In From the Cold

by Meg Adams

  She drew in a deep breath, her words slurred around the edges like biscotti dipped in wine. She held up one finger, counting her points. “Princes expect you to give them your heart, because they’re princes and they always get what they want.” She held up two fingers. “And rat kings, they nibble your heart away one little painful bite at a time, because they’re rats and that’s what rats do. But whether rat king or prince, when all’s said and done—” she jabbed her red lacquered finger at me, “—you’re still left with nothing. Nothing. And no nutcracker is going to save you, not even in your dreams. You have to save yourself.”

  And in my heart, I feared she was right.

  She wobbled into the wall, then shoved herself straight and wove her way down the hall and down the stairs.

  Her “speech” had not helped my mood, and to my disgust, I sat there and brooded for another half hour. I was finally on my way to bed, ready to put paid to this awful day, when I heard the doorbell ring. I was already irritated when I opened the door, but what I found was the final straw.

  Miles.

  All casual elegance, Miles Lofton leaned against the doorway under the porch light, a bottle of champagne tucked under one arm, a red cashmere scarf hanging over his unbuttoned coat. He looked straight out of GQ, his blond hair artlessly styled and his nails manicured, but there was something so contrived about him that it put me off, like a hothouse arrangement trying to look natural.

  “Miss Claire.” He straightened in affected surprise. “Good evening.”

  “Mr. Lofton.”

  “I hope it’s not too late to pay my daughter a visit.”

  Of all the idiotic, specious excuses. It was every bit of ten p.m., long past any toddler’s bedtime. I kept my temper with an effort.

  “I’m afraid Yvette has been asleep for the past couple of hours. Perhaps you could call back another time.” Or go to that part of hell reserved for rotten fathers.

  “A couple of hours? Really? Why it can’t be more than eight o’clock, surely?” He made a show of checking his watch and feigned dismay at the late hour. He whistled.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Claire. I had no idea it was so late. The time just slipped away from me, I guess.”

  I said nothing, and hoped my silence would encourage him to leave.

  He stood as if in thought for a moment, then switched on a megawatt smile, hoping, I imagined, to dazzle me into compliance. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you see, I hardly ever get to see Yvette, and with the holidays and all… Well, do you think I might just take a peek at her? While she’s sleeping?”

  Was he for real? “Mr. Lofton, it’s late and I’m tired. Yvette is sound asleep and I don’t want to risk waking her or Suzie. Please come back tomorrow when Mrs. Lofton is here.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t work. Sharon never stays around long enough for me to see Yvette during the day. She’s always either out or sleeping.”

  I couldn’t deny that, but I still wasn’t comfortable letting him in at this hour with only me. Sharon downstairs, drunk or asleep, didn’t count.

  “I don’t know if you have the legal authority to see her, Mr. Lofton. Sharon hasn’t said anything—”

  He interrupted, flashing his white teeth. “Please, call me Miles.”

  I ignored him. “—about whether you have visiting rights or not.”

  “Ahh, but I do.” He held up one finger, then reached into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper. He handed it to me. It was a legal document, a notice of visitation. He pointed to a paragraph toward the bottom. “I have equal custody with Sharon, and if you look here, you can see that I’m actually the one who has Yvette over the Christmas holidays. I have every right to see Yvette.”

  I skimmed it quickly, but I couldn’t find anything limiting his times with her. I doubted Sharon ever thought it would be an issue.

  He looked complacent and assured, but I wasn’t giving in that easily. “Still, Mr. Lofton—”

  “Miles.”

  “Mr. Lofton,” I repeated firmly. “The girls are asleep, together. Mr. Driscoll would not want me to risk waking Suzie, just so you can see Yvette now. It would be better for everyone if you come back tomorrow.”

  A spasm of irritation crossed his face. “That doesn’t suit.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said sweetly. “Maybe you should contact Sharon for a better time, then. Good night.” I started to shut the door, but he stopped it with the palm of his hand.

