In From the Cold

by Meg Adams

  “Do you girls know what day it is?” Drake asked.

  They both looked up and, in unison, shook their heads.

  “Two days before Christmas Eve. Santa comes soon.”

  “Really?” Suzie squealed.

  “Really.” Drake glanced at me. “So I was thinking that we ought to get ready.”

  “What did you have in mind?” I asked. He looked impish, and I couldn’t help it—my heart flip-flopped again. Ridiculous.

  “I have it on good authority that Santa will be available for last-minute requests at the reindeer rides today, so I thought we might go see Santa and his reindeer, then go into town and shop. Would you like that?”

  “Can we get milkshakes too, Daddy?” Suzie asked. Yvette’s eyes were wide and hopeful. “We always get milkshakes.”

  “Sure. Okay with you, Miss Claire?” He stood up and turned to me, his eyes smoldering with humor. He seemed so young and at ease, and I had a glimpse of what he must have been like before Wanda and Miles.

  “How can I refuse?” I murmured, and realized as I gaped at this playful Drake with the hopeful eyes that there was very little I would refuse this man. My heart was rolling into the danger zone, but it was too late to catch it now.

  Drake left the house for the rest of the morning on business, but came back and collected us at one. James dropped us off at the Elk Refuge, where we waited in line for a sleigh ride to the lodge. The scenery—the jagged gray and white Tetons, the endless snow, the clear blue skies—was a Christmas postcard. We passed huge herds of elk, as close to reindeer as I was ever likely to see. The cold froze our breath, and the girls snuggled between us in the sleigh, but I could feel Drake’s hand on my shoulder.

  I liked that he kept touching me, and I kept sneaking glances at him. His black knit cap accentuated the strong bones of his face, his dark lashes and the clean lines of his jaw and nose. His looks were too sharp to be handsome, but so male, so breathtaking—I literally forgot to breathe sometimes. He was so much…more…than I had ever expected or dreamed of having. And I wanted him in my life with a fierceness that terrified me.

  Maybe it was the moment, too perfect to be true. Maybe it was need, repressed for so long, or hope, newly awakened, but like a door opened into a burning room, out of nowhere a gust of insecurity flashed over me. All my self-doubts flamed, a conflagration of misery fed by vicious self-talk.

  Idiot.

  You don’t have him.

  You’ve never had him and you never will.

  He doesn’t care anything for you.

  You’re here and available. That’s all.

  And my pitiful attempts to argue with myself—that he seemed to care, the way he looked at me, the way he held me, touched me—only made me feel more pathetic.

  I had to stop this. So what if I couldn’t have him forever? We had this day, this moment, but the scent of ashes from the bonfire that was Jim pervaded my thoughts. Like smoke, my doubts lingered, smudging the clarity of my new life and reminding me with acrid pungency of the devastation he had wrought. And if what I had felt for Jim had left me annihilated, what would I be when Drake walked away? Was I stronger now? Was I ready?

  I did not want to find out.

  At the refuge, we waited in line for Santa. Suzie went first, and Drake held my hand as we waited for the little chatterbox to finish her long list, and for Yvette to shyly confide her one or two requests. When Santa winked at me and patted his lap, I jumped on board, but it felt forced, like I was acting. Drake smirked as he let me go, crossing his arms and shaking his head.

  “And what do you want, little girl?” Santa leered, chuckling. I cupped my hands and whispered in his ear, while Drake took a picture on his phone. Then the girls clamored back on Santa’s lap with me, all of us laughing and giggling while he took another picture. Drake’s eyes glowed, but my heart ached, unable to hold his gaze.

  After the visit with Santa, we drove back into the town square. The antler archways were covered with Christmas lights, twinkling and reflecting on the snow in the overcast afternoon. Christmas music played around us as we wandered into toy stores, bookshops and other cute western-themed places, as we played typical tourists for an afternoon. I felt more normal again, my balance restored by the mundane pleasure of shopping. We picked up some small things for the girls, some children’s books for my niece and nephew, a novel for my brother-in-law. I even found a little something for Drake when he wasn’t looking. A silly impulse probably, but I needed him to remember our time together.

