Wintergreen

by Jennifer Greene

  She hadn’t given Matthew the chance to hurt her as Richard and his father had. Matthew had tried to get her to talk; in retrospect, she could see that for a long time he had tried to help her through the turbulent marriage. Always kind, often there, perceptive and calming… Richard had found it amusing that his formidable older brother had taken a little sister under his wing. But when push came to shove, Lorna had shut Matthew out. She was angry and frightened and young. Mr. Whitaker’s contempt had hurt her to the core; contempt from Richard… Well, the end of the marriage had changed her whole life. To risk contempt from Matthew…it was too frightening, in some subtle way she never defined; she simply refused to lay herself open to it. It was easier just not to speak to him. Perhaps she knew unconsciously that there was some point at which she might completely break apart, splinter into a thousand little pieces…

  And you wanted to get involved with him again?

  Yes, she finally admitted wearily to herself. Yes. The marriage had scarred her, and badly. For many years, she hadn’t had the energy or the desire to pursue a relationship with another man. Then, about two years ago, she had become aware not only that her son needed a father, but also that she had strong sexual and emotional needs that couldn’t forever be sublimated in work and daydreams.

  Fine. She’d discovered very quickly that most men really weren’t all that eager to take on a woman and a half-grown son. Yet there were some. Enough so that at twenty-nine she was not particularly pleased to find herself turning into a tease. When a man came on too strong, all she could think of was that he might judge her easy, as Richard had judged her; that she was again putting herself into a position where she could be condemned without a trial, that she would be left vulnerable, without defenses…

  She was not guilty. She was tired of feeling guilty. For Johnny’s sake, and for her own, she wanted the truth spoken out loud, t’s crossed and i’s dotted.

  So simple. So painfully simple. Yet Lorna’s plans had gone haywire the moment Matthew had walked into his office. Matthew was not her brother-in-law anymore. He wasn’t acting like a brother; she couldn’t seem to feel that he was a brother…Leave it, she told herself. Serve him dinner and just try…

  She pulled into the driveway of her apartment building, snatched up her purse and opened the car door just as Matthew pulled up behind her. The biting wind whipped her coat open around her legs. “Turn up the thermostat out here, will you?” she shouted back to Matthew.

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about, Misha. You should be glad there are no mosquitoes.” He pushed up the collar of his coat and dug his hands in his pockets as he followed her to the front door.

  Why was she shivering now that they were inside? The tiny vestibule seemed crowded with the two of them hanging up their coats. Matthew’s arm brushed hers, and she felt surrounded suddenly, by his arms that seemed to be everywhere, by the almost-familiar scent of his aftershave, by the physical power that seemed to vibrate around him. Snow still glistened in his hair, and when she turned from the closet she had a sense of déjà vu as if she had once raked her fingers through his damp hair, though of course she hadn’t. Their eyes met, but only for an instant.

  When he looked away, Lorna wondered vaguely if she was coming down with the flu. Something was definitely wrong with her. Her pulse was beating out of control, and Matthew had the oddest look in his eyes… She stepped into the living room ahead of him. “Feel free to look around,” she suggested lightly. “I just need a minute to brush my hair, then I’ll get us both a drink.”

  He wasn’t in the kitchen when she came out of the bathroom, for which she was grateful. Except for some wine and a little brandy, she didn’t stock much liquor in the house, and had no desire to be caught standing on a chair fetching the wineglasses. She was just putting the chair back in place when he showed up in the doorway. “The place looks like you, Misha,” he commented lazily. “Ten thousand plants and a dozen half-read books and all soft colors-”

  “I don’t understand it,” Lorna admitted wryly. “When I look at a decorating magazine, I always love the spacious, serene stuff, yet my own house ends up thoroughly cluttered.” She tried to twist the corkscrew into the dusty bottle she’d found in the bottom cupboard.

  “I’ll do that.” His hands closed on her hips, and he shifted her so he could work at the counter; she stared at him, startled at the slight intimacy. He glanced at her with just the faintest hint of a smile. “You haven’t gained any weight.”