  “Please, Miss Claire. I’ll only stay a minute, I promise.” For the first time since I’d met him, he sounded sincere. It would still be better if he came back later, but this would also allow him to see Yvette without upsetting her or Drake or Sharon. And it was Christmas.

  Reluctantly, I gave in. “All right, but just for a minute.” I opened the door.

  “Great! I knew you were a trooper the first time I saw you.”

  I turned, and he followed me up to the girls’ room. The night light showed Suzie spooned behind Yvette, her dark, straight hair beside Yvette’s blonde curls, their fingers in their mouths as they slept.

  I studied him as he stood above his little girl, watching her sleep. Did he care about her? Did he regret his distance?

  He reached down as if to touch her, then pulled his hand back. He tucked the blanket around them, and it reminded me that he had once been someone’s child too. Perhaps his parents had tucked him in. My urge to censure loosened in my chest, and I felt my shoulders relax. Who was I to judge him? With my lapses in judgment, I should be the first one to cut him some slack.

  Perhaps that was my misstep, because when he came out of the room and shut the door, I was feeling more charitably toward him. The manipulator in him must have sensed this.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” he said wistfully, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Yes, she is. She’s a very sweet little girl.”

  “Yes.” He looked so sad for a moment, I took pity on him.

  “Would you like to come in for a minute, Mr. Lofton? I could make us some tea.”

  He shook his head. “No, it’s late, and I’ve troubled you enough.”

  “I was going to make some for me, so it’s no trouble.”

  He gave a studied pause. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  I nodded, and he followed me into the kitchen.

  He pulled his champagne from under his arm as if he had forgotten he had it. “Do you like champagne, Miss Claire? We could have this instead.”

  I really wasn’t all that sleepy, and I still wasn’t expecting Drake for a while, so I didn’t see the harm. “Sure, I guess.” I pulled out two champagne glasses, while he pulled a bottle opener from his pocket. “Weren’t you taking that somewhere else?”

  “What? Oh. No. I was just heading back to the hotel. Thought I’d have a glass by myself.” He flashed another grin at me. “This is much nicer.”

  He poured the champagne, then walked into the great room and stood before the fire.

  I took a sip, the wine cold and crisp and bubbly. “This is excellent.”

  He threw me a wide smile, then sipped his wine slowly, watching me over the rim of the glass. He was too intense and it made me nervous.

  “Do you like champagne, Miss Claire?” He rolled my name over his lips as if it were a tactile object, and my discomfort rose. I fidgeted, and shoved a lock of hair behind my ear.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And Drake? Does he like champagne?” He tracked my motions, his intensity all out of proportion to his words.

  “I hardly know. He likes wine, so I suppose so.”

  “He does. I know just about everything about Drake. We’re childhood friends. Did he tell you?” He put his glass on the mantel, then leaned against it, still watching me.

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you that
we grew up together? We shared everything—toys, clothes, cars.” He stepped closer and fingered a lock of my hair between his finger and thumb. “Even girls.”

  “He must have skipped that part.” I backed up a step, but he moved closer, erasing the distance between us.

  “Our tastes were—are—so similar, you see.” He tucked the hair behind my ear, his breath on my cheek. “Whatever he liked, I liked, and vice versa.”

  I had to get him out of here. I didn’t like him or his ex-wife, and I’d had enough of them both for one night. I put my champagne on the mantel and crossed my arms. “Is that why you took Wanda? Because you ‘shared’ everything?” I snapped.

  He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then smoothed his expression, much as Sharon had done earlier in the evening. I wondered idly who had taught whom.

  “I didn’t take his wife,” he said slowly. “She gave herself to me, and neither Drake nor I ever looked gift horses in the mouth.”

  “As I remember, that paradigm didn’t work well for the Trojans.”

  “No,” he chuckled, and stepped closer. “It didn’t.”

  “Or for us.” An angry male voice spoke.

