Wintergreen

by Jennifer Greene

  Matthew grinned, giving her a sidelong glance as he turned the key in the ignition. When he’d called for her, he’d taken in every inch of her from the top of her head to her toes; she couldn’t imagine why she flushed now. Because he was suddenly so close, she supposed. Because they both appeared to be rather taken aback at how startlingly fast, how violently fast, they seemed to be aware of each other in a completely new way. Because his dark coat and dark eyes and dark hair sent a starkly sexual message directly to her bloodstream. Because his shoulder was brushing hers, and because his hand on the gearshift was only inches from her thigh. Because…

  “I hope you don’t mind a little change in plans, Misha.” The engine was purring smoothly now, and the car was cozy as toast.

  She glanced at him. He had stopped at a stoplight, and reaching behind him brought forward two white bags, which he handed to her. She opened both, revealing two huge corned beef sandwiches, potato chips, pickles and chocolate éclairs. Except for the pickles, she had no objections, but it was not exactly the kind of dinner she had dressed for.

  “And we’ve only got ten minutes to eat.” Seeing the expression she was trying so hard to hide, he chuckled. “It isn’t exactly what I had planned, either. But unless you’ve changed your taste in music, Misha, I think you’ll be pleased. I heard this afternoon that Diana Krall is going to be at the Bluebird for tonight only. So…”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “If you would rather just go to a nice restaurant, this stuff will keep.”

  She forced one of the sandwiches rapidly in his hand, not wasting any more time talking while she munched on her own. He chuckled again at her enthusiasm. She had no idea how he remembered her love of jazz; Richard hadn’t liked it, and she had rarely played her cherished recordings while he was at home. She didn’t care for avant-garde jazz, but she loved the traditional music, beginning with Bessie Smith in the twenties. She especially loved the type of song where the pianist picked up a love story and retold it in his or her own way.

  When Matthew stopped the car less than ten minutes later, Lorna opened her door before he could come around to do it for her. Impatiently, she lifted one foot and then the other, waiting while he locked the car on his side and approached hers. A light covering of snow blanketed the sidewalks, and the silvery flakes were still falling. She was shivering.

  “Don’t you ever wear boots?” he chided.

  “Oh, stop it, Matthew. What time does Krall start?”

  “In seven minutes. We’ve still got time for a brisk walk around the block, if you-” He laughed at her horrified expression and draped a warm arm over her shoulder as they started walking. The swift kiss on her forehead startled her. “I was beginning to think you’d lost it, Misha. That little-kid ability to get all excited and just…be. Just laugh because of nothing at all.”

  She wasn’t sure what he meant, and for an instant even resented the remark. Her life was a serious matter, not so very easy since the death of her father and the necessity of caring for Johnny by herself; surely Matthew didn’t want or expect her to behave like a child? But that quick prick of resentment faded as she was warmed in the crook of his shoulder, matching his fast-paced walk. He was right in his way. She hadn’t had such a simple feeling of sheer fun and anticipation in a long time.

  A few minutes later, they walked down the steps to the basement nightclub that was the Bluebird. Stepping into darkness, Matthew took their coats while Lorna waited for her eyes to adjust. It would be euphemistic to call the place a dive. Old tables were crowded together over a faded linoleum floor; smoke was already filling the air; and the crowd was eclectic. Faded jeans mingled with gold lamé and a few black leather jackets; the single candle on each table illuminated trays of drinks waiting to be served. All chitchat stopped abruptly when the jazz trip started playing. No more drinks were served. The chatter of latecomers stopped at the doorway.

  Lorna simply sat back, listened and inhaled. The shabby room faded into something else; the group of mismatched individuals blended into appreciative aficionados under the spell of her music.

  She wasn’t aware how intently Matthew was watching her until the waitress served them drinks between the second and third sets. “I can tell you’re having a rotten time,” he murmured.