  We stopped for the promised milkshakes, but the girls were tired, so we ordered them to go. We were walking back to our pick-up point when we passed a small jewelry store.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’ll only be a minute.” I rushed in and quickly found some earrings for my sister. I was paying for them when I heard the bell ring behind me. Drake stood there with the girls.

  “We got cold.” Drake smiled ruefully.

  “I’m sorry, I’m almost done.” I handed the clerk some cash, and he counted out my change. Drake wandered over and studied a display case, the girls holding his hands. I walked over to him.

  “Would you mind taking the girls on to the car?” he asked and handed the girls over to me. “I have one more quick errand.”

  “Of course.” I turned and opened the door. “Come on, girls. Last one to the car’s a rotten egg.”

  As we hurried down the sidewalk, I looked back and saw him framed in the window, talking with the sales clerk and laughing. I stored this image in my memory, and once more, pain lanced through me. I was in serious danger of falling again for a man I couldn’t have.

  Then I saw him turn and smile at a gorgeous brunette who must have walked in when I’d been focused on him. She immediately slid her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. He smiled down at her, laughing, and I felt sick. They looked like lovers, and a tidal wave of jealousy slammed into me, my modicum of regained balance knocked right out of me. Even if he felt nothing for her, even if they were just friends, my insecurities tortured me. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine, and I couldn’t help it. The chasm between us was just too wide.

  I was quiet on the way home, too disheartened to fight my feelings any longer. I would never be comfortable in his world. Even if he didn’t want Christine André, there were plenty of other women, as I’d seen this afternoon. They waited to pounce, with their sophistication and private-trainer bodies. They flirted and offered and gushed, and they made my stomach turn. I knew he wasn’t mine, couldn’t be mine, but somehow, despite all that, he still felt like mine. Jealousy flared through me, swiftly followed by despair. I simply couldn’t compete.

  Once home, I fed the girls their dinner while Drake changed for his evening, a ballet performance of The Nutcracker. They were finishing their desserts when Drake walked in to say good night. Seeing him standing there by the table in his tux, I felt tears well in my eyes, followed hard by anger at myself. He looked like a film star from some teenybopper’s dream. Who was I kidding?

  I threw the girl’s supper plates in the soapy water, splashing my shirt. I closed my eyes for a moment and gripped the sink edge, willing myself not to cry.

  He said good night to the girls. He walked behind them and kissed each on the top of her head.

  “Good night, my little princesses. Sweet dreams.”

  “Good night, Daddy.” Suzie yawned.

  “Good night, Uncle Drake,” Yvette said. He looked surprised, then knelt to her eye level and tenderly stroked her cheek.

  “Uncle Drake, hunh? I love that name, sweetheart. Thank you.”

  She reached over and tentatively touched his cheek with her tiny hand. I turned away and swiped at my eyes, then grabbed the sponge and wiped furiously at a plate.

  He leaned over and kissed Yvette again.

  “See, I told you he’d like it,” Suzie whispered and elbow
ed Yvette, who nudged her right back, grinning. They both yawned widely again.

  “You gals finish up. It’s tub time,” I said, needing to get away. It was all I could do not to bolt to my room.

  Drake walked over to me, but I couldn’t look at him. I focused on my hands in the dishwater, afraid to let him see my face.

  “Claire?” He stood at my shoulder, then lifted my chin with his fingers and forced my eyes to meet his. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  He looked puzzled and concerned, but what could I say? I didn’t understand my mood either. He obviously sensed something was wrong, but now was not the time to discuss it. I couldn’t talk about my misery, and I hated feeling so out of control. It was bad enough that I knew how ridiculous I was being. I pulled away from him like a petulant child.