  Drake. He stood in the kitchen in his evening clothes, fury etched on his face, with Sharon behind him in a red fleece bathrobe. Still half drunk and with no makeup, she looked unusually vulnerable.

  “Drake, Sharon. Come join the party.” Miles shot a dazzling smile at them, grabbing the champagne bottle from the coffee table and holding it toward them. “Glasses are in the cupboard there.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, Miles? Do you know what time it is?” Sharon hissed, her eyes darting back and forth between us.

  “Is he bothering you, Claire?” Drake growled, and I shook my head.

  “We’re just having a quiet nightcap, Drake.” Miles smiled, Mr. Affability. “I was out this way and thought to tuck Yvette in for the night.”

  “So why are you still here?”

  Miles raised his eyebrows, then glanced at me suggestively. “I was getting to know my daughter’s nanny, as any good father should. I’m sure you’ve done the same thing.” He smirked, his expression implying how he had known me.

  Drake looked from Miles to me, then back at Miles. I hated the look of uncertainty and anger on his face. How could I have been so stupid? Proximity to Miles was a time bomb.

  “It’s time for you to go, Mr. Lofton,” I said.

  “Mr. Lofton? How did we revert to that?” Miles raised his eyebrows, then swigged the last of his champagne. Drake took another step into the room, his hands clenched by his sides.

  Miles sighed and turned to me. “Well, love, all good things must come to an end. Thank you for sharing my champagne and making a father happy at Christmas.” Then he casually strolled toward Drake and Sharon, the hall leading to the front door behind them.

  “You don’t honestly think anyone here believes you were here to see Yvette, do you?” Sharon glared at her ex-husband. “You’re such a cock-sucking ape, Miles. Get out. Have you forgotten the restraining order against you?”

  He stopped, his face hard and disdainful, nothing like the handsome GQ model of a few moments ago. He snarled at Sharon, “That restraining order was denied, you shit-faced bitch. Even the judge knew I’d never willingly touch you again.”

  Sharon’s face contorted and she lunged at him, her nails like bloody claws aimed at his face. “You son of a bitch, you whoring, motherfucking—” Drake grabbed her, and she strained to hurl herself at Miles.

  “Charming as always. I rest my case.” He looked her up and down, then snorted dismissively. “Still want to share, Drake? She’s all yours.” He turned toward me and saluted. “A pleasure, my dear. When you get tired of Drake, let me know.” Then he sauntered down the hall and down the stairs.

  Drake didn’t release Sharon until we heard the door close.

  “I’m going to kill him. Kill him!” Sharon raged, clawing at Drake’s arms to let her go. He shook her.

  “Stop it, Sharon, calm down. You’ll wake the girls.”

  “I don’t care. I’m gonna kill him.” Tears ran down her face. “That son of a bitch. That bastard. That—”

  He shook her again. “Stop it! Get a grip on yourself.”

  She tore at his hands a moment more, then all of a sudden she collapsed, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. She cried, not big gulping cries, but tiny heart-broken miserable ones that were even more awful. I felt paralyzed with guilt. I should never have let Miles in.

  “I loved him, Drake. I loved him so much.” She sobbed softly now and sank to the floor, Drake sinking with her, still caging her in his arms.

  “I know, Sharon, I know,” Drake soothed, stroking her hair.

  I didn’t think I had ever pitied anyone more than I did Sharon at that moment, even as my jealousy flared anew to see Drake’s arms around her. Jim had knocked me down, knocked me out, knocked me into a hole so deep I thought I’d been buried alive. But Miles had destroyed her. Utterly and completely.

  If this was love, it wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth this much pain.

  I walked over to Drake and bent down, reaching for Sharon, who hiccupped quietly as she lay draped over Drake’s arms. “Come on, Sharon. Let’s get you to bed,” I said. I gently pulled while Drake pushed, and between us, we managed to steer her down the stairs and into her bed. I wet a washcloth in her bathroom, then wiped her face and hands while Drake tucked her in. She curled into a fetal position and soon snored quietly.