  “Matthew…” She just looked at him, not knowing where to find the words to tell him how much the evening meant to her. She’d been afraid of a candlelit dinner, afraid they would suddenly be groping for conversation, afraid they would seem like strangers, afraid that special rapport she’d felt with him would disappear and that unhappy memories would poison the atmosphere, prevent any real communication between them. Now all that apprehension seemed unreal. How could she possibly feel uncomfortable when she knew Matthew shared her love of music, when the evening had started out with hastily eaten sandwiches and there had been laughter from the start?

  “You’re so beautiful, Misha,” he whispered. “When you’re happy, you glow like a candle in a dark world. So easy to make happy, so easy to make sad. You touch your world, Misha-you make an impression on everyone who knows you. Did you know that?”

  The place was dark and smoky, and the single candle on their table cast shadows on the planes of his face, adding a flicker of flame to his dark eyes when he looked at her. The music started again, yet this time Lorna felt drawn by a more potent magic than the subtle piano chords. Matthew’s thigh rested against hers while they listened. His arm went around the back of the booth, his fingers absently resting on her shoulders, occasionally fondling her hair. His touch talked to her, whispering of the cocoon he wanted to spin around the two of them. When the trio started a low, haunting love song, there wasn’t a sound in the place, and Lorna could feel the ache of old longings fill her as if she were a well that had been empty and hollow and cold and was now brimming with feelings so strong…

  They left after midnight. The Ann Arbor streets were emptied of cars and totally silent. The glistening dark pavement and pure velvet covering of snow on the trees and grass made Lorna forget the frigid air that chilled her bones. She felt exhausted, exhilarated, high on music and recklessly exuberant as she hadn’t been in months.

  Matthew was laughing at something she said as he settled his rangy frame next to her in the Morgan. He dropped a swift, soft kiss on her mouth, so naturally that she was still smiling when he drew away to start the car. “Do you have to be home to accommodate a babysitter, or do you have time for a drink first?” he asked easily.

  “Johnny’s with Freda for the night, so I don’t have to…” Her lighthearted smile faltered just a little, as reality came back with a little bump. Explaining that Johnny was off her hands for the night might sound like an open invitation, and she didn’t need it spelled out to know Matthew was asking her to his place.

  “Good, Misha. I had a feeling you weren’t tired. I always have insomnia after a night of music,” he drawled, looking straight ahead as he drove.

  She looked at him. The sight of his strong profile under a street lamp sent a mental shiver down her spine. She swallowed. “I do, too, Matthew, but actually tomorrow I have to…”

  “Work? So do I. But I want to talk to you, Misha. You don’t really want to go home yet, do you?”

  He had stopped for a red light, and turned to look at her. Stop melting, Lorna told herself sternly. You can’t go into this just because you’re in an insane mood and you’re high on life for these few hours. But the look in Matthew’s dark eyes seemed to touch her physically, to caress the silken strands of her hair, her soft lower lip, to rest on the vulnerable skin of her throat.

  “Misha? I just want to talk,” he assured her softly.

  She settled back, staring straight ahead. “For one drink then,” she agreed cautiously, but she thought, Talk? Matthew, you never used to be a liar.

  Chapter 5

  “Your old place was so small next to this,” Lorna said quietly, glancing around Matthew’s condominium as he took her coat and she f
ound a place for her purse on the hall table. She descended two thickly carpeted steps into the sunken living room, the decor a stark white and black, the lighting hidden and the chrome gleaming. The interior decorator-obviously a professional had been at work here-had had an eye for luxury and elegance. The rich black carpeting and stark white couches were dramatic and masculine, with scarlet accents in the lacquered Chinese bar and a single high-backed chair.

  “You don’t like it,” Matthew said from behind her.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Misha.”

  “It’s perfectly dreadful. Where on earth do you read the Sunday paper?”

  He chuckled and motioned her to follow him with a crook of his little finger. “Come on and I’ll show you where you can kick off your shoes. The room does work for entertaining…”

  Entertaining women, she thought wryly. The couch was half the size of a bed. He led her down the hall, his palm in the hollow of her back, the only spot in her entire body that was warm after walking through the crisp snow from the car.

