Winter Hopes (Seasons of Love)

by Jennifer Gracen

  “Well, I’m slightly passionate about colors,” he said, almost as though he were admitting a secret. “And yeah, it’s a part of what I do.”

  “I’ve never heard a man talk passionately about colors,” she said. “Not a straight man, anyway.”

  “Great,” Sam cracked. "Thanks a lot."

  She laughed lightly and purred, “Don’t worry; I know very well that you’re straight.”

  “Well, thank you!” Sam laughed. “I should think so!”

  “Next silly question?” Lydia said, smiling at his reaction.

  “Hmm,” Sam said. She could picture him pacing. “Favorite season?”

  “Fall," she answered. “Wasn't that obvious, the way I stared at the trees that whole weekend like a big dork?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, a little.”

  “And yours?”

  “Spring.”

  “Really?” she said, intrigued. “Why?”

  “Because everything becomes beautiful again. Grass gets green again, trees come back, flowers bloom… everything feels new, filled with life and potential. Rebirth.”

  “Wow. Okay. I like that perspective,” she said.

  “Now you ask me a dopey question,” he coaxed.

  Lydia chuckled. “Um… what’s your favorite sport?”

  “Baseball,” Sam answered without hesitation.

  “Are you a fan, or a fanatic?” Lydia asked.

  “Just a fan. I like sports, I follow them, but I don’t get insane over them.”

  “Okay. Who’s your baseball team?”

  “Cubs, baby. I love to suffer.”

  She laughed. “I don’t have a favorite sport, so you don’t have to bother asking. I’m not a big sports gal.”

  “But if I wanted to take you to a baseball game, or something like that,” Sam asked, “would you go and be okay with it? Or would you go but sit there simmering, secretly hating it?”

  “I’d go,” she said. “And I’d be fine. I like sitting outside. And a live ball game is really different from a game on TV. I wouldn’t hate it at all.”

  “Cool. Thatta girl.”

  “What else…” Lydia tried to think of something to ask. “You backpacked all across Europe. Which was your favorite country?”

  “Good question. Hmm… tough choice,” Sam said. She could hear him tapping his fingers against something, maybe a tabletop or a window. She imagined him staring out the window while they talked. “I’d have to go with Italy. My God, what an amazing place. I’d really like to go back someday. Do like a three week tour, see as much of it as I could.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “About ten days, give or take?” He paused for a second, as though reflecting on the trip, which she knew had been over a decade ago. “I was in Rome for a few days, then Venice. Meant to go to Florence, but didn’t make it. I spent most of my days in museums. Spent my nights eating and drinking myself into oblivion in tiny, out of the way places. Definitely had my favorite food of the trip there, that’s for sure.” He let out something like a sigh. “The art, the architecture, all beyond incredible, as you can imagine. So I really immersed myself in that. The museums were magnificent. And something about the coolness, the stillness, the quiet… being surrounded by such greatness, and not understanding the language at all when people chattered around me… it was beautiful isolation, and what I needed at that point. I mean, I didn’t really go to Europe to socialize… it wasn’t a good time for me.”

  He stopped talking again, and she could only guess how hard it must be for him to reflect. He cleared his throat and said, “You have to understand… that whole trip, I was deeply grieving. I was not good company. I varied daily between overwhelming despair, rage, and being numb. The whole two plus years of watching Chelsea slowly get sicker, watching her die, had taken everything out of me…

  “I had to get away. The impulse to go hit me right after the funeral. I set up the whole trip in two days, and left for Europe less than two weeks after she died. So, needless to say, I was something of a walking zombie. I didn’t really talk to people. I kept to myself and was in a haze for those three months. Which is why I’d like to go back someday and experience those places—Italy in particular—as a living, functional human being. Someone cognizant, with a decent personality, and a positive outlook. Not a zombie.”

