The McRae Series 01 - Twelve Days Sam and Rachel

know where you were."
    "I'll be right out," she claimed.
    He sat on the bed and waited, looking out the window at the lights still on in the neighborhood. He'd actually looked forward to Christmas this year, and now he was so tired. He didn't even know what to wish for, what to pray for.
    Rachel had talked about taking things on faith. He'd only known one kind—the kind that told him no matter what, nothing was going to work out, that it never had.
    And yet, some things had.
    He looked around at the house and realized it was their place, the keeper of their memories, the stage of their lives. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else, couldn't imagine doing anything else with his life but taking old things and making them new and strong and whole again. It wasn't what he'd always wanted, but now that he had it, he realized how much he enjoyed it, how satisfying it was to him. To make something tangible and enduring. He could drive through town and look at building after building and think, I did that. I helped make it what it is today.
    Life here hadn't been without its satisfactions.
    Sam heard the bathroom door open with a slight creak and Rachel was standing there in a mix of heat and enticing smells. The lavender she put in her bathwater or rubbed on her skin, now mixed with the heat and the condensation in the bathroom, unfurled like a cloud into their bedroom, billowing out and surrounding him. He loved this smell, the Rachel-straight-from-the-bath smell.
    She had her hair piled haphazardly on top of her head, little bits of it escaping in damp curls at her nape, and her skin had that rosy glow. He knew how dewy soft it would be right now, how warm, how good it would taste.
    She had on the robe he'd given her and, he thought, nothing else. It was paper thin, enticing more than covering, and clinging to every inch of her slightly damp skin. Her eyes showed evidence of recent tears, but again, she didn't look like a woman on the verge of falling apart. She looked sad and oddly tentative, but determined, as well.
    "The children are asleep," she said. "Miriam's gone?"
    Sam nodded.
    "She didn't say anything else to you about what's going to happen?"
    "No."
    "You're not keeping anything else from me? About them?"
    "I'm not keeping anything at all from you."
    "Okay. I didn't mean... I understand why you didn't tell me about Annie—"
    "I didn't know, Rachel. Nothing for sure. I didn't even have my suspicions about it until I talked to Emma a few days ago."
    "I understand." She stood there, not coming any closer, not seeming any surer than he was about what to do next. Finally, she said, "You told Annie we'd keep the children, and I wondered... I assumed..."
    "I'm not going anywhere, Rachel. I'll call Rick tomorrow and tell him."
    "You mean, you're not going while they're here?"
    "That's right."
    "And after that..."
    "I'm not sure," he admitted, taking a deep, slow breath. He felt as if he were on the edge of a cliff all of a sudden, like one misstep and he'd lose everything.
    "This changes everything between us?" she asked tentatively.
    "I don't know. Does it?"
    "I... I don't know." She stood there a moment longer. Finally, sighing, she said, "And I'm tired. I think I'll go to bed."
    She flicked off the bathroom light and then the light on the bedside table, the room suddenly bathed in shadows and the glow from the front window that faced the well-lit street. She was close enough that he could smell her now, as he had in that moment all the fragrance wafted out of the bathroom in her wake. He wanted to touch her. He wanted so much. But he was worried, too.
    "I know you wanted to keep them," he began.
    "I did."
    "And I know it hurts—"
    "This is what they wanted, Sam. She's their mother. I know how powerful that bond is. I still miss my own mother, and I was more than twice Emma's age when I lost her. I wouldn't wish that kind of sorrow on anyone."
    "Still..."
    "I'm sad for us. Of course I am. But I'm not sorry we took them into our home. They needed us, and we helped them through this. I'm glad we could do that. And they've been good for us," she said. "I don't know why this happened, why these children came here now. I don't know why anything ever happens, but I don't regret this. Not one bit."
    She had tears in her eyes by the time she was done, but then he did, too, and he couldn't hide them from her.
    "You are so good with them," she said, reaching out and taking his hand. "I've never seen you open up to anyone