  “More comfortable here?”

  Slowly, she walked in ahead of him, deciding. She saw floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and his desk piled high with papers. Two long couches bordered the fireplace, both old and upholstered in brown tufted corduroy, faded a little and well worn. Wood was stacked in the hearth, which still held a bed of ash, and above the fieldstone fireplace was an oil portrait of a flutist.

  The painting instantly captured all of her attention. A black man in rags held a gilded flute in his hands. His eyes were closed as he played, suggesting that he could block out the loneliness and poverty and other insurmountable problems in the richness of his music. Lorna stared, mesmerized, and could have suddenly sworn she heard the same music she had listened to all evening. Until her eyes caught the flicker of flame. Matthew was lighting the fire.

  “Will you pour us both a glass of wine, Misha? It’s behind the desk there, in the credenza. I’m dying of thirst. I don’t know how the two of us could have sat in a nightclub for more than three hours without finishing a single drink.”

  Obligingly, she moved behind the desk, glad to have something to do with her hands. “Who painted the portrait, Matthew?”

  He glanced up at the oil painting. “An artist I met at a sidewalk sale at the art fair last summer. He was going to throw it away, said he didn’t know how to finish it.” He poked at a log, which tumbled over and sent a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. “I should have paid him a ton of money for it. I wanted to. But I was terrified that he would use it to go through art school and learn how to finish things.” He stood up, pulling a wrought-iron screen in front of the fire. “You like it?”

  “I covet it,” she corrected wryly, as she poured wine from a decanter into two crystal glasses. “I feel I could walk down a crowded street and recognize the man in the portrait. Rich or poor, crook or saint, it wouldn’t make any difference,” she said whimsically, with just a trace of seriousness. “We all get desperate, day by day. Music helps me survive. At least, jazz does. Lets me forget absolutely everything else for a few minutes. Makes me feel free and in another world.”

  Matthew stripped off his tie as he took the wine from her and leaned back lazily against the mantel. “A few other things work just as well,” he suggested, his dark eyes glinting on hers. She smiled softly as she settled in a corner of the couch.

  “A good book?” she suggested, and watched that slash of a smile take over his face. She knew he’d meant making love, just as she knew he was about to make his first move. Wait, Matthew, she felt like saying. I know I came here of my own free will, but I really don’t know; I haven’t known anything since I walked into this house.

  She needed a daisy, to peel off the petals and play the game. He was a stranger; he wasn’t a stranger. She’d felt so easy with him all evening; she could almost believe they’d just met, that there were no unhappy memories of other people intruding on how they felt about each other. Every tiny physical contact was like a spark tempting love to flare up, threatening to explode…at least for her.

  But this was not the man she’d known nine years ago. The silvery sideburns added an air of distinction to his looks that hadn’t been there then; his whole apartment had a bachelor look to it that implied a man who played a sophisticated game of seduction. The Matthew she’d once known had been into work, day and night. She wasn’t at all sure how she felt coming into his home as other women had undoubtedly come over the years. Treated to wine and a fire and soft lighting, she was on her guard.

  “Were you in court today?” she asked idly.

  He nodded, finally moving away from the fire and settling on the couch across from her. “In court part of the day, at the police station the rest.” He smiled wryly. “At times I wish I’d have gone into corporate law, like Richard. At least those guys dress in suits and take regular showers. I’m looking into an embezzlement case-for the amount of money involved, you’d think the client could have afforded deodorant.”

  Lorna’s eyebrows shot up as she smiled. “You’re spoiling your image as a glamorous criminal attorney.” He made a face. “You don’t even sound as if you think your client’s innocent.”

  Matthew took a sip of wine and set his glass down, stretching his long legs in front of him. “He’s not-but he’s not guilty of all the charges against him, either. He was just a little cog in a wheel too big for him. There are times when I think half of all crime comes down to the same thing. People in over their heads and unable to find their way out…” He shook his head. “When I first started out in this business of the law, I wanted everyone to line up in neat little categories-guilty or innocent.”