  “A few pounds.”

  “Upstairs, then. There’s nothing extra downstairs.” He turned his attention to the wine bottle as she determinedly made a big business out of getting dinner ready, totally flustered by the comment. After Johnny was born, she had…developed. But Matthew had always been extremely proper in anything he’d ever said to her. She was surprised that he’d even noticed…

  “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered, Misha. And I find that hard to believe.” He turned to offer her a glass of wine, his dark eyes expressive, yet unfathomable. “You were totally oblivious to it back then,” he said quietly. “You didn’t seem to know how beautiful you were. How special.”

  She took the glass and gulped down half of the wine. So much for composure and poise, she thought idly, and refused to look at him. Stop feeling unhinged, she told herself. “You’ve done well for yourself, Matthew. I kept expecting to read in the papers that you’d married.” That sounded…wonderful. She gave herself a mental pat on the back. Cool, polite, proper conversation… She finished the wine, set the glass on the counter and put the meat loaf back in the refrigerator.

  “Wasn’t that for dinner?”

  “The refrigerator heats up faster than the oven,” she said blandly.

  “I see.”

  She regarded him with a brilliantly cheerful smile, daring him to make a single remark. But there was nothing. Just a wicked pair of dark eyes and another slash of a smile. She took the meat loaf out again and put it in the oven, tried to dredge up some pride for remembering to turn the dial on, and turned her attention to the potatoes. “We’ll have to eat in here,” she informed him. “I’m afraid the dining room’s been converted to an office for me. With only two bedrooms, I had to have a place to work.”

  “I saw the foreign dictionaries.”

  It took her a moment to figure out why he was rummaging in her refrigerator, until he removed fresh vegetables and lined them up on the counter. Ah, yes, salad. “Matthew, you don’t have to do that-”

  He paid no attention. “So you’re working as a translator?”

  She nodded, trying not to smile. He had bent down in front of a cupboard and was reaching across the peanut butter to get to the bowls, almost tipping over the flour on the way.

  “I had only one skill to sell in the job market when Johnny was a baby,” she explained. “I was fluent in French and Russian because my parents spoke those languages. And I had studied German in school… Well, you know that, Matthew, but I still didn’t have a degree. I started tutoring, and then an electronics firm in Detroit decided to try reaching the European market and I translated some brochures for them. My clientele built up, slowly but surely. Dad helped for a long time. I do a good deal of work for four travel companies, but computer manufacturers are really becoming my bread and butter-there seems to be no end to the software that’s being peddled overseas…”

  Why are you chattering on? she thought. He doesn’t want to hear all that. She fell silent, first putting the potatoes in the oven and then rapidly cleaning the counter before setting the table. Matthew was busy shredding lettuce, the sleeves of his starched white shirt now rolled up. “Didn’t your father have life insurance, Misha?”

  She nodded. “But I used it to pay his medical bills. I’ve managed,” she said, with a small trace of defiance. “I’ve done fine, Matthew. I make a decent living, and the work allows me to be home with Johnny. It’s just…it simply hasn’t been possible for me to save a great deal of money, and
the tuition for this special school for Johnny-”

  “I already said you could have the money, Misha. You don’t need to justify its use to me.” His voice was quiet but held a trace of steel in it. He didn’t want to hear or talk about Johnny. He leaned back against the counter, drinking his wine while Lorna finished setting the table. “Between caring for your father and a small child and working, you couldn’t have had much time for a social life.”

  She felt a prickle at the back of her neck and glanced up. He was staring at her with brooding dark eyes, his look so possessive that it took her aback. “I can guarantee you’ve had a more active social life than I have over the years,” Lorna said lightly, but there was steel in her voice, too. If he was trying to imply that she had little chance to be promiscuous…

  “No, Misha…”

  Gently, his palm brushed her cheek, but whatever he had been about to say was interrupted by four feet two inches of energetic towhead slamming through the back door. “Hi, Mom!” Johnny offered her a token peck on the cheek, in between kicking off his boots, chewing on a thumbnail, hanging his coat on a hook and never taking his eyes off the stranger for a second. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Meat loaf, sweets. Were you good for Freda?”

