Page 3 of Wishing Stone

Once the Tesla was parked safely inside the garage, I opted to walk back around to the front of the house rather than go in through the back entrance. There was just something refreshing about the icy air—cleansing almost—and I wanted to breathe it in for a moment longer.

My shoes crunched on the thin layer of snow as I made my way to the front door. When I stepped inside, I was greeted by the sweeping grand staircase, rotunda, and giant windows. Some may view the house as ostentatious. The sheer size of the seven-bedroom colonial could have easily made that accurate, but it never felt empty or without life because of the little touches Krystina sprinkled throughout the rooms. We didn’t need to have the plush holiday garland of pine and holly winding up the banister of the grand staircase to bring Christmas cheer. Krystina alone made our house a home—a real home—and someplace I could truly let my guard down.

I inhaled deep and took in the scent of warm apples and cinnamon.

Vivian must be baking.

My life was so very domestic now, and I’d been surprised by how easily I’d adapted to it. But even more shocking was how much I liked it. This house symbolized the evolution of a man. I was no longer the little boy living in a run-down seedy apartment, nor was I the displaced teenager who’d grown up to live a solitary life while amassing a multi-billion-dollar empire. I’d left behind bachelorhood, sex clubs, and the sterile penthouse in Manhattan to embrace the feeling of home for the first time in my life. Without Krystina, that never would have happened. She was my center in all things.

After hanging my coat in the closet, I glanced at my watch. It was just after three in the afternoon. Most likely, Krystina would still be working. I’d left my office at Stone Enterprise in Manhattan early, hoping to surprise her. Crossing the grand foyer, I headed to her office on the second floor. It wasn’t a formal office per se but the second floor of the two-story library that she had converted into her workspace, also referred to recently as her command center, for Turning Stone Advertising. She reasoned that there would be plenty of room to spread out ad design plans and mockups for as long as she worked from home.

With each passing month, Krystina spread out further and further until cardboard designs and A-framed easels took up almost the entire library. I abhorred the mess it created. I needed everything neat and orderly while I worked, but Krystina was more like a hurricane in motion whenever she was in the thick of a project, and she often left a trail of destruction in her wake.

The only reason I didn’t argue with her about the clutter was because I knew she wasn’t thrilled about working from home. Working remotely was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but one month had turned into two, and two had turned into twelve. Then I’d put my restrictions in place while we tried to get pregnant. Without a proper workspace, her mess was inevitable. I just made sure to avoid that area of the house as much as possible.

When I reached the top of the staircase, I made my way down the hall toward the library’s second floor. Sliding open the pocket mahogany doors to the library, I found the space empty. She wasn’t at her desk, nor was she standing near the line of posterboard easels that lined the far wall.

“Krystina? Angel, I’m home,” I called out.

When there was no answer, the stomach-churning fear I felt was instant. Krystina had been alone far too much this past year and I knew it was starting to take a toll on her. Several times over the past few weeks, I’d caught her crying for unknown reasons. I was beginning to grow more and more concerned—especially after the way I’d found her last week. I shuddered from the memory of her weeping in the room that would one day be a nursery for our future children. She’d been upset over what could be and what had unfairly been taken away.

Now, here we were, a year into her confinement, and my wife still wasn’t pregnant. I wasn’t sure how much longer this could go on. I knew being completely homebound made her days feel long, and I was beginning to worry about the isolation. I feared depression might be impacting her ability to conceive. If I had one wish this Christmas, it would be to give her the baby she so desperately wanted.

Moving quickly down the hall, I headed toward the bedrooms. Opening the door to the future nursery, I hoped I wouldn’t find her there in tears once again. When I saw that she wasn’t there either, I audibly sighed with relief but wondered where she could be.

I pursed my lips in annoyance, suddenly missing the open floorplan of my Manhattan penthouse for the first time in years. While Krystina and I had decided to keep the penthouse, we only stayed there on occasion when in the city later than usual. At least there, a person would be easy to find. Whereas here, with all its rooms and passageways, a person could easily hide for a week.

I went back downstairs and checked the den and family room, two of the places Krystina would often curl up and read the latest crime and mystery novel. She wasn’t there, nor was she in the breakfast nook where we took most of our meals. Moving into the main kitchen area, I spotted Vivian at the large center island where she had formed several small piles of white flour into mini volcano-shaped craters. I had no idea what she was making, but I was sure that whatever it was would be phenomenal.

“Hello, Mr. Stone. You’re home early,” she observed as she cracked an egg and dropped the yolks into one of the flour depressions. “I hope you’re hungry. I’m making homemade ravioli for dinner tonight, and I’ve got apple crisp baking for dessert.”

“That sounds great, Vivian,” I replied absently. “Have you seen Krystina?”

“Yes, sir. She’s in the living room. From the state of things, I think she’s feeling pretty festive too.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“She received a rather large delivery today, and she’s been grinning ear to ear ever since. It’s nice to see her smiling. Go see for yourself.”

Feeling perplexed, I did as Vivian suggested and went to the formal living room. When I reached it, I felt Krystina before I saw her. It was the connection we had—the one that could make my synapses fire in a million directions. Only my wife had the ability to light up all the places inside me that had been dark for most of my life.

Today, she was standing on the bottom rung of a ladder, surrounded by boxes, ribbons, and ornaments. Everything was strewn about as she attempted to put together a pre-lit artificial tree that was three times her height. Her long curly brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail, leaving just a few waves free to frame her beautiful face. She wore a baggy off-the-shoulder white sweater over tight jeans, and her hips swayed to the tune of Dean Martin’sBaby, It’s Cold Outside. She looked like an angel—albeit an angel surrounded by absolute chaos—but she was my angel, nonetheless. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.

She glanced my way when she heard me laugh, and her face lit up as she stepped off the ladder. She seemed to glow in the sparkling twinkle lights of the tree, emphasizing her beauty in a way that took my breath away.

Crossing the room, I pulled her to my chest and kissed the top of her head, clinging to her for a moment longer than I usually would have. My need for her had always been just as strong as the first day we met, but today seemed amplified—as if I couldn’t be close enough to her.

“You’re home early,” she murmured.

“I missed you, angel.” Leaning in, I pressed my lips to hers.

Her body easily gave in, her hands reaching up to clasp the back of my neck. I growled my appreciation of her welcoming kiss as my lips melded with hers. I kissed her deeply, our tongues sliding, clashing, then savoring. This was home—the taste of her lips, the feel of her fingers in my hair. Everything about her was real and urgent every single time we were together.

Almost reluctantly, I pulled away. Reaching up, I traced the line of her bottom lip with my finger. “If I’d known I would get a welcome like that, I’d have been home sooner.”

She smiled and swatted playfully at my arm. “I kiss you like that almost every time you come home.”

“I know. I’m a lucky man,” I said with a devilish wink, then motioned to the mess all over the living room. “So, tell me. What’s all of this?”

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