. I can never possibly
make that up to you. I will spend my life regretting it, Lucy. I promise
you."
    She could