The St. James Affair

by Susan Wiggs

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE ZAMBONI DRIVER had worked on the ice forever, it seemed. More than an ice tech or maintenance drone, he was a vital part of the skating operation, practically a celebrity in his own right. Sometimes kids even asked for his autograph, which he obligingly gave. He even put up with the tedious “Zamboni Song,” which some smart aleck invariably belted out now and then.

  When his big Lego block of a machine chugged out onto the ice to enact the hourly ritual of renewal, he attracted as much attention as the amateur figure skaters practicing their double axels. The sight of the surface being groomed satisfied on a deep level; rough imperfections disappeared almost instantly. There was a mesmeric, Zen-like appeal in watching the resurfacing of the ice. In perfect, overlapping oval swaths, the machine scraped off the gouged and pitted epidermis of the rink, washed the shavings and then laid down a slick, smooth mirror of perfect ice in its wake.

  Reaching a top speed of nine miles per hour, the Zamboni crept along so slowly that the driver had plenty of time to study the crowd, studying him. This was what kept him in his heated vinyl seat each winter, year after year—the opportunity to watch people. He had all the time in the world to observe the way they looked at the world, weathered storms, slammed into walls and picked themselves up after a fall, the way they raced out to embrace life.

  He’d seen all sorts of people come and go. The crowd here was made up mostly of tourists and occasional regulars. Every once in awhile, someone interesting was swept up in emotional turmoil—that sort of thing always caught his attention. He’d never tire of watching a mother arguing with her almost-grown daughter. A newly divorced man working up the courage to ask a woman out. A young couple on the brink of falling in love.

  They were tantalizing, those glimpses of lives, flickering across his ice. Some disappeared forever, leaving their resolution to his thoughtful imagination. Others came back, their stories deepening, darkening or sometimes turning out all right.

  He had one hard-and-fast rule. Never meddle. He was here to smooth out the ice, not mess up people’s lives. But it was tempting sometimes, like right now.

  There was no forgetting Tony Fiore and the girl he loved, some society debutante named Elaine. Some years back, Fiore had been a hot prospect in hockey, maybe the best ever to cross the ice here. His explosive speed and unfailing coordination had made him a good bet for any team. But it was his love of skating, that rare and genuine feel for the ice beneath his blades, that sharpened his edge. The overcrowded tourist mecca wasn’t his usual place to skate, of course, but one Christmas Eve long ago, he’d stopped in on a lark. And so had the girl named Elaine. Maybe they’d been lonely that day, possibly frustrated by last-minute shopping or needing to kill time before some engagement, yet they’d both shown up within minutes of one another.

  It happened all the time, but these two, they were something. From the first moment they saw each other, they practically melted the ice beneath their feet. They were youth and spirit and hope personified, and anyone watching them could tell they were seeing something special.

  When the hour was up, they went their separate ways, of course. The Zamboni driver hadn’t been surprised to see them back the next year, and then the year after that, their interest and passion deepening perceptibly each time. They’d changed, as all young folk do. But there was something about this pair that had never wavered. They’d looked at each other as though they were the first to discover the true meaning of love. It was all there in those young, good-looking faces, those glowing smiles, those hands clasped tight.

  And then … nothing. It was no big deal and certainly none of his business, but the ice groomer had taken their disappearance as a personal failure. Deep down, he knew what had happened, and he always wanted to believe he was wrong, but he wasn’t. Life had interfered with these two, and they’d been foolish enough to allow it.

  Now they were back, and he was anxious to see if they’d finally figured out what he already knew—that they belonged together, not just once a year, but always. After finishing his rounds, he parked the machine and headed over to the concessions area, which consisted of a few tables and benches arranged on a large mat of interlocking rubber squares. At a cheap metal table, they sat across from each other, hands cradling paper cups of thin hot chocolate, gazes anxious with everything the years had done to them.

  “Well, if it ain’t the lovebirds,” he said. “So what is it with you two?”

  Elaine glared up at him. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” He had a seat at their table, unsnapped the top buttons of his coveralls and let his red scarf hang loose. The name Larry was embroidered on his shirt pocket.

  She gasped, then pruned up her face into a frown. Probably trying to figure out if he was the same Larry from the carolers, not that he’d care to enlighten her. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “You’re the Zamboni driver,” Tony said.

  “The question is,” Elaine said, “why are you behaving as though you remember us?”

  “Because I do.”

  She laughed a little nervously. She was even prettier than she’d been years before—more sophisticated, sure of herself. Yet there was something about her, something a little wistful.

  “Right,” she said.

  “Three years in a row I see the two of you meeting like you invented love at first sight, and then the fourth year—”

  “He didn’t show,” Elaine said, and Larry heard the sudden spike of hurt in her voice. Then she looked a little queasy, probably regretting that she’d said exactly what was on her mind. He sometimes had that effect on people. He wasn’t surprised when she left her hot chocolate on the table and headed off to the rental kiosk.

  “Sure, he did,” Larry called out after her.

  She froze like an ice sculpture, then pivoted slowly back to face him.