  Johnny made a face. “A perfect angel. Par for the course.”

  Lorna smiled, but all she could think was: Be an angel, Johnny. Just this once. She turned to Matthew to make the introductions.

  He was finishing the last of his wine in one long gulp, and when he set down his glass his dark gaze captured hers. His shoulders were stiff and his jaw firm. And his eyes were like black ice, their depths unfathomable but the chill unmistakable. Until that moment, Lorna had almost-foolishly, she rebuked herself-managed to believe that Matthew had put the past behind them.

  She turned back to Johnny. Her son, unfortunately, didn’t miss a trick. He stepped forward as he had been taught, offering a distinctly grubby hand as he knew he was required to do, but his normally soft gray eyes were wary, his shoulders stiff, and his little jaw as firm as Matthew’s. Whitaker to the core, Lorna thought despairingly.

  It was going to be one hell of a dinner.

  Chapter 3

  Lorna reached over to tuck Johnny in, automatically straightening her son’s cowlick as she bent to kiss him good night. “Don’t stay up late,” he ordered her sleepily.

  Lorna smiled, flicking out the light next to him. “Sleep well, sweets. I love you.”

  “Mom.”

  She turned at the door.

  “Where’d he come from? You never had him around before.”

  “Johnny,” she said patiently, “I explained. He was someone I knew a long time ago-that was the reason I invited him for dinner.”

  “Yeah, I know what you said.” Johnny hesitated, mashing back the pillow behind his head. “And he’s okay. He’s got a neat car, and all those stories about criminals and stuff. I mean, I like him fine, but I don’t know about you. He’s a man’s man, you know?”

  She swallowed a grin. “No, I’m not sure that I do.”

  “You just tell him to go home. You’re tired.”

  And that was the truth, she thought as she detoured into the bathroom before facing Matthew again. She brushed her hair into a thick glossy curtain that just touched her shoulders, then sat down on the edge of the porcelain tub and simply breathed. For the first time in hours.

  So many conflicting emotions were churning inside her that she felt as though her heart had been put through a blender. It wasn’t that the dinner had been so traumatic; it hadn’t been. Johnny had gregariously taken over the conversation, and once he’d discovered that Matthew was a criminal lawyer, he’d grilled the attorney with all his nine-year-old guile. No amount of softspoken admonishments or maternal kicks under the table had stopped his offensive. Johnny, the spoiled brat, considered it his right to vet any man Lorna saw. His hostility toward and mistrust of Matthew had been instant. The thaw had been marginal.

  And Matthew, contrary to what she had expected, had fielded Johnny’s every question and totally ignored her. He took the child’s interrogation seriously and treated him with respect. A stranger might have even thought Matthew relaxed. But Lorna was vibrantly aware of the way the muscle in his jaw continually tightened, of the way he deliberately avoided looking at her, of the absolutely controlled quality of his voice. And when Johnny neatly sidestepped helping with the dishes and ignored Lorna’s request to pick up his toys, Matthew’s black eyes had fired, though he hadn’t said a word.

  It was hardly an instant love affair between uncle and nephew. Not that Lorna had expected it to be, but she hadn’t anticipated how it would wrench her heart to see the two of them together. Both hoarded their feelings as if they were gold; both had the same square jaw; both were possessive and protective. Johnny’s right shoulder shifted exactly the way Matthew’s did when he was uncomfortable. They had beautiful, even white teeth. Both had an abundance of arrogant self-confidence, a quality Lorna alternately resented and envied.