  Drake and I tiptoed back up the stairs without saying a word. I checked on the girls, afraid that Sharon had awakened them, but they still lay in the same position, sucking away on their fingers. Drake adjusted the covers, then left. I followed him out.

  He went straight to the whiskey decanter on the sideboard, poured himself a drink, then threw it back in one gulp. I didn’t know what to say, so I waited, silent. I knew he was upset, but there were so many possible things he might be upset about, I didn’t know what to address first. So like the coward I was, I said nothing.

  He moved to the fire, poked the flames as he stared into them, then pulled his bowtie loose and settled into the armchair. I stood behind the couch, waiting, afraid to even claim a seat. Finally, I could bear the tension no more.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, the soft words blaring in the quiet like a bullhorn.

  Drake tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.

  “Why? Why did you let him in?”

  “He’s Yvette’s father.”

  “Biologically, yes, but in no other way.”

  I tried to remember what I’d been thinking, but even as I said the words, I knew how lame they sounded. “I thought it would help him. Or maybe Yvette. I could at least tell her in the morning that her father had stopped by when she was sleeping.”

  “And what would that help?” His voice grew louder, his agitation more apparent. “The only thing you accomplished tonight is the wreck we just took downstairs. Did letting him in help her, Claire? Or me? Do I look happier to you? Or do I matter at all?”

  “Of course you matter. I didn’t think—”

  “No, you didn’t think, and look at the mess you made!” he shouted, and waved his hand toward Sharon’s room. I flinched, but my own anger raised its head. I made a mistake, yes, but I was not to blame for everything.

  “Letting him in was a mistake, I admit that, but your reaction was not my fault. Whether you like it or not, he’s Yvette’s father, Sharon’s ex-husband, and your ex-friend. I can’t change your history.”

  “You don’t have to rub our faces in it, either!” He ran his fingers through his hair, then stomped farther away, as if he couldn’t bear to be near me. “God dammit, Claire. Do you have any idea how painful that was for me? For Sharon? Walking in and seeing you in front of a fire, alone with Miles—drinking cham
pagne, for Christ’s sake!” He shook his head, his eyes haunted. “I guess I should be grateful you had your clothes on.”

  I felt like he’d slapped me, and the blood drained from my face. He made me sound like a whore, like I had tried to seduce Miles. And nothing had happened. Nothing.

  Part of me wanted to punch him and the other part wanted to run, to rush out of there and never see him again, like I had with Jim. But I was stronger now, able to defend myself. Somehow, I fought my emotions down, my voice surprisingly calm when I spoke again.

  “You have no right, Drake Driscoll. I am your daughter’s nanny. That’s it. I’m not your wife or your girlfriend or—or anything. You have no claim on me, and no say about who I see or what I do. If I want to dance naked in the snow, swinging a rubber chicken around my head, I will. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it!”

  His eyebrows arched in surprise and he opened his mouth to speak, but I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. I spun to leave the room. “Claire, wait,” he said to my back, but I kept moving. Then he captured my arm and flipped me back into his chest. His arms came around me, holding my arms pinned as I struggled.

  “Let me go!” I spat, pushing away with my hands as I tried to wriggle loose.

  “Claire, stop. Calm down. We’ve had enough cats spitting in here tonight.”

  I pushed again, determined to get loose, but he hauled me even closer.

  “Stop,” he demanded.

  “Let me g—” I started to say, but his mouth swallowed my words. I struggled, but he pressed harder, his lips insisting that I submit. Mentally, I was determined to resist him, but slowly, I felt myself soften under his touch. Who was I kidding? Despite the fears I had fought all day, I knew it was too late. I loved him, knew I would always love him. He traced my lips with his tongue, sensing my capitulation, and swept in with an urgency that showed me with more than words his regret and pain and fear. He sought comfort and connection, and I yearned for that too.