  He winked at Tony, who shot him a look of fury. “I guess you got some explaining to do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “THANKS A LOT, pal.” Tony glared at the Zamboni driver.

  “You don’t have time to thank me.” Larry jerked his thumb at the rental booth. He was compact and spry, a blunt, friendly man of indeterminate age. He had a froth of white hair, but the light in his eyes sparkled with an ageless mingling of wisdom and merriment. “So, what are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

  Tony followed Elaine, who barely looked at him as she put on her boots, then stood there tapping her toe in impatience. Okay, he thought. Party’s over even before it started. He led her back to the car and held open the door for her, catching a whiff of sweet cold air in her hair as she got in.

  “You want to explain that?” asked Elaine, clipping on her seatbelt.

  No. He really didn’t.

  He slid a glance at her, then concentrated on his driving. The car surged into the string of taxis, limos and private cars. Tony stole another look at her.

  Elaine St. James. He couldn’t believe he was seeing her again after all this time. He’d never forgotten her. How could he? All that cool blond beauty, that smart-alecky sense of humor, and the almost-hidden sweet vulnerability he noticed when she didn’t know he was watching. The passage of time had added polish and sophistication to a woman who had been polished and sophisticated to begin with. And in spite of all the ways he’d reasoned with himself over the years, he still wanted her. Bad.

  She was the reason he had never married and settled down. Thanks to her, he would never be happy with any other woman. She didn’t know that, and he wasn’t about to tell her. Yet what he had done—rather, what he’d failed to do—the last time he’d seen her had had ramifications he never could have predicted. Because of that moment of decision, just that one moment, his heart had been stuck in the same place. He was beginning to think maybe this was true for Elaine, too.

  As he navigated the flow of traffic, he could feel her watching him. Waiting for his answer. “I got no idea what that guy was talking about,” he s
aid.

  “Simple. He knew we met there every year on Christmas Eve—”

  “Every year, Elaine?”

  “Okay, for three years. There was a pattern. Even the Zamboni driver realized that.”

  He said nothing for a few minutes. A crooner on the radio made “Little Drummer Boy” sound like a timeless love ballad. “Okay,” he said at last. “I showed up that night.”

  A small intake of breath. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I changed my mind.” He figured she was too proud to ask why, but the question shouted through the silence. “I couldn’t even get down to the rink level. I was just out of the hospital, recovering from surgery. I had to use a wheelchair to get around.”

  “A wheelchair?” She leaned forward to get a closer look at his legs. “What happened?”

  “Wrecked my knee and couldn’t skate. I was looking at months of physical therapy, and then God knew what.”

  Incredulous silence pulsed through the car.

  He had not wrecked just his knee. He’d wrecked his shot at the pros, his plans for the future and his chance to offer something to a girl who had everything. He still remembered sitting at the rail above the rink, his knee throbbing, his eyes smarting as he watched her circling the rink below. He’d tried to imagine what was going through her mind. Or did skating blank everything out as it did for him? Even now, he remembered everything he had seen and felt while she’d skated around the ice, alone, a slender figure moving in and out of the skaters. Anger. Grief. Frustration. Shame. Love.

  “I watched you for a while,” he said. “You were wearing a long white scarf.”

  “Let me get this straight. You showed up after knee surgery and you couldn’t be bothered to speak to me?”

  “We were brand new. I didn’t want to blow it.”

  “Well, you did.”

  “No excuse.” Except stupid male pride. The shattering realization that everything he’d worked for all his life was gone. “I didn’t even know what I was going to say to you. I was still trying to figure out what to say to myself. I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I was a little preoccupied with that. I told myself I’d get in touch with you later, when my head was in a better place—”

  “Your head? What about mine? I was frantic with worry.”

  “I figured you’d move on.”

  “How could you figure that? You didn’t know me at all. I would have understood.” She almost admitted that she’d been heartbroken, but she was too angry to give him that.

  “So tell me this, Elaine, and be honest. If I’d come rolling up to you in a wheelchair and said, ‘Gee, I may be on permanent disability and I might not even walk again, but how about we plan a future together?’ What would your reaction have been? Would you have stood by me in rehab and helped me learn to walk again?”

  She blanched, but didn’t look away. “You’ll never know, because you made up my mind for me.”

  He couldn’t dispute that. He hesitated, then opted for honesty. “I made a big mistake that night. I don’t want to make it again.”

  “Tell me one reason why I should give you another chance.”

  He pulled up to the curb in front of the address she’d given him. It was a luxury building from the 1930s, complete with a liveried doorman.

  This was nuts, he thought, eyeing a career dog walker following a pedigreed pack up the tree-lined street. He and Elaine were from different worlds. They ought to forget the whole thing. Instead, he slid his arm along the seat behind her. “Because,” he said, “you’ve never been in love.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “What’s that got to do with us?”

  “Maybe nothing,” he said. “Maybe everything.”

  She parted her lips a little, and he thought about kissing her. He didn’t let himself act on it. Later, he told himself. Definitely later.

  “Thanks for the skating,” she said, then studied him for a few seconds. “Would you like to come up?”