  Tears threatened suddenly. Matthew was family. He and Richard, Sr., were the only family Johnny had besides her. She stood up, rapidly applying a bit of blusher to her cheeks. She hadn’t been this emotionally exhausted in a long time, and she had no desire to face Matthew again. She knew he hadn’t seen beyond Johnny’s blond hair and freckles. The only conclusion she could possibly draw was that Johnny reminded him of the kind of woman he thought she was or had been. The kind of woman who would be unfaithful less than a year into her marriage, the kind for whom a vow of love meant so little…

  Lorna slipped off her high-heeled shoes, irrationally deciding that she could face anything as long as her toes weren’t pinched, and padded back out into the living room.

  Matthew was standing before the white marble fireplace, looking at a photograph of Lorna and Johnny at a picnic a few years before. His glass of brandy was next to him on the mantel; another glass was waiting for her on the coffee table. He turned to look at her as she entered the room; the reserved smile he’d managed for Johnny was gone, replaced by an expression of authority and determination. As she gazed at his stern features and dark, impenetrable eyes, Lorna felt distinctly uneasy.

  She bent to pick up her glass and then sat down in a corduroy armchair, curling one leg beneath her.

  “Shall we get the details out of the way, Misha? Exactly when do you need the money?” he asked flatly.

  She hesitated. “I don’t need the whole ten thousand dollars, Matthew,” she said quietly. “Only enough to pay Johnny’s tuition for this year. Johnny needs this school, but my furnace went out last week, which is why I started to panic-”

  “The question was only when, Misha, not how much.”

  She took a sip of brandy and let it flow down her throat before answering. He was standing with his feet apart and one elbow resting on the mantel; the stance was aggressive, all authoritative male, and she thought, No, Matthew, I’ll be damned if I’m going to let myself get defensive. Not for anyone, not anymore. Her tone was low and very, very controlled. “The school he’s in has all but asked me to find another place for him. Johnny’s bright, Matthew. Too bright. When he gets ahead of the others, he’s bored…but any kid who calls him ‘brain’ gets a punch in the nose. He’s already played hookey several times. Of course, he only goes to the library, but-”

  “Misha, I don’t have to hear all about the boy’s problems. The only thing I really need to know is when you want the money.”

  Her smoky eyes darkened expressively as she set down her glass. She didn’t care if Matthew could read the signs of impending anger: her flicked-hair back; her stiffened chin; her eyes the ominous gray of a storm cloud. “Next week,” she clipped out.

  Matthew finished his drink and leaned back against the marble fireplace, loosely folding his arms. “Honey. Stop bristling.”

  “Look-”

  “For you, Misha, I’d do my best to walk on water. When I saw you again and realized you were i
n trouble…” He shook his head, just a little, his eyes holding hers in a gaze so intense she could not look away. She wanted to. Something kept happening whenever he looked at her, whenever he was close enough to touch her-something completely different from the way she had once felt about Matthew. “You’re unhappy because I don’t want to listen to you talk about your son,” he said quietly. “At least let me explain, Misha. I don’t feel I have the right-not to even offer you a few words of advice, not even simply to listen. His own father surely has first rights. Stone’s still living in the city. Even though things apparently didn’t work out between you, he has the financial and moral responsibility to take care of Johnny’s needs. Why don’t you go, to him first, Misha?”

  She looked away then, every nerve ending coiling up tight. “Never would I go to that man. First of all, because he’s a bastard. And second, because Johnny isn’t. He’s a Whitaker, Matthew…”

  “And I never thought we had a problem with honesty,” Matthew responded coldly. “Misha, he’s your son. That’s all that matters.”

  “Not to me!” She sprang from the chair and stalked to the closet to get his coat. Two huge tears that she had no intention of shedding stung her eyes. With Matthew’s coat in her arms, Lorna turned back to him; her silvery eyes were brilliant in her pale face. “Not to me, Matthew,” she repeated more calmly. “You’re just like Richard. Just like your father. Do you think I would sleep with two men at the same time? Do you think I would put a ring on my finger and then, less than year later-”

  “Misha-”

  “It was fun, being a nymphomaniac,” she said bitterly. “It was a short-term illness, but it was wonderful while it lasted. Just anyone who asked me…ah, well, those certainly were the good old days. And it was certainly wonderful seeing you again, Matthew. As in good night.”