  “I wish I didn’t need to go tonight.” He caressed my cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’d much rather stay here with you.”

  I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel. “No. It’s good. You need to go. The other guests must be wondering where you are.”

  He studied me a moment, debating. And I wanted him to…what? Stay with me? Commit to me?

  Love me?

  Right.

  “What will you do tonight?” he murmured, and stepped in closer. His finger trailed down my neck, then slid slowly across my collarbone. I felt my temperature rise, my face flush.

  Still unable to meet his gaze, I looked down at his fine leather shoes. “I’ll probably turn in early. I’m pretty tired.”

  He stroked his hand around to my other ear, gently massaging the spot under my lobe. Against my will, my head leaned toward his hand, my eyes closing with the pleasure of his touch.

  He leaned in and murmured, “I’ll think of you in bed while I’m away,” and kissed my neck just behind my ear. A stab of desire sliced through me, and then with a last caress of his thumb, he was gone, taking a chunk of me with him.

  After their bath and a book, the girls quickly fell asleep, and I wandered back into the great room, restless and irritable. I built a small fire, poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa, my legs stretched toward the flames. I thought back to our second night here. Had that only been a week ago? I’d been out of my tired, tipsy mind that night, but I had no excuse for my actions this past week. Now, my mind and heart unguarded, I was open and vulnerable in all the ways I’d promised myself I would never let happen again. And when our time was over, Drake would return to his jet-set life, while I would return to my role as the spinster aunt, forever in the way, with no life of my own.

  Loser. Imbecile.

  I took a big gulp of my wine.

  “Hello.”

  I looked up. Sharon stood behind the sofa. For once, she didn’t look drunk—just very, very tired. Great.

  “Hi.”

  “Got any more of that?” She nodded at the wine in my hand.

  “Sure. In the kitchen.”

  I heard a cabinet door shut and wine pour, then she came back and sank down on the sofa. She kicked off her stilettos and rubbed her feet.

  “Oooh. That’s better.” She sighed, then relaxed into the cushions and gulped a mouthful of wine.

  I waited for a sarcastic remark or a bitchy comment, but she seemed lost in thought, staring into the fire as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. She sighed and took another swallow.

  “This is good,” she said.

  “Yes. I like it.”

  She quirked her head at me, as if finally noticing something off. “Where are the girls?”

  “Asleep.”

  “Ah.”

  I expected her to ask about Yvette, maybe about her health or her day, but her silence spooled into the room. It was hard not to show my disgust, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t seem to care about anything or anyone, so she certainly wouldn’t start with me.

  “You like kids, I assume?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t. Never have.”

  “Never?”

  She stopped rolling her hair around her finger, then flicked it over her shoulder. “I know what you’re thinking, so just go on and say it.”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Yvette’s more your business than mine right now, thank God. And she’s obviously far happier with you.” She laughed bitterly.

  “Mrs. Lofton.”

  “Call me Sharon.”

  “Sharon.” I hesitated, wary of this new familiarity, but she plowed on.

  “I didn’t want her, you know. I was stupid, like a lot of women, thinking a baby would help. For some reason, women always seem to think a child will tie a man to us.” She stared into the fire. “Miles ran like I’d set the Furies on him.”

  “In a way, you did.”

  She arched an eye at me, then softly chuckled. “Maybe.”

  I wondered briefly why she was telling me this. Did she want my sympathy? Did she think I would understand her pain? What did she want—absolution?

  She was right. It was stupid to use a child to mend a broken relationship. The father would only resent both the mother and child. And when her plan backfired, how had she felt?

  I thought of Yvette in those summer pajamas.

  “When Miles left, did you blame Yvette?”

  She looked thoughtful, as if considering the notion, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. There was just nothing there, no bonding or something. When she was born, I felt like I should feel some maternal instinct, but there was…nothing.” She shook her head, lay back and closed her eyes. “I don’t know. I gave up trying to figure out my many failings years ago. I am what I am, and it is what it is.”