  CHAPTER NINE

  AS SHE GREETED the doorman, Elaine felt a beat of unease. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, letting Tony Fiore into her life. They’d only had three dates, after all, and they hadn’t really been dates as much as accidents. They barely knew each other. It was probably best to leave it that way.

  Yet what he had just revealed to her could change everything between them—if she let it. She hated that he hadn’t told her about his injury. But what she hated even more was a deeply shameful realization. If he’d told her, she would have wept for him. She would have raged with him at the injustice, mourned the loss of his lifelong dream with him. But then she would have slunk away in fear. That was the sort of person she was, back then. And it struck her that she didn’t want to be that sort of person anymore.

  “Some building,” he said.

  “Thanks. It’s a co-op.”

  “Places like this are tough to find,” he said.

  “The Board knows more about me than my gynecologist, my therapist and the IRS.” She gritted her teeth, wishing she hadn’t admitted she was seeing a therapist. She opened the door to her apartment and led the way inside. The answering machine had a welcome message—Jenny had arranged for some talent to take Bobbi’s place tonight. That was something, at least.

  Her apartment was exquisite. The spare white-on-white decor imparted a mood of space and cool elegance. She found herself wishing it was a little more … whimsical, maybe. Some colorful throw pillows on the designer sofa, or artwork that actually represented something recognizable. She turned to see Tony studying an array of silver-framed black-and-white photos on a glass-and-chrome étagère. Maybe the pictures conveyed a personal touch, Elaine thought. But no. There were no warm portraits of a laughing family, but merely souvenirs—pictures of her with celebrities, socialites, rock stars, company executives.

  As though feeling her stare, he smiled at her. “Nice—”

  “Please don’t say nice place.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not nice.”

  “It’s not?” He picked up a small Baccarat bowl and carefully set it down. “So why do you live here?”

  She blinked. “No one ever asked me that before.” She’d never even asked herself that question. She lived here because it was on the Upper East Side. The brushed-steel-framed Italian sofa was there because the designer had chosen it for style, of course. Not for comfort. The Venetian glass-top coffee table was there because it matched the sofa. Everything in her apartment went together perfectly. Her designer wouldn’t have it any other way.

  The only thing out of place at the moment was Tony Fiore himself. He was too earthy, too real.

  “It’s a great apartment. People wait for years to find an apartment like this.” She gestured at the tree-framed view out the window. The snow had rendered the world more brilliantly white than her stark interior.

  “You didn’t answer the question, Elaine.”

  “Can I offer you something to drink?” She went into the gleaming kitchen and he followed. She swung open the fridge. “Soda? Beer?”

  “Thanks.” He helped himself to a soda.

  She tried to put herself in his place that night, the night she’d stopped believing in Christmas.

  He’d lost something, too. What must it be like to have a dream as powerful as the dream he’d had, and then to have that taken away? She pictured him watching her from the upper level, trying to figure out what to do now that his entire life plan had shattered to pieces. The horrible truth was, she was afraid to contemplate what her reaction might have been if he’d come rolling toward her in a wheelchair. She’d been young and self-centered and focused on glamour and success. She’d built up such fantasies around the sort of life they would have together, with Tony as a famous hockey player, and she as an international journalist. Maybe, just maybe, he had made the right choice, turning his back on her that night. The person she was back then could not have dealt with him. S
he’d simply had no resources to love a man who didn’t fit her idealized view of what the future would be. Now, years later, she knew the problem of living a life that looked perfect on paper. It was as one-dimensional as the piece of paper itself.

  It felt so strange having him here, where she lived. Where she slept and showered and talked on the phone. He was seeing her in a different context, and she desperately wanted him to like what he saw. But how could he, when she didn’t even like it?

  “Look,” she said. “About tonight … you don’t have to—”

  “Are you kidding?” He set his soda on the counter and turned to her, and when he smiled, it was like glimpsing a dream she thought she’d forgotten. “You think I’d pass up another chance to spend Christmas Eve with you?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “MA, IT’S NOT the end of the world,” Tony said, wedging the phone under his jaw as he stood back and surveyed the contents of his closet. If he didn’t have a clean shirt, he was going to shoot himself. “It’s just a change of plans.”

  “Change of plans, he says. You hear that, Salvatore? He abandons his family on Christmas Eve, and he calls it a change of plans.” Gina Fiore always had two-way conversations with people—one on the phone, the other in her warm, yeasty-smelling kitchen.

  Tony’s father, Sal, mumbled something indistinct. He was used to the fact that his wife thrived on drama and, like Tony, secretly found her entertaining.

  “Tell you what …” Tony said. He spotted a crisp white shirt, still in the cleaner’s cellophane, and pounced. “I’ll try to get back in time for midnight mass.”

  “Mass, he says.”

  “It’s the reason for the season, Ma.”

  “What about supper, eh? You’re going to miss the torta di spinaci, the bauletti di maiale, the pandoro.”

  He dragged five different ties from the rack on the back of the closet door. “I’ll live, Ma. I’ll eat the pandoro for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh, so now we don’t see you until breakfast. What’s going on, eh, Tony?”