  Lydia bit her lip and felt something akin to embarrassment whoosh through her. “I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories,” she said, repentant. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no, don’t apologize,” Sam said quickly. “I’m fine. I’m the one who should apologize. I just got caught up, started rambling… you know what? Let’s get something clear from the start, okay? I loved my wife very much. And I will always remember Chelsea lovingly… she was a part of me. But it’s been eleven years since she died. That’s a long time already. I went through a lot, but I eventually, and genuinely, came to grips with all of it.” He paused to take a deep breath, and she waited. “I have a good life now—because after some time, when I was ready, I chose to go on and have a good life. And she wanted that for me. I'll always miss her, but it doesn’t hurt like hell to think about her now. It doesn’t hurt to talk about her or that whole time period. You don’t have to be careful with me, and I don’t want you to be. I don’t need to be… handled. Don’t tiptoe around me. There's no walking on eggshells on this subject. If it comes up, if you ever have a question, I’m really fine. I'm not fragile. Alright?”

  “Alright,” Lydia said. “Actually, I’m glad you said all that. Because I wasn’t sure.”

  “I know. It’s a hard thing to try to feel out.” Sam sighed. “I always feel bad when it comes up and makes other people feel bad. I mean, it was a part of my past, and I’m not trying to hide it or shy away from it. But when it comes up, it… um… makes people feel uncomfortable or awkward, as though they said or did something wrong. Then it makes me want to put them at ease. But hey, I guess I’d rather people be compassionate and sensitive enough to care about what they say, as opposed to people being careless and insensitive and not giving a crap. Right?”

  “Right. Yes. That’s a good way to look at it,” Lydia said with admiration. “Your attitude, on all of it, is wonderful. Not everyone would be able to get through what you went through in one piece, much less come out stronger.”

  “Well, hey—I’m not trying to be a poster child,” Sam said. “Seriously. I was a wreck, a real mess, for a long time. A few years. But once my head was in a decent place again, I had a choice to make: would I let that one catastrophe shape the rest of my life, or would I find a different path, put the past behind me, and move on? We all make choices.” He laughed ruefully. “Wow! That totally sounded like some crazy seminar leader or something, huh? Jesus, I’ll get off my soapbox now. Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

  “No, no, don’t shut up,” Lydia said. “I agree with you. I admire your choices, and your honesty about it all, and your strength. Some people don’t see going on with their life in spite of something terrible as a ‘choice’. They turn bitter and look at it as something that’s happened to them, you know?”

  “Well, forging ahead after something bad has happened is really hard,” Sam said. “It’s hard work, picking up the pieces. Some people don’t get up again. They can’t. It’s all too much, too big. That happens. But some people… just don’t like hard work. They’d rather sit, bitch, and be victims. Maybe for them, that’s easier. But that’s not me. That's not who I am.”

  Lydia cleared her suddenly parched throat. She got up from the couch and went to her kitchen for some water. “You know… not that I would ever, ever compare our situations, but I think I kind of get you in regards to the tiptoeing stuff. I mean… I’ve been getting something like that ever since Matt and I split up.” She reached into the cupboard and grabbed a glass. “Sometimes I feel like people—people who’ve known me for a long time, even—don’t know what to say to me anymore, or are too aware of what they say and are afraid of offe
nding me. As if they’re walking on eggshells when they talk to me, like you said you don't want me to do with you. It’s annoying as hell.”

  “Yup. That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Sam replied. “You get it. So let’s make a deal right now. Let’s not walk on eggshells around each other on these subjects—or on anything. You can ask me anything you want, and I’ll do the same, without ambivalence, without fear. Can we try that?”

  “I don’t know,” Lydia quipped, only half joking. “But I’ll try.”

  “Great. Hey, it’s worth a shot.” Sam’s breath quickened slightly, as if he were doing laps around his living room. “So… on that note, can I ask you a few more things?”

  “Of course,” Lydia said. She stood by her sink and sipped her water.

  “You said the divorce was your idea,” Sam started. “You asked him to leave.”

  “Yes,” Lydia said.

  “When was that?”

  “Labor Day weekend, last year.”