  The fire crackled in the silence. For all her bitchiness, I found Sharon’s honesty refreshing. I didn’t like or understand her, but I really didn’t have to.

  “You didn’t go to the ballet tonight?”

  She studied her wine, took another sip, then shook her head. “I don’t like The Nutcracker.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t believe in princes anymore, and I know far too many rat kings—including my ex.” She saluted me with her wineglass.

  “I met him yesterday, you know.”

  “Met who?”

  “Your ex. Miles.”

  She sat up, suddenly alert. “He’s here? Where was he?” she demanded.

  “He was at the ski lodge at Snow King.”

  “What was he doing there?” She was so tense, I feared for the stem of her wineglass.

  “He told Drake his other plans fell through.” Rage and hurt warred on her face, and I tried to think of something to soothe her. “It sounded like a last-minute thing.”

  She closed her eyes, and several moments passed while she visibly tried to relax. A burning log shifted, and red sparks danced up the flue. When she opened her eyes again, her mask of disinterest was back in place.

  “How did Drake take seeing him again?”

  “Not well.”

  “I didn’t think he would,” she murmured. “Did Miles say anything about visiting us here?”

  “No,” I said, and she sighed, whether from relief or disappointment, I couldn’t tell.

  She returned to the kitchen and brought the half-full wine bottle back with her. She poured herself another glass, and tipped the bottle invitingly toward me. When I shook my head, she sat it on the coffee table and put her feet up beside it, as if we were old chums settling in for a cozy chat. I felt nervous, guarded. While I might feel sorry for her obvious pain, I still didn’t trust her.

  She took a big gulp, then stared at me. “How about you?”

  “How ‘about me’ what?”

  “How are things with Prince Drake?”

  There it was. I tensed, irritated by Sharon’s new offensive. If she ho
ped to deflect her pain by stirring up mine, I wasn’t having it.

  “He’s not my prince.”

  She snorted. “He’s not anyone’s prince.”

  My temper surged. Drake wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve that. “He may not be a prince, but I’ve known my share of rat kings too—and he’s not one of them either.”

  Sharon raised her eyebrows. “Maybe not. But he’s still a man, and most men are more rat than prince.”

  In my present mood, I couldn’t really disagree with her, so I said nothing. I got up and threw another log on the fire, then poked the embers to encourage the flames, stalling.

  “So have you fallen yet?” Her question sizzled in the silence, like bacon tossed on a hot griddle.

  “Pardon?” I knew what she meant, but this was none of her business.

  “Oh, come off it, Mizzz Claire.” She rolled her eyes at me, returning to the sarcastic Sharon I knew. “I know what I saw the other night and I know Drake—very well.” She leveled another assessing gaze at me and delicately fanned her hand on her chest. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame you. He’s a very attractive man, and women fall all over him. I’ve seen dozens come and dozens go.” She waved her hand in a lazy circle, the wine kicking in, her words starting to slur. “He’s like some bloody revolving door.” Then she winked at me. “Still, a hell of a ride if you can get a place in line.”

  I snapped, my face burning. “Why are you telling me all this? I know. I have eyes.”

  “And a heart, I suspect.” She patted her chest dramatically, as if affirming hers was still in place.

  “Yes,” I said coldly, tired of her malice and ready to end this discussion. “I still have a heart.”

  She pushed herself up, staggered over and lazily patted my cheek. “Then hold on to it, honey.”

  She had an odd expression on her face—part triumph, part disdain and part something I couldn’t identify. Pity? Despair? As if suddenly aware that her mask had slipped yet again, she twisted away from me.

  She tottered slowly toward the hallway. I felt a moment’s relief, happy the end of this painful conversation was in sight, when she turned in the doorway and flung her hand up in a grand oratorical gesture. “I have a theory. And it’s good. It’s about princes.”