  “They don’t,” she suggested quietly.

  He leaned forward, his eyes suddenly brooding, the atmosphere abruptly no longer conducive to small talk. “They don’t,” he echoed. “I work in the real world, Misha. Every day the line is drawn finer. There’s right and wrong, yes. But innocent people can commit an incredible number of moral crimes that aren’t punishable by law. And the guilty are often tried only because they saw no alternative to breaking the law…”

  He stopped abruptly and stared into the fire, then back at Lorna. “And I couldn’t have my mind less on the law. Honey, I know damn well you’re still hung up on what happened with my brother.”

  The unexpected change from theoretical law to their personal past threw her. She set down her glass. “Matthew…”

  “You never committed a crime, Misha,” he said quietly. “I raised Richard, from the time our mother died. I knew him, and I loved my brother. That’s not to say I ever thought him incapable of making a mistake. He was in over his head, wanting success all at once, and he dragged you into that complicated maelstrom. I did the best I could by him, Misha, and I’ll be damned if I’ll acknowledge guilt for the way I feel about you now.”

  “Matthew…” Her throat was suddenly dry.

  “Please listen to me, Misha,” he grated, leaning forward. His expression was steely and his eyes were haunted, intensely pinning hers. “I don’t want the shadow of the past between us, Misha. I want to hear from you that it isn’t there. When I walked into my office and found you waiting there, I could see that you were expecting me to lash out at you, and I don’t understand why. I never judged you. It was a long time ago, and, honey, you’re not the only woman-or man-to make that particular mistake.” His voice softened. “Besides, you’ve paid a hell of a price over the years for being nineteen once upon a time. For being a little too beautiful, a little too young, a little too lonely.”

  But he believed she had been unfaithful. Her stomach was suddenly churning with turbulent emotions. “Matthew, you think you understand-”

  “No. Not understand. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t give a damn. It’s the past, unless it’s still affecting you now. You sought me out, Misha. And if that had anything to do with leftover feelings for my brother-”

  “God, no.” Lorna jumped up from the cou
ch, folding her arms slowly across her chest, turning away so he couldn’t see her rapidly blinking away tears. “I don’t still love or hate your brother, Matthew. That’s what you’re asking me? Not for a long time. It has nothing to do with why I came to see you.”

  It was Johnny, she thought achingly. She had wanted the security of the Whitaker family for her son. That was the reason she had gone to see Matthew, but instead of solving the problem, her action had created a new one. Problem? It had always mattered so much what Matthew thought of her, that he not judge her harshly. And he saw with such compassion what she had been unable to forgive in herself, that she had been a too-young, too-lonely nineteen. He understood that, but not what counted to her. She closed her eyes, and then turned to face him. “Maybe what I feel now is crazy,” she admitted quietly. “Because I don’t believe you, Matthew. I want to, but I don’t believe that you’ve forgotten, that you don’t care. You still think I’m the kind of woman who would be unfaithful-”

  He sucked in his breath and stood up restlessly. She saw a flash of something stark and brilliant in his eyes before she turned away to stare into the fire. From behind her, she felt his hands suddenly massage the nape of her neck, a gentle, soothing caress, his fingers intuitively discovering every knotted muscle. Only gradually did his hands leave her neck and trail down to her waist, pulling her gently back against him, his soft kiss on her cheek simple, slow and easy. “I’m not a boy,” he said quietly. “And you’re not that kind of woman, Misha. There would be no chance of your being unfaithful to me. Do you want me to show you?”

  The fire was sending golden sparks up the chimney. There was no reason for the vulnerable little shiver that rippled through her body. “No,” she whispered.

  He was behind her, but she could feel his smile, his amusement that she was suddenly shying like a fawn. His arms tightened around her, securing her in the cocoon of his embrace, a cherishing, protective embrace that touched off a thousand nerve endings. And confused her, totally. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, Misha. Let me touch you. Let me show you…”