  “And did he leave right then?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. He left two days after I asked him, once he realized that I was serious. He stayed with his parents for a while. But we had to sell our house, which actually happened faster than I thought it would. We found apartments in November, moved into them in December, and closed on the house in mid-January. We each got half of the money. I'm saving mine, hoping to eventually buy a new house for Andy and myself. I want him to have a backyard.” She sipped her water again. “Why do you ask? Did that answer what you wanted to know?”

  “I was just wondering. I wasn’t clear on the exact time frame.”

  Lydia took a deep breath, with Sam’s words about “no fear” lingering in her head. “I know you’ve said you don’t care that I just got divorced,” she said quietly, “but I can’t help wondering, with this line of questioning, if you’ve changed your mind?”

  “God, no!” Sam said. “That’s not why I asked. Don’t think that. I’m just trying to figure out how long you've lived apart, all the logistics, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, now you know. I've been in this apartment for almost a year.”

  “Okay…” Sam drew out the word and his breathing increased again. She wished she could see what he was doing. She thought about asking, but it was more fun to imagine. “Hey. Lydia. I haven’t changed my mind. I told you I’d like us to try to start something, and I meant it. So is this the point where I remind you that since we left each other at that hotel, I’ve been texting you every day because I can't stop thinking about you? And calling you every night, because I want to hear that rich, sexy voice of yours?”

  She couldn't help but smile. “Yes, you have been.”

  “I don’t play games. Life’s too short. Learned that a long time ago. I'm open. I say what’s on my mind, for better or worse.” Sam exhaled a deep breath and started again. “So here it is. We both seem to feel the pull. I think that this… could be something great. If you lived here, I'd be going after you with everything I have, so I'm not going to let something like the long distance get in our way. You and me, this could be really good. If we’re open with each other, and take it slow, and give it time. And I want to try. Is that straightforward enough?”

  Lydia crushed her lips together, but the smile broke through. “Yes. Delightfully so.”

  ***

  Only ten o’clock on Wednesday morning, and Sam was already completely distracted, lost in daydreams. He turned to his computer, clicked on a thumbnail on his desktop, and a picture of Lydia appeared. A half smile curved up the corner of his mouth. He’d asked her to send him a picture or two, and her photos, along with a short note requesting photos of him in return, had been waiting in his email inbox in the morning. He’d looked at them several times already. She was beautiful, appealing. The long, dark red hair; the glorious golden brown eyes, piercing with intelligence; the sweet smile; the lush, sensuous curves that had driven him wild.

  She’d sent two pictures. In the first one, she wore a dark purple T-shirt and jeans, sitting on an ornate iron bench in a yard filled with flowers, smiling her low key smile. The tag under it read, “In Jane’s backyard, September.” In the second photo, she sat on a plush brown couch. She had on a loose black tank top and khakis and held a cute bronze-haired boy in her lap. Her broad, bright smile relayed great affection and pride. “Andy and me, August.” She'd obviously wanted him to see her son, to remind him that she came with strings attached. Andy was adorable, and with the exception of his blue eyes looked a lot like his mother.

  Sam liked both pictures. He gazed at them at length, memorizing the details of her face.

  He swiveled his chair around and stared out the window of his office, unseeing. His mind went back, remembering the wedding weekend yet again, thinking about the time he’d spent there with Lydia.

  He smiled as he recalled the first time he’d seen her, laughing at herself in the lobby of the hotel. How she looked in the garden when they sat and read together; how the sun shone off her hair, bringing out remarkable highlights of red and gold. Discreetly watching her throughout the out-of-towner’s dinner, trading smiles from opposite ends of the long, crowded table. Standing next to her at the jukebox in the bar, joking with her as she pondered which songs to pick. The first time he’d reached for her hand as they sat and talked quietly on a cushioned bench in the hallway. How utterly gorgeous she’d looked at the wedding, draped in an elegant burgundy silk dress. How she felt against him as they danced. The spark in her eyes when she pulled him into the shadows outside for their first kiss. How she felt beneath him as they moved together in bed. When he closed his eyes, Sam could almost recall how soft her skin felt, almost hear her sighs…

  Remembering her instantly aroused him, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He grunted aloud, mildly embarrassed with himself. He felt like a teenager in the throes of puberty, pathetically at the mercy of his hormones. He’d had bouts of lust knocking him around like this since Lydia had driven away from him at the hotel on Sunday afternoon. Talking to her each night since, getting to know each other more, had been great. But getting through the next ten days like this? His hormones were in overdrive, to the point of major distraction. Sometimes, the rushes of pent up desire were so strong, he could barely concentrate. It was ridiculous.

  With new resolve, he picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Hey, Sam.” Hailey’s sleek voice was almost a purr. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks,” he replied. “Are you busy tonight?”

  “Actually, I am,” Hailey said, slightly apologetic. “Late dinner with some girlfriends. But, for you? How about a lunch date? It’s been a few weeks since we’ve seen each other… truth is, I was thinking of you just yesterday.”

  “That’d be great,” Sam said.

  “How’s twelve o’clock sound?”

  “Perfect. Um… meet me at the Omni?”

  “Oooh, sure,” she cooed. “Been a while since we’ve gone there. I’ll meet you in the lobby at noon.”

  “Great,” Sam said, before he could change his mind. “See you then.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SAM SAT ON one of the couches in the spacious, grand lobby of the Omni Chicago Hotel, tapping his fingers impatiently against his leg.

  At precisely twelve o’clock, from behind him, a familiar female voice purred in his ear. “Hey, sailor.”

  Sam glanced up over his shoulder and smiled. “Ms. Monaghan. Pleasure to see you, as always.” He rose from the couch and kissed Hailey on the cheek, then stood back to look at her. Hailey was five-foot-ten, thin and long legged, with straight blonde hair cut bluntly at her jawline and blue eyes so pale they were almost gray. A strikingly attractive woman at forty-one, she was divorced and childless by choice. She was married to her career. Being a successful, high-powered corporate attorney was all the fulfillment she sought. Intelligence and a slight hardness emanated from her, even as she smiled at him.

  Hailey was gorgeous, savvy, and whip smart.
But she was determined to remain single, and so aloof, sometimes she bordered on cold. For him, those two factors ensured that he’d never have deep feelings for her.

  It did, however, make her a perfect… regular encounter. Once or twice a month, they met up to have some good old no-strings-attached sex. And they liked each other enough that they could actually hang out and talk afterwards, if they felt like it. It worked for them. They had no illusions about one another, and had genuinely become friends, in an at-arm's-length kind of way. The short, sporadic meetings fulfilled a basic human need for both of them, and had since they’d met at a Christmas party almost two years before. They’d realized, after many drinks and an extraordinarily bold conversation, that they could be mutually beneficial to one another. Their arrangement worked well.

  “Did you already get a room?” Hailey asked, low enough that no one would hear.

  Sam nodded and grinned serenely. “Of course.”

  “Good. I have to be in court in two hours. Shall we?”

  They walked together to the elevator in electric silence.

  The second their hotel room door closed, Sam pushed her back against the wall and kissed her fiercely. Hailey immediately sensed his need, that he was slightly frantic, and let him take the lead. He kissed her hungrily, without restraint, devouring her mouth, her neck, her throat. His hands were everywhere. He handled her more intensely than usual, and although she loved it, it surprised her. She’d never seen him this possessed by lust in all the time she’d known him. Yes, it had been about a month since their last “date”, but still. He was feverish with need.

  And his raging fire had her right there with him. Her body responded instantly, matching his fervor. She felt the urgency in his caresses, how ready he was. There was no mistaking the feel of his erection pressing against her thigh. She unknotted his tie, pulled it out of the collar, and threw it aside. Smiling, he opened the top two buttons of his shirt, then simply pulled it up over his head and tossed it away before undressing her quickly. Sparked by his greed, she undid his belt buckle and yanked his pants down. They kissed, grabbed, bit, stroked